Ikenna I am Done Pretending

 Ikenna, I Am Done Pretending

Ikenna, this is not a threat.
It is not an announcement.
It is not a demand.

It is a confession.

I am tired.

Not the dramatic kind of tired that asks for flowers, trips, or a better version of the same silence.
I am tired in the bones.
Tired in the places that used to hope quietly and now just ache.

I am done pretending.



I am done pretending that we are “fine” because nothing exploded today.
Done pretending that peace is the absence of shouting.
Done pretending that silence is maturity.
Done pretending that endurance is love.

We mastered the art of looking intact.
We learned how to show up together.
How to sit beside each other.
How to answer questions without telling the truth.

We became fluent in appearances.

But somewhere along the way, we stopped being honest—first with each other, then with ourselves.



Ikenna, pretending is exhausting.

Pretending to laugh when the joke doesn’t reach me.
Pretending to agree when I’ve already disappeared inside.
Pretending that my loneliness is just “a phase.”
Pretending that this ache will pass if I just pray harder, submit deeper, wait longer.

I did all of that.

And I’m still here: empty.



The hardest part is not that we struggle.
It’s that we no longer reach.

We coexist.
We coordinate.
We survive.

But we don’t connect.

We don’t ask the questions that might disturb the peace.
We don’t touch the places that still hurt.
We don’t tell the truth because the truth feels dangerous.

So we manage each other instead of loving each other.

That is not marriage.
That is maintenance.



Ikenna, I am done pretending for the children.

They are not blind.
They feel the distance in the room.
They know which version of us to expect on which days.
They are learning lessons from us—even when we think we are protecting them.

They are learning that marriage means shrinking quietly.
That staying matters more than being whole.
That love is something you tolerate.

I don’t want that inheritance passed on.

I am done pretending for God.

I refuse to keep using faith as anesthesia.
God is not honored by fear.
He is not impressed by performance.
He does not need my silence to stay holy.

If anything, He has been waiting for honesty.

Because truth—not pretending—is where healing begins.



This is the part I’m afraid to say out loud, but I will say it anyway:

I miss myself.

I miss the woman who laughed freely.
Who spoke without rehearsing.
Who didn’t second-guess every feeling.
Who believed she was allowed to take up space.

I miss being seen—not observed, not evaluated, not tolerated—but *seen*.



Ikenna, I am not saying I am done with the marriage.

I am saying I am done with the lie.

Done pretending that staying automatically means loving.
Done pretending that time alone fixes what truth avoids.
Done pretending that a preserved marriage is the same as a living one.

If we are to continue, it must be real.
Messy.
Honest.
Uncomfortable.

And if we cannot do that: then we must stop calling this peace.



I am done pretending because pretending is killing something in me.

And I need to breathe again.

Not for drama.
Not for rebellion.
But for life.

This is not an ultimatum.
It is an invitation.

To stop performing.
To stop hiding.
To stop surviving.

And finally ask the question we have avoided for too long:

Are we willing to do the work it takes to be alive again—or are we just afraid to admit we’ve been standing still?

Ikenna,
I am done pretending.

And strangely…
that is the first honest thing I’ve said in a long time.

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