What Would I Do Differently About My Affair? Nothing.

Gwad, just thinking about this person’s stage gives me goose bumps.

They wrote to me after reading my story about what one year of an affair taught me. Married 22 years, wife has lost interest, purely an emotional affair with a younger woman who lives an ocean away. They’ll see her soon and aren’t sure what they’ll do. Their question: What would I have done differently?

I’ll tell them. But first, let me take them back to where they’re standing right now.

I have been exactly where they are, with him chasing me for months. The buildup of emotions and desire was overwhelming. I remember fantasising day in and day out about meeting him and doing all the things he gave me a preview of in our online messages. I remember the guilt I felt for even considering taking this further by meeting him, because I had never done something like that in my life, but also the curiosity to clarify whether he was living up to it or if it was all in my head.

When I finally decided to meet him, the logistics of planning took me weeks. I had to prepare the terrain at home, explaining to my husband that I needed to go on this business trip because I hadn’t visited that office in over a year. It made sense for him, and no further questions were asked. Then, I had to plan for contingency. What if I don’t like him in person? Should I make this all about him? So I found the solution. I will actually go to the office and meet my colleagues, although they will ask questions about why I am there. I will tell them I needed this travel for my mental health — which was entirely true and correct — and I’m sure no further questions will be asked.

Several days in advance, I started my grooming process. I carefully plucked every hair from all the places he would be touching me, where hair was not supposed to be. I went to my hairstylist and refreshed my hair colour, and took a manicure and a pedicure. I carefully exfoliated my skin and hydrated properly, something I normally hated doing. No detail was left out.

As the day of my travel approached, I couldn’t eat. My stomach was in knots. Waves of guilt, but also excitement, took me on a rollercoaster of emotions I couldn’t tame.

Then finally, I arrived.

Even after months that amounted to over a year of online conversations, meeting him was still awkward. I was happy to see him, but it just felt different in person. He was hungry for me, as I was for him, but the pace of getting from the airport to bed was too fast for me.

Then, I was shocked. It was late, indeed, and the next day we were both supposed to be in the office — at different workplaces, mind you — but I was surprised when he said he would leave me for the night. It was not as if I could get any sleep after this long-awaited and fantasised-about encounter.

He left, and all that remained was me, my guilt and his seductive perfume on the sheets of the bed in the hotel room I was staying in. I felt lonely.

Thinking about seeing him the next day and spending one more night together, on a Friday, brought me hope that the next night won’t feel as cold. He’s a practical man, I told myself. He’s the mature one wanting us to get a good rest before a busy day ahead. But a practical man I already had, at home, and I travelled this distance to meet someone different, someone passionate and hungry for me, who would appreciate the trouble I got myself into to come and see him.

The next morning, I woke up after barely closing my eyes during the night and got myself moving. I went to the office, exchanged pleasantries with my colleague, and joked with my bosses about missing them so much that I actually paid for my trip to see them.

I could wait for us to finish for the day and meet.

In the evening, he came to see me and we went out for dinner. The restaurant wasn’t the best choice, but I enjoyed his presence. He talked. Oh, he talked a lot. Back then, I liked that, but over time, I realised he’s the only one who talks. He was not interested in my opinions unless they pertained to the topics he chose. I understood he liked me as an audience, not as a partner in conversations. He rarely asked me questions.

After dinner, we returned to the hotel, and I silently hoped that we would take things easier this time and that he would stay over. That was the first time the age difference began to show. He was tired and had one too many over dinner, so the whole experience was bumpy.

He left for the night, so “we could get a good night’s sleep.”

Left alone again, I understood that this would be how things will go from now on. He was a man who valued his sleep and independence more than the discomfort of staying late with his girlfriend, who was only in the city for two nights, risking her marriage, reputation and investing in the trip.

To his defence, I am the type of woman who would not accept her partner taking any financial burden for her choices. I don’t do that at home, nor do I do it away. However, in retrospect, I think that allowing him to cover some trip-related expenses would have made this arrangement more equitable and less frustrating for me.

The next day came, and I had a full day to spend with him. I was excited to walk and sightsee the beautiful city where he lived. We ended up without any plans, which, for a person like me, is unsettling, but I kept my optimism and hoped for the best, embracing the idea of “going with the flow.”

When the time came to drop me off at the airport, I was relieved (I was looking forward to going back home), but also sad to leave him, because the idealisation was still there, although I had come to meet the real him, behind the text messages.

The same pattern repeated more or less every time we met. The highs and lows were playing havoc with my emotions in such a way that, throughout our relationship, I was mostly confused. Is this what I want or what I need?

Deep down, I reached the conclusion that this affair was what I wanted and needed, although I asked myself multiple times if the risk I was taking was really worth it.

What I Actually Learned

Here’s what that affair taught me, the specific lessons I couldn’t have learned any other way:

I learned I had been making myself smaller for years. In my marriage, I had become an expert at not asking for what I needed. The affair forced me to articulate desires I’d been suppressing — not just sexual ones, but the desire to be curious about, to be asked questions, to be pursued. I learned that I had needs beyond being practical and reliable.

I learned what reciprocity actually feels like — and what it doesn’t. Even though my affair partner disappointed me, those disappointments clarified something crucial. When I paid for everything, planned everything, risked everything, and he left me alone in hotel rooms to “get good sleep,” I understood viscerally what imbalance looks like. I had been accepting similar imbalances at home without naming them.

I learned I was capable of compartmentalisation, which I didn’t know I possessed. The mental gymnastics required to maintain two realities taught me something uncomfortable about myself: I could lie convincingly. I could deceive someone I’d been married to for decades. This wasn’t a skill I was proud of discovering, but it was important to know it existed in me.

I learned that the affair wasn’t really about him. It was about me trying to answer questions I was too afraid to ask directly: What do I want? Do I still have agency over my own life? Can I choose something just for myself? The affair was a circuitous, painful, expensive way to explore those questions, but it worked.

What I’d Tell Someone Standing Where You’re Standing

So to answer your question, dear reader: I wouldn’t have done it any other way. It was wrong to be unfaithful, to cheat, but it was such a profound learning experience that I would do it again, given the circumstances I was in.

But here’s what I wish I’d known going in:

Clarify your actual objectives before you board that plane. I thought I was seeking passion and validation. What I actually needed were answers to deeper questions about my marriage, my needs, and my agency. If you can clearly name those questions, you might find other ways to answer them. Can you get what you need by having direct, difficult conversations with your wife? By working with a therapist? By making changes in your marriage or ending it honestly?

Ask yourself: are you running toward something or away from something? The answer matters.

Understand that fantasy and reality will collide brutally. A year of online messages creates a person who doesn’t exist. When you meet her, you’ll meet someone real — with morning breath, different energy levels, conversation patterns that might bore you, and needs that might not align with yours. The disappointment can be crushing precisely because you’ve invested so much in the fantasy.

Be prepared for the aftermath, whatever it is. Are you ready to step out of your marriage if your affair blows up? Are you prepared for the guilt that will follow you into bed at home? Can you handle the cognitive dissonance of being a good person who is doing something that hurts someone else?

The mental gymnastics of compartmentalising your life will exhaust you in ways you can’t anticipate.

Don’t be impulsive about the big decisions, but accept that you can’t control everything. Think through every major step — the first meeting, whether to become physical, and how many times you’ll see each other. But also know that you can’t plan for how you’ll feel when she’s in front of you, or when you return home to your wife’s face.

Know that this will change you. You won’t be the same person on the other side of this. Whether that change leads you toward growth or regret or both , you won’t be able to undo it.

If there’s any way to get what you need without the deception, without the risk, without the complexity — take that path instead. But if you’re going to do this anyway, go in with your eyes open. Don’t tell yourself pretty lies about “not hurting anyone” or “keeping it separate.” Affairs have costs, even when they teach you things you needed to learn.

I don’t regret mine. But I paid for every lesson, and so did someone who never agreed to that transaction.

You will too.

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