Why "Free Love" Left Me Wanting Commitment and True Connection

How far would you go to feel loved, even if it meant surrendering pieces of yourself along the way?

The open relationship that I believed would bring freedom, intimacy, and healing left me far from liberated. Instead, it reinforced a harsh truth that crept into my awareness slowly, painfully: the man I had become involved with, who claimed to love and cherish me, was incapable of the emotional depth, vulnerability, and true empathy I yearned for.

Over the years, I observed more and more clearly that he could parrot the language of intimacy and connection, but the sincerity, the deep human truth behind those words, simply wasn’t there.

What began as the promise of boundless connection ended in an empty echo, leaving me feeling like a shell in a game that was never meant to nourish my soul.

Looking back, I realize that I was guilty of compromising myself — of caving into his sexual fantasies, of performing acts that were purely about spectacle, adrenaline, and shock value, just to fill the aching void of connection I felt daily. I watched him retreat further and further, busying himself with “work,” which more often than not was his private world of video games, shows, and porn. His headset became the only thing he was truly intimate with.

Meanwhile, he left me to manage not just the day-to-day of our household but also the emotional needs of our children. It was as though the promises we made to be present partners, involved parents, and genuine lovers were as thin and fragile as smoke.

Yes, I had other partners — an accepted part of our agreement — but what I wanted wasn’t a revolving door of lovers.

I wanted a husband, a rock, the steady love and companionship of a man who would see me, hold me, and build a secure life with me.

Like most women, I longed for security, that sense of safety that allows a woman to soften and fully give her heart. But instead, I was pulled into his relentless desire for more.

More thrill.

More risk.

More darkness.

My stable, trusted lovers no longer provided him the rush he was seeking. And it wasn’t long before I found myself doing things that I would have once considered unthinkable, degrading, and frankly, terrifying.

One particular fantasy he had pressed on me repeatedly involved taking me to a hotel, tying me up, leaving me half-naked and vulnerable, and then heading to a bar to find a stranger to whom he would hand the key. This stranger — whomever he chose — would then come up to the room alone and, in his words, “take advantage of the opportunity” while my partner would wait till this stranger had had plenty of time and then he himself would come back for the grand finale to watch or join in.

I was horrified by this proposition, not only because it posed terrifying physical and emotional risks but because of what it said about him, about how he saw me.

I remember the way he would bring up this fantasy not as a suggestion or a playful exploration but as a demand, as though it was something I should want. He would tell me, “You don’t know what you want. I know you better than you know yourself,” gaslighting me into questioning my instincts, my boundaries, even my safety.

Time and again, I felt this pressure.

Despite my reluctance, I often found myself performing dangerous acts, acts I never imagined I would consider, just to chase some fleeting connection with him. Each time, the day after would bring a new level of distance from him. He would be off to something even grander, darker, and more consuming, leaving me feeling like I was somehow still not enough, never enough, no matter how much of myself I sacrificed.

This dynamic left me broken in ways I hadn’t anticipated.

The psychological strain of feeling inadequate, of never meeting his ever-increasing hunger for novelty, took a toll on me.

Every fantasy acted out, every boundary pushed, only served to emphasize how disconnected we were.

I felt like an object, a vessel for his desires, constantly doubting my own worth.

What began as a journey to experience “freedom” and “trust” became a descent into self-betrayal, where I was using my body as currency to purchase the scraps of emotional closeness he offered.

It was then that I began to see what these open relationship environments truly offer, especially for women. The places we went to “explore” — swingers’ clubs and so-called “play spaces” — positioned the woman as a spectacle, a “prize” that was ultimately meant to serve the sexual needs of others.

It’s a space that often masquerades as honoring the woman’s autonomy, but the reality is far from that. I began to notice how I, and other women, became bait for others’ fantasies, their pleasure, their entertainment. There’s a great deal of pressure to be agreeable, to go along with things even when our instincts screamed otherwise.

This setup breeds a culture of coercion under the guise of consent, a silent pressure to say “yes” for fear of being labeled repressive or unsupportive. I found myself constantly performing compersion — the idea that I should be happy simply because he was happy.

But at what cost?

Compersion, in these circumstances, turned into something that demanded I disregard my own needs and desires, silencing the discomfort I felt so that he could feel free.

The very foundation of consent relies on open, consistent communication, something that was absent in our relationship. I would go along with fantasies that he clearly enjoyed, even when they left me feeling hollow and used. I remember being told, time and again, that my concerns were unfounded, that I was simply “uncomfortable” because I was “holding back.” I lost count of the times I’d walk into scenarios I didn’t want to be in, holding back my fear and discomfort simply because he insisted it was “for the good of our relationship.”

The personal risk that women face in these situations is rarely spoken about. The “free love” ideal might sound utopian, but in practice, it’s often a breeding ground for peer pressure, for anxiety, for trauma. I remember one night at an adult bookstore, where I found myself in a surreal, nightmare-like scenario. He wanted me to go in, to find a stranger and hook up on the spot — this was supposed to bring us closer, he insisted. As I stood there, my heart racing, the danger and humiliation were palpable, but I went through with it to try and bridge the gulf that kept opening wider between us.

Each of these experiences took a piece of me, and each one added to the unspoken truth that I was sacrificing my dignity, my boundaries, and my self-respect to prop up an illusion of connection.

I reached a point where I could no longer ignore the damage.

What had started as an attempt to heal the wounds of a previous unsatisfying relationship left me with deeper scars and an understanding of what I needed.

This experience showed me, unequivocally, that true security, commitment, and partnership could never be built on a foundation of endless seeking and self-abandonment. It taught me that love is not a carnival of temporary highs and endless novelty but a shared vision grounded in respect, care, and authenticity.

Leaving that relationship forced me to reevaluate what I believed in and desired. It was a clarifying journey into the depths of what it means to be in a loving relationship. I came to see the conservative values I’d previously brushed off as outdated — trust, commitment, exclusivity — as anchors of stability and peace.

I learned, painfully but deeply, that the greatest love is built on a mutual dedication to each other’s well-being, not on the consumption of each other’s bodies.

The aftermath of this relationship left me hungry for real partnership, for the quiet strength of a man who would stand beside me, not above me, not demanding that I submit my mind, my heart, or my body for his pleasure. It has given me a profound respect for the grounded love I once overlooked.

And though the lessons were brutal, they’ve brought me back to my own truth: that love, when truly given, is not about endless freedom, but about the beautiful choice of staying, of showing up, of building something sacred together.

As always loving you from here,

Rene Schooler

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Dive into a powerful discussion where I break down what makes intimacy fulfilling — exploring the difference between gourmet sex and fast-food sex.

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