Lost in the Silence of My Marriage: Marloes’ Journey to Herself

The clock on the kitchen wall ticked louder than ever, echoing through the silence that had settled over our home like a heavy fog. I stood by the sink, hands submerged in lukewarm water, staring at the window but seeing nothing. The evening sun painted golden streaks across the linoleum floor, but inside me, everything felt gray.

“Bas, can we talk?” I called, my voice trembling just enough to betray the storm inside me. He didn’t answer right away. I heard the faint click of his laptop closing in the living room, followed by the shuffle of his slippers on the hardwood. He appeared in the doorway, eyes tired, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world—or maybe just the weight of our marriage—rested on him.

“What’s up, Marloes?” he asked, not unkindly, but not really present either. That was Bas: always gentle, never cruel, but so distant lately that I sometimes wondered if I was living with a ghost.

I dried my hands on a dish towel, searching his face for any sign of the man I’d married ten years ago. “I just… I feel like we’re not really living anymore. We’re just… existing. Together, but apart.”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m tired, Marloes. Work’s been rough. Can we not do this tonight?”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I nodded, swallowing the words that burned my throat. That was how it always went: I reached out, he pulled away, and the silence between us grew thicker, heavier, until it was almost suffocating.

I remember when we first met, back in college in Madison, Wisconsin. Bas was the life of every party, the guy who could make anyone laugh. I was drawn to his warmth, his easy charm. We’d talk for hours about everything and nothing—music, politics, our dreams for the future. I thought we’d build a life full of adventure, laughter, and love.

But somewhere along the way, life happened. Bas got a job at a tech company, working long hours, always chasing the next promotion. I became a high school English teacher, pouring my heart into my students, hoping to make a difference. We bought a house in the suburbs, thinking it would be the start of our happily ever after. Instead, it became the backdrop for our slow unraveling.

The first real crack appeared after our daughter, Emily, was born. I struggled with postpartum depression, feeling overwhelmed and alone. Bas tried to help, but he didn’t know how. He retreated into work, and I retreated into myself. We stopped talking about anything real. Our conversations became logistical: who would pick up Emily from daycare, who would pay the bills, what to have for dinner. The intimacy we once shared faded, replaced by a polite, aching distance.

One night, after Emily had gone to bed, I sat on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the stars. My phone buzzed—a text from my sister, Rachel.

“How are you holding up?” she wrote.

I hesitated, then typed back, “I feel invisible. Like I’m disappearing.”

She called immediately. “Marloes, you can’t keep living like this. You need to talk to Bas. Really talk.”

“I’ve tried,” I whispered, tears slipping down my cheeks. “He doesn’t listen. Or maybe I’m not saying the right things. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”

Rachel was quiet for a moment. “You’re my sister. You’re smart, funny, passionate. You’re not just Bas’s wife or Emily’s mom. You’re Marloes. Don’t let anyone—especially yourself—forget that.”

Her words haunted me for days. I started journaling again, something I hadn’t done since college. I wrote about my dreams, my fears, the things I missed about myself. I realized how much I’d given up—my art, my friends, even my sense of humor. I’d become so focused on holding our family together that I’d let myself fall apart.

One Saturday morning, I found Bas in the garage, tinkering with his old motorcycle. I took a deep breath and said, “We need help. I can’t do this alone anymore.”

He looked up, surprised. “Help? Like therapy?”

“Yes. For us. For me. For Emily.”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. If that’s what you want.”

We started seeing a marriage counselor, Dr. Harris, a kind woman with a gentle voice and a knack for asking hard questions. In our first session, she asked, “What do you miss most about each other?”

Bas was silent for a long time. Finally, he said, “I miss how Marloes used to laugh at my stupid jokes. I miss feeling like we were a team.”

I swallowed hard. “I miss feeling seen. I miss feeling like I matter.”

Dr. Harris nodded. “That’s a good place to start.”

Therapy was hard. We fought, we cried, we said things we’d kept buried for years. I told Bas how lonely I felt, how his passivity made me feel like I was carrying the weight of our marriage alone. He admitted he felt overwhelmed by work, by fatherhood, by the pressure to be everything for everyone. We started to understand each other again, but it was slow, painful work.

Meanwhile, life went on. Emily started kindergarten, making new friends and bringing home crayon drawings that covered our fridge. I joined a book club, rediscovering my love of literature and connecting with other women who understood what it meant to lose yourself in motherhood and marriage. I started painting again, setting up a small studio in the basement. For the first time in years, I felt a spark of joy.

But not everything got better. Some nights, Bas and I still sat in silence, the old distance creeping back in. There were days when I wondered if we were just delaying the inevitable, if love was enough to bridge the gap between us. I thought about leaving—about starting over, finding out who I could be on my own. But then I’d see Bas playing with Emily, hear her laughter echo through the house, and I’d remember why I’d fought so hard to keep us together.

One evening, after a particularly rough session with Dr. Harris, Bas and I sat on the porch, watching the fireflies dance in the humid Wisconsin air. He reached for my hand, his grip tentative but real.

“I’m sorry, Marloes,” he said quietly. “I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want us to be happy again.”

Tears filled my eyes. “I want that too. But I need to be happy with myself first. I can’t keep losing myself to save us.”

He nodded, understanding at last. “Then let’s figure it out. Together.”

It wasn’t a fairy tale ending. There were no grand gestures, no sudden transformations. Just two people, flawed and scared, trying to find their way back to each other—and to themselves. Some days were better than others. Some days, I still felt lost. But I was learning to listen to my own voice, to honor my own needs. I was learning that love isn’t about losing yourself for someone else—it’s about growing together, even when it’s hard.

Now, when I look in the mirror, I see more than just a wife and mother. I see Marloes—strong, resilient, still a little broken, but finally, finally finding her way.

Sometimes I wonder: How many of us lose ourselves in the silence of our marriages, in the spaces between what we want and what we have? And how many of us are brave enough to find our way back? What would you do if you realized you were disappearing in your own life?