There were years when I stood outside every circle. Not by choice, but by the quiet violence of omission. The invitations that never came. The glances that slid past. The rooms where my name was never spoken. I learned to build sanctuary from scraps—ritual, rhythm, and the mercy of one man who stayed.
Monogamy isn’t a rule to me. It is a vow. A spiritual clarity. A refusal to scatter. In a culture where monogamy is dismissed as old‑fashioned, I choose it anyway. One heart. One home. One rhythm. Not because I fear loneliness, but because I revere covenant.
I remember the basement suite I shaped with care—furnished, finished, smoke‑free. A space of peace. A reflection of my values. I remember Shady’s presence, his quiet fidelity. The way he held my grief without flinching. That was monogamy too. Emotional fidelity. Sanctuary.
And beneath it all, love.
Not the kind that demands proof or performance,
but the kind that endures.
The kind that waits on a bench.
The kind that says, I see you. I stay.
Love, more powerful than shame, than stigma, than abandonment.
Love, the architecture that outlasts every storm.
I lost a lot last year.
I miss my friends in Indianapolis.
I gave up everything—my friends, my promises—for a façade.
I lose myself many times, only to come back to me.
I have tried to include myself by being part of a sick culture,
but it never gave me covenant, only emptiness.
I live in a society that has accepted infidelity even in its leaders,
where betrayal is excused, and broken vows are normalized.
My mother sacrificed so that I could be better than what I now witness.
She warned me about the veteran, but I wouldn’t listen.
I remember her eyes—steady, sorrowful, almost pleading.
She saw what I could not: the danger of mistaking brokenness for belonging.
But I was hungry for inclusion, desperate to be chosen,
and so I ignored her wisdom.
The cost was heavy: promises broken, friendships lost,
and I lost respect for myself.
But losing respect was not the end of me.
It was the beginning of return.
For in that hollow space, I heard her voice again:
I taught you to sacrifice. I taught you to be faithful. I taught you decency.
Her words became a mirror cleaner than shame,
a reminder that covenant is not destroyed by failure,
but renewed by mercy.
Now I sit in the park, writing this chapter. The trees lean in like witnesses.
I close my notebook and whisper the words that shaped me since childhood:
I was raised better.
Raised to honor covenant.
Raised to choose depth.
Raised to stay.
© Jaime Pearson 2025. All rights reserved.
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