The Weight of a Bare Finger

These last few days have felt like I’m moving through fog—emotionally numb and not quite like myself. I’ve been thrown off balance, trying to make sense of where I stand in a marriage that no longer feels like home. I survived our anniversary, but only because we didn’t see each other that day. There were no texts, no calls, no acknowledgments of what that day used to mean. The silence between us felt like a small mercy, a brief gift of emotional distance that made the pain just a little more bearable.

But that distance didn’t last. He was upset with me for not coming home Friday night. He said he was hurt that I didn’t tell him I wouldn’t be there. I remember feeling confused—because what exactly was I supposed to come home to? To a house where I feel invisible? To a man who doesn’t speak to me unless I speak first? To someone who used to be my protector but now walks past me like I don’t exist? I stayed in a hotel that night, not to punish him, but to protect myself. And maybe he’ll never understand that.

He admitted that he thought I was with another man. That caught me off guard. And in my heart, all I could think was—why does it matter? If he’s no longer in love with me, if he’s already emotionally detached, why would it matter if someone else sees my worth? It felt like he doesn’t want me… but also doesn’t want anyone else to have me either. That realization made me feel like an object—possessed, but not loved. And that’s one of the cruelest forms of heartbreak: to be no longer wanted, yet still claimed.

Then Sunday morning happened. We crossed paths early, and when our eyes met, something heavy and unspoken passed between us. There was this long, painful eye contact—so deep it felt like it touched something buried inside of me. He reached for me. And I let him. Our bodies met in this familiar, desperate embrace. We held each other like two people clinging to the memory of what we used to be. And then the tears came—both of us sobbing from a place so raw, it felt like we were crying for everything we had lost and everything we couldn’t fix.

For a few moments, it felt like love. Like home. Like comfort. But it also felt like betrayal. Because on what should’ve been a day of celebrating our union, we were instead mourning its end. There was no joy, no plans for the future—just pain, confusion, and the quiet unraveling of something we once believed would last forever.

While we were talking, I looked down and noticed something that made my heart drop—his wedding ring was gone. That tiny, empty space on his hand felt louder than anything he could have said. It was like the final confirmation that he had moved on. He wasn’t mine anymore. He wasn’t even pretending to be. Seeing his bare finger made something inside of me shatter. I lost it. I cried harder than I have in years. My body trembled. My chest felt like it was being crushed. It wasn’t just about the ring—it was about everything it symbolized being erased.

So, I took mine off too.

My rings hadn’t left my finger in twelve years. Through everything we went through—arguments, disappointment, betrayal—I never once took them off. But in that moment, I realized I had to. Not for him, but for me. I looked at him through my tears and said the words I needed to hear myself say: “I don’t belong to you anymore. I belong to me.”

Now my hand feels so strange. I keep looking at my bare finger like I’m waiting to feel something different. Some days it feels like a gaping wound. Other days, it feels like a badge of courage. That missing ring is a reminder of everything I gave. Everything I lost. But it’s also a reminder of everything I’m reclaiming.

It reminds me that I deserve to be loved with intention, not out of obligation. That I don’t need someone to choose me halfway—I need someone who’s all in. It reminds me that I don’t have to settle for being tolerated when I deserve to be celebrated. That my worth isn’t based on anyone’s ability to love me, but on the truth of who I am. That I am strong, even when I feel broken. That I am enough, even when I’m alone.

And maybe most importantly, that ringless finger reminds me that this chapter is closing—and that’s okay. This chapter taught me to hold space for my own healing. To love myself more deeply than I ever have. To stand in my pain without letting it consume me. And to stop choosing people who treat me like an option.

Because this time, I refuse to choose him and be an option for him…
because she chose herself this time.

Quote:
“When he took off his ring, it broke me. But when I took off mine, it healed me… one breath at a time.”

With love + truth,
💔 Aria Monroe 💗
Healing in real time. Choosing herself on purpose.