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In my case, my husband and I have both spent a lot of time thinking about what my affair says about me, who I was then, and who I am now. We don’t believe it represents an unfaithful person at my core. Someone else may view that differently, and I understand why.

What were your conclusions? What do you feel the affair ultimately revealed about who you were at that time?

Having read your posts, it's clear you've done enough honest self-examination to say comfortably that you aren't using this framing to dodge accountability. That was my primary concern. At a certain point, arguing over "core identity" just comes down to semantics.

I agree there's no absolute right or wrong here, but returning to the smoking analogy: if someone repeatedly smokes over a sustained period, many people would simply define them as a smoker. That is part of their identity for that period, regardless of how they view themselves deep down. I guess the only relevance for that here is accepting that is how many people will frame you and for you to be prepared for that.

To look at it another way, suppose my partner had an affair where she slept with someone 20 times over three months, but was otherwise loyal to a fault. Some might argue that short, isolated period doesn't define who she is. I would argue that possessing the capacity to make that choice repeatedly over three months tells me a great deal about her core character at that moment. Some people would simply never do that. Some people only want people in their life who have demonstrated through lived experience that they would never do that.

Then people, maybe even yourself, would often fall into an illogical trap here: if a partner slept with 10 different people twice over three months, many more people would label them a "cheater to their core". Yet if they sleep with one person 20 times, people tend to view it as a single, contained mistake. To me, the infraction and the character capacity required to carry it out are identical. Whether it's 20 people once, or one person 20 times, repeated choices form a pattern of identity.

Ultimately, I respect that you and your husband have arrived at a place that allows you both to heal. But for many, the hesitation to accept a label often comes down to protecting oneself from what that label implies, rather than what the evidence actually shows.

[This message edited by DRSOOLERS at 8:38 AM, Tuesday, July 21st]

Dr. Soolers,

I think someone can be described as a smoker, but I also think that's a fairly simplistic way of understanding people. We're usually more complicated than a single pattern of behavior.

For example, my husband was short-tempered with our children for a few months after D-Day, which was completely understandable given the emotional distress he was under. You could say he was angry during that period, but I wouldn't say he was an angry man. He values being a kind, patient, and caring father. His behavior was real, and he took responsibility for it, but I don't think it reflected who he was at his core. I think it reflected someone responding to profound pain.

I guess that's how I tend to think about people in general. Behavior matters. Patterns matter. But I don't think behavior alone tells the whole story of who someone is. Our values matter too. Context matters. The reasons behind our choices matter.

I know not everyone sees it that way, and I genuinely respect that. I realize my framework isn't the one everyone would choose, and I'm okay with that.

"Then people, maybe even yourself, would often fall into an illogical trap here: if a partner slept with 10 different people twice over three months, many more people would label them a 'cheater to their core.' Yet if they sleep with one person 20 times, people tend to view it as a single, contained mistake. To me, the infraction and the character capacity required to carry it out are identical. Whether it's 20 people once, or one person 20 times, repeated choices form a pattern of identity."

Dr. Soolers, I really do understand what you're saying. In fact, I'd even hypothesize (😂) that you and my husband probably think about these things in a similar way.

I think people are messy. I think we're full of contradictions. I think there's context, history, values, wounds, blind spots, growth... all sorts of things that make up a person. So even when I see repeated behavior, I find it difficult to jump straight to, "That's who they are."

Maybe that's why I struggle with reducing people to labels. Some people seem to find more comfort in clear moral categories—right and wrong, faithful and unfaithful, honest and dishonest. I understand why. There's something reassuring about a world that feels orderly.

My mind just tends to see people a little differently.

We're chaotic and unpredictable. We color outside the lines—not just in shades of gray, but in blues, pinks, oranges, and every other color imaginable.

So I think this is probably more of a philosophical difference than a factual one. I don't think either of us is denying what happened. We're just giving different weight to behavior, values, and context when we ask, "Who is this person?"

"What were your conclusions? What do you feel the affair ultimately revealed about who you were at that time?"

I've spent a lot of time asking myself that.

I think, for me, it revealed how disconnected I had become from myself.

Part of what drew me into it was that it allowed me to escape the emotional numbness I was living in. It reminded me there was life outside the castle of suppression I'd unconsciously built around myself.

Looking back, I don't think I was really seeking an affair. I think I was seeking aliveness, comfort, and relief from a loneliness I hadn't fully recognized. I just found those things in the most destructive way possible.

It also forced me to face something I never thought I would have to: that I was capable of betraying my own values. That doesn't mean those values weren't real. It means I learned, painfully, that valuing something isn't enough if I don't live in a way that protects it.

That realization was deeply humbling.

It came at an enormous cost—to my husband, to myself, and to my marriage. And that cost doesn't always have to look like divorce or years of Herculean effort. Sometimes it's quieter than that. Sometimes it's the loss of innocence—the loss of certainty about who we thought we were, and the realization that I was capable of choices I never imagined I’d make.

[This message edited by NotMyIdentity at 10:14 AM, Tuesday, July 21st]

It also forced me to face something I never thought I would have to: that I was capable of betraying my own values. That doesn't mean those values weren't real. It means I learned, painfully, that valuing something isn't enough if I don't live in a way that protects it.

NotMyIdentity,

I think we have just dismantled the semantic trap, and frankly, this feels like a genuine breakthrough in our discussion.

What you have written above gets precisely to the heart of what I was driving at. You seem to accept here that an undeniable part of your identity—whether past or present—is someone who possesses the capacity to betray their own deeply held values. The affair, in essence, acted as the stress test required to reveal that latent capacity.

To take that logic one step further: presumably, you accept that not everyone is capable of betraying their own core values under stress? Some individuals, when faced with extreme emotional numbness, suppression, or loneliness, will still draw an absolute line at betrayal. For them, the barrier is non-negotiable. Recognizing that you were someone whose barrier could yield under pressure is a profound and humbling admission.

I am entirely comfortable with your framing of 'shades of grey' and human complexity, and I can see how it provides a compassionate framework for healing for both you and your husband.

However, your perspective raises an interesting logical question about reciprocity.

You view human beings as inherently messy, chaotic, and governed by context, history, and internal wounds rather than fixed moral categories. Given that you hold this expansive, grey-scale view of human nature, how do you think you would process it if the roles were reversed?

If your husband—under the weight of profound distress, emotional isolation, or his own unaddressed wounds—were to have a sustained affair tomorrow, how would your framework hold up in practice? Would you be able to comfortably extend that same contextual grace to him, viewing his choices merely as a destructive search for 'aliveness' rather than a fundamental breach of who he is? Or would the lived reality of being on the receiving end force a shift back toward clearer, harder boundaries?

It came at an enormous cost—to my husband, to myself, and to my marriage. And that cost doesn't always have to look like divorce or years of Herculean effort. Sometimes it's quieter than that. Sometimes it's the loss of innocence—the loss of certainty about who we thought we were, and the realization that I was capable of choices I never imagined I’d make.

Unless you had to slay the Hyrda or capture Cerberus, it's not enough

[This message edited by DRSOOLERS at 11:21 AM, Tuesday, July 21st]

To take that logic one step further: presumably, you accept that not everyone is capable of betraying their own core values under stress? Some individuals, when faced with extreme emotional numbness, suppression, or loneliness, will still draw an absolute line at betrayal. For them, the barrier is non-negotiable. Recognizing that you were someone whose barrier could yield under pressure is a profound and humbling admission.

Perfect storm theory... Here's where the uniqueness of every person's situation comes in. So many WS say that they weren't cognizant of their issues before they committed infidelity. How can anyone say they don't have internal "sleeper issues" that could possibly combine with any number of external factors to result in the behavior of cheating? It's a vulnerability in and of itself to believe so certainly that one could never do it... Certainly some people's perfect storms are much rarer than others (say, a Sunday drizzle vs a once-in-a-hundred-years storm), but I could never confidently categorize people as capable of cheating or inherently incapable of cheating. I mean, you said so yourself DRSOOLERS, that you support the idea of an RA (not to make this personal.)

If your husband—under the weight of profound distress, emotional isolation, or his own unaddressed wounds—were to have a sustained affair tomorrow, how would your framework hold up in practice? Would you be able to comfortably extend that same contextual grace to him, viewing his choices merely as a destructive search for 'aliveness' rather than a fundamental breach of who he is? Or would the lived reality of being on the receiving end force a shift back toward clearer, harder boundaries?

Do you expect NMI's framework not to hold up if that was the case? Are you are just having a hard time conceptualizing this? (not intended to be snarky... possibly bad phrasing on my part.)

Unless you had to slay the Hyrda or capture Cerberus, it's not enough laugh

Not enough for whomst?

Dr. Soolers,

I think this is actually the part of the conversation where the rubber meets the road. It’s one thing to hold a belief intellectually, and another to imagine living it when you’re the person who has been hurt.

I do want to clarify something, though. I’m not sure I would call this a breakthrough, only because I don’t think I’ve ever disagreed that the affair revealed something important about me. I have always believed that it did.

It revealed vulnerabilities I had not understood. It revealed ways I was able to disconnect from my values and make choices that caused profound harm. I think accepting those things has been an important part of my healing and accountability.

Where I think we may differ is not whether it revealed something about me, but what meaning we assign to that information.

If my husband had an affair tomorrow, I would be devastated. I would feel anger, grief, betrayal, and probably a whole range of emotions I can’t fully predict. I don’t think having a contextual view of people means I would somehow bypass the pain of being wounded.

But I do believe I could still hold the belief that his actions, even deeply harmful ones, would not necessarily be the entirety of who he is.

I think this is also where we may have a slightly different understanding of boundaries. I don’t see refusing to reduce someone to a single category as having softer or less firm boundaries.

I actually do believe there are moral categories. I believe some things are right and some things are wrong. I believe betrayal is wrong, and I believe choices have consequences.

Where I differ is that I don’t believe violating a moral value automatically defines the whole of who someone is. To me, there is a difference between saying, "This person caused profound harm and I need to respond accordingly," and saying, "This person is nothing more than the harm they caused."

I think there is a strength in being able to hold both truths at the same time: that someone can do something deeply harmful and still be more than the harm they caused; that someone can be accountable for their choices without being reduced to those choices.

I also think this applies to comparisons around shared wounds. I find it interesting when someone says, "I had those same wounds and I didn’t cheat," as if that proves something definitive about character. I don’t think similar circumstances necessarily mean identical internal experiences. Two people can encounter similar pain and process it through very different histories, coping mechanisms, beliefs, and vulnerabilities.

That doesn’t remove responsibility. The choices we make matter. The impact on others matters. But I don’t think a person’s response to pain alone is a simple measure of whether they are a good person or a bad person.

So yes, I think my framework would hold, although I imagine it would be incredibly painful and would undoubtedly be tested. I could feel deeply hurt by my husband’s choices and still believe he is more than the choices that caused the most harm.

Maybe this is where our difference remains: I think you may place more weight on a revealed capacity as evidence of identity, whereas I place more weight on understanding that capacity within the larger context of a person—their choices, values, accountability, and growth.

I do think our choices reveal something real about us. They can reveal our vulnerabilities, our blind spots, our coping mechanisms, and the ways we respond under pressure. Those things matter and deserve honest examination.

But I don’t believe the existence of a capacity, even one revealed through repeated choices, automatically makes that capacity the defining feature of a person’s identity or the complete story of who they are.

Apologies, this got a little long-winded. I’m apparently still training my lung capacity before attempting the whole Cerberus situation. 😂

[This message edited by NotMyIdentity at 2:02 PM, Tuesday, July 21st]