I used to think I would break if he ever looked at someone else the way he looked at me.
That his desire for another woman would mean I wasn’t enough.
That love had to be contained to be sacred.
But it’s funny what happens when you replace fear with curiosity — and shame with trust.
Because the truth is: We opened our relationship. And I didn’t fall apart. I came alive.
We had just finished having sex. The room was quiet — the kind of quiet that feels full, not empty.
I was lying on his chest, and I said, without fully meaning to:
“Do you ever think about other people? Not in a cheating way. Just… wondering.”
He didn’t answer at first. But his breath changed.
Then he said:
“Yes. But not because I want to leave. Just because I wonder what it’s like… and what it would do to us if we let it in, together.”
That night, we didn’t make rules. We didn’t make plans. We just held each other tighter.
And something shifted.
If we were going to explore other people — emotionally, physically, spiritually — it had to be from a place of complete truth.
No half-stories. No testing each other. No games.
And most importantly: No one else gets more honesty than we give each other.
It was both terrifying and wildly freeing.
It wasn’t jealousy I felt. It was something much harder to name.
I watched him talk to her — his eyes soft, his laugh low. I knew that look. That was the look he gave me when we first met.
I felt my stomach twist. But instead of turning away, I stayed.
And then something wild happened.
He looked over at me — in the middle of their laughter — and his whole body softened, like he was seeing me deeper for it.
Like sharing his joy didn’t lessen it.
It multiplied it.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t just sex.
It was slow. Intimate. A whisper of trust that started over coffee and turned into hands, lips, breath.
I felt nervous when I came home. Not guilty — just raw. Vulnerable.
I crawled into bed and curled into him.
He whispered, “Are you okay?”
And I said, “I think I just met a new version of myself.”
He held me, tighter than ever.
He didn’t ask for details. Just made space. For all of it.
It’s not perfect. We get jealous. Insecure. Tender in places we didn’t know we had.
But we also talk more. Laugh deeper. Touch each other like we’ve earned it — because we have.
Polygamy, for us, isn’t a loophole. It’s an invitation.
To grow.
To let love be messy and full and full of choice.
To wake up every day and ask: “How can I love you better now that I know more of you?”
Don’t start by opening your relationship.
Start by opening your heart.
Tell the truth. Even if it shakes.
Ask better questions. Not “Would you be okay if…” but “What would make you feel most held, most seen, most alive?”
Don’t chase freedom if you’re not ready to hold it gently.
Because this kind of love?
It doesn’t break what’s weak.
It reveals what’s strong.
And if you do it right —
You won’t lose each other. You’ll find yourselves.
