My Husband Got Another Woman Pregnant While I Was Grieving Our Future

I don’t know how to begin this story without my hands shaking a little. Even now, years later, there’s a part of me that flinches when I revisit it. But I’m not writing this because I’m stuck in the pain—I’m writing it because I lived through it. And maybe you’re trying to live through something, too.

A Fairytale Beginning

In 2014, I met the man I thought I’d spend forever with. He was kind and funny, warm and loyal—or at least, that’s who he was to me. I worked at a nightclub, and he came in regularly with his friends. I noticed him long before he noticed me. One night, I ended up at that same bar on a night off, and he approached me. After that, he came in every night just to see me.

It felt like the beginning of something real.

By 2015, we’d bought a house, gotten engaged, and started trying for a baby. Everything looked perfect on the surface. We believed we were living a fairytale, even after suffering two miscarriages. We held tightly to each other, convinced love would get us through anything.

A Diagnosis That Broke Me

In January 2017, we were told it would be incredibly difficult for me to get pregnant and carry a baby to term. I was gutted. I’d imagined becoming a mother for as long as I could remember. That February, in a haze of grief and hopelessness, I attempted to take my own life.

He found me. Picked me back up. Promised me we’d be okay.

We got married a month later, on March 27.

When Hope Finally Left

In January 2019, my endometriosis became unbearable. I could barely walk. A specialist put me on medication that forced me into early menopause. I had to let go of the last fragile hope I’d clung to.

I would never carry a child. Never feel a baby kick. Never complain about swollen ankles or morning sickness.

It was a grief that no one really prepares you for. I felt like my body had failed me, and I didn’t know how to make peace with it.

The Night Everything Fell Apart

On June 10, 2019, I took another overdose. My husband was over an hour away. If my brother and sister-in-law hadn’t arrived when they did, I don’t know that I’d be here now.

Hours later, I was discharged from hospital, having convinced the doctors I wouldn’t be left alone.

I remember sitting on the edge of our bed that night, numb and raw, just wanting to be held by the one person I loved most. I needed to hear that we were going to be okay.

Instead, at around 3 a.m.—a detail I remember vividly even now—he told me he was leaving.

He’d met someone else. He hadn’t loved me for a while.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I don’t think I even processed it. Then, in a moment that still stings, he got into bed next to me and asked if I wanted a cuddle.

Like my entire world hadn’t just shattered.

I lay awake all night.

In the morning, I drove him to work. Then I went to work myself.

“I Thought You Should Hear It from Me”

Less than six months after he left, he told me his girlfriend was pregnant.

He said he’d waited five months to tell me because he thought, given everything we had been through, it would be better if I heard it from him than from someone else.

As if hearing it from him could possibly make it hurt less.

There weren’t words big enough for that pain. I had spent years grieving the children I would never have. I had felt like my body betrayed me. And now, he was having a baby with someone else—easily, it seemed, and carelessly.

And Yet, I Survived

There was a time when I thought this story would end there. With me broken. With me forgotten.

But here’s the part no one expects—the part people don’t talk about enough:

I survived.

That man—the one I once imagined growing old with—is now staying with family. That relationship didn’t last. According to him (and apparently anyone who will listen), his ex is now weaponising his son.

Karma has a quiet kind of poetry, doesn’t it?

Rebuilding Myself

And me?

I went back to university.

I got my degree.

Now, I work with traumatised children—kids who need someone to show up for them, to believe in them, to help them feel safe in a world that hasn’t always been kind. I get to be that person.

I’m not just surviving now. I’m living.

I built a life that means something. One where my pain isn’t just a scar—it’s a tool I use to connect with others, to hold space for them, to understand what it means to be deeply, irreversibly hurt... and still keep going.

This Is What Healing Looks Like

Healing wasn’t neat. It didn’t come in one sweeping epiphany. It came in quiet moments—making tea, getting dressed, writing again. It came in therapy. In breathing through panic. In choosing not to text him. In building something just for me.

Some days I still carry the weight of it. Grief doesn't vanish—it just settles differently in your bones. But it no longer defines me.

He made his choices.

And I made mine.

You Are Not What Happened to You

If you’ve been through something like this—if you’ve been left behind, or betrayed, or broken—I want you to know that you can heal.

Maybe not all at once. Maybe not in the way you imagined. But you can.

Your life can become something beautiful, even if it looks nothing like the one you planned.

You are not what happened to you.

You are who you become after.

And that story? That story is still being written.