Comments for Post #C28010

I was blamed for my infertility and my husband's career failures

What I Learned From the People and Relationships in My Life For a long time, I kept asking myself why I became so detached from people, relationships, expectations and even material things. Today, I think I understand. I have been disappointed by people I trusted. At times, I felt betrayed even by people from whom I expected the most basic love and protection. I grew up with a good education, good upbringing and values. I am grateful for those things. But along the way, I also experienced something very painful—the feeling that sometimes valuables were given more importance than the human being who possessed them. That realization became particularly strong during my marriage. Before my marriage, I didn't know many things about the family I was entering into. Some things became known only after the alliance was fixed. I gradually realized that the environment and mindset around me were very different from what I had expected. I entered marriage expecting a husband. Not merely a man with whom I would share a house. I expected a partner—someone with whom I could communicate, someone who could take responsibility for his own decisions, someone who would stand beside me when life became difficult, someone who would understand that marriage is not just about producing a child or fulfilling social expectations. But I experienced something very different. There were conflicts over jewellery. During the marriage arrangements, my family had represented one quantity of gold, while the actual jewellery given to me was less. I knew the actual amount. I even asked my mother to tell the truth, but she didn't. I chose not to disclose the discrepancy myself. I know my decision. I was trying to protect my mother. I already felt that my family wasn't being respected, and I knew the marriage itself was already becoming uncertain in my mind. I believed it would eventually break anyway, and I didn't want my mother's dignity to become another subject of humiliation. I accept that this was my decision. But what stayed with me was something else. The jewellery that was given to me became something that was counted, calculated and weighed. Pieces were individually examined and their grams were calculated without my knowledge. And I remember thinking: How did the jewellery become more important than the person who was wearing it? Whether it was 34 sovereigns or 40 sovereigns, what difference did it make to the value of a human being? Even if my mother had given me five sovereigns, or none at all, I would still be the same person. My education, my character, my values and my ability to live my life don't increase or decrease with the number of sovereigns I possess. But that was not the only thing I experienced. Another much deeper wound came from the way my ability to have a child was treated. Before marriage, I genuinely did not know that I would have difficulty conceiving. I was not knowingly hiding some fertility problem. Only after marriage did I discover that I had a reproductive difficulty. I sought medical treatment. I took medication and injections. There was even a time when the treatment resulted in two mature eggs, one in each ovary. I remember coming out of the doctor's room with hope. For a moment, I imagined that perhaps everything would work out. But instead of feeling that we were facing the situation together, I experienced pressure, uncertainty and blame. Something I didn't even know about before marriage was treated as though I had deliberately concealed it. There were even questions about why I had not undergone medical evaluation before marriage. But how could I disclose something I genuinely did not know? And I learned something else about relationships during that period. When someone has a private vulnerability, you have a choice. You can expose it. You can use it against them. You can humiliate them. Or you can protect their dignity. I knew that my husband had a private health difficulty affecting our married life. I never exposed that information to his family. I never used it to humiliate him. I never told people about it to prove that the fertility problem wasn't entirely mine. I simply encouraged him to seek proper medical help. And when the pressure around having a child came, I told him something very clearly: "You are important to me. A child is secondary. First take care of your health and your mind." Because I never wanted a child merely because society says that marriage must produce one. I wanted a child only if the relationship itself was stable, loving and emotionally safe. I even prayed that I should not become pregnant in an uncertain marriage, because I didn't want an innocent child to suffer because of circumstances the child had never chosen. That wasn't hatred towards motherhood. That was concern for a child who didn't even exist yet. I wanted a husband first. A partner. A person who could communicate. A person who could take responsibility. A person who could admit mistakes. A person who could stand beside me instead of making me responsible for every disappointment in his own life. And there were moments when I was made to feel responsible for things that were part of his own life and circumstances. I was told that because he married me, he didn't get a promotion, didn't receive an appraisal, couldn't buy an asset, and didn't experience other "good things" he expected in life. I remember hearing those words and wondering: How can a spouse become responsible for another adult's promotion, appraisal, purchases or life's fortunes? If two people are married, problems should become: "How do we solve this together?" Not: "Because I married you, my life became worse." I was not looking for a husband who would never face difficulties. I was looking for someone who could say: "This is difficult. Let's face it together." Someone who could take responsibility for his own life without making his wife the reason for every disappointment. At some point, I realized that I was not looking for a marriage merely for the sake of saying that I was married. I wanted companionship. I wanted mutual respect. I wanted communication. I wanted consideration. I wanted emotional safety. I wanted someone who could stand beside me when things became difficult. I didn't want respect and consideration to appear only when intimacy was expected. I didn't want a relationship where a woman had to prove her worth through jewellery, fertility or obedience. And eventually, I made my decision. I walked away. Not because I believed I was worthless. Not because I couldn't become a wife. Not because I was incapable of being a mother. I walked away because I realized that I did not want to continue living in a relationship that did not give me the kind of partnership I believed marriage should have. I have made mistakes in my life. I don't deny that. I can look back and say, "Here, I should have spoken. Here, I should have acted differently." But acknowledging my mistakes doesn't mean I have to carry responsibility for everybody else's decisions. I can own my part. And leave the rest where it belongs. For a long time, I thought I had been betrayed by everyone. Today, I would put it differently: I have been deeply disappointed by people I trusted. And those disappointments taught me something. I don't need to keep chasing people for understanding. I don't need to convince anyone of my worth. I don't need to prove that I am a good daughter. I don't need marriage to prove that I am a woman. I don't need motherhood to prove that I am complete. I don't need jewellery or property to prove that I am valuable. I don't need other people's approval to know who I am. I have also realized that detachment doesn't mean throwing everything away. It doesn't mean hatred. It doesn't mean revenge. It means reducing the power that people and possessions have over my inner peace. I can love without becoming dependent. I can possess something without allowing it to possess me. I can respect people without needing their approval. I can walk away without hatred. I can acknowledge my mistakes without destroying myself over them. And most importantly, I can stop asking: "Why did they do this to me?" and start asking: "What kind of life do I want to live from here?" I want a simple life. A peaceful life. A life built on meaningful work, knowledge, independence, mutual respect and self-respect. If I ever have a family again, I don't need anything grand. Even if it is only a husband and me, I would be happy—provided there is mutual respect, communication, consideration, honesty and emotional safety. And if life takes me in another direction, I will still be okay. Because I have finally understood something: My life does not have to be a continuation of the relationships that hurt me. I can choose what comes next. I am not going to spend the rest of my life proving myself to people who have already decided who they think I am. I have my education. I have my character. I have my experiences. I have my work. I have my dreams. And I have myself. That is enough. Perhaps this is what Thiruvalluvar meant: யாதனின் யாதனின் நீங்கியான் நோதல் அதனின் அதனின் இலன். From whatever one detaches oneself, from that source comes freedom from suffering. I don't know whether I became stronger because of what happened. But I know this: I am no longer willing to lose myself trying to hold together things that were never holding me. I am choosing detachment. I am choosing peace. And this time, I am choosing myself. ❤️