“How are you?” I asked Lyndsey.
“I’m not doing very well. The story about those college guys is really messing with me.”
She meant the Cornell story in the news: a lawsuit accusing seven fraternity brothers of assaulting a woman, and a group chat of 57 guys where nobody stepped in.
“Really. How so?”
“The main thing that’s messing with me is you. I remember you telling me a story about pursuing a woman in college just to sleep with her, and once you had, you moved on.”
She never said I was one of them.
But my head went there in a split second, and all of a sudden it felt like my wife saw me as one of them. And if that’s who she saw, I didn’t see how she could still want me. I felt it in the back of my neck before I’d said a word.
“I can’t believe you’d think I’m like one of those guys,” I said. “That’s not who I am anymore.” I felt like I’d done enough to prove I’m different than I was a decade ago, and I didn’t understand why she couldn’t see that.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “It doesn’t change the fact that that’s still who you were. And it certainly doesn’t erase what you did.”
I told myself I was standing up for the man I am now, but what I was actually doing was protecting my old reputation.
In college, before we met, I was a lot like those guys. I never crossed the line they crossed, but I did objectify women. Sex wasn’t really about the girl. It was about getting to feel wanted, even for a night, and since that never lasted, I’d go looking for it again.
I brought that same idea into my marriage.
For a stretch of it, I believed part of Lyndsey’s role was to say yes whenever the mood struck. Today, that’s hard to say out loud, but it’s true.
I grew up in church hearing things like “It’s better to marry than to burn with passion” and I’d turned that into her role: keep her husband from burning. Add stories like James Bond or Grease, along with the cheerleaders on the sidelines every Sunday, and I’d soaked up the idea that a woman is there for a man’s pleasure, long before I met Lyndsey.
If I put my hand on her thigh on the couch and she didn’t pick up on it, I’d go cold for the rest of the night and spend the next day punishing her for it.
Once I cooled off, I went back to her and said, “You’re right. There was a time in my life when I objectified women, and there was a time in my life when I was objectifying you. I’m really sorry for doing that.”
She softened and said, “Yeah, I don’t think you’re like them.”
That had never been her point. She was angry at something way bigger than me: men in general, and this whole idea that women are a means to an end.
I’d made the jump all on my own, and most of the heat I felt came from a verdict she never gave. The voice in my own head gave it.
But defending that guy kept her at arm’s length, because she can’t get close to the man I am today while I’m busy guarding the one I used to be.
Owning him was how I showed her he’s not the one running the show anymore.
I’m not out to prove he’s gone, either.
A lot of men think once they’ve moved past who they used to be, that guy is gone for good. I don’t buy it, and it’s dangerous.
Forgetting him is how I slide back into behavior I no longer agree with. So I keep him in my story, for the same reason I study history: I remember what he did to me and the people around me, so I can recognize him when he shows up.
So here’s the one thing for this week.
The next time she brings up something from before and you feel yourself flip, catch it first, wherever it hits you: the back of your neck, your jaw, your chest.
Then, buy yourself a minute: “There’s a lot coming up in me right now. I need a minute.” Use it to check whether she actually said it, or you jumped there yourself.
Then go back and say what’s true:
You’re right. There was a time in my life when I ___.
If it impacted her, say that part too, and if there was a real wrong, offer a genuine apology, without a “but.” Say it once, and let it land. Don’t beat yourself up in front of her, or she ends up comforting you instead.
And if you’ve already gotten defensive, go back once you’ve cooled off and start with those same words.
One question to sit with this week: which part of your past are you still standing up for?
If your past includes pressure, force, or someone who couldn’t give consent, start with professional help for yourself, not this move.
The Missing Reps
This happened a few weeks ago, so there hasn’t been a next time yet. Here’s what I’ve been doing to get ready for one.
Later that night, I recorded a voice note and talked back through the whole thing. The next morning I listened to it and wrote down what came up.
For the next few mornings, I went back into that moment and let myself feel it again: the jerk up my spine, the back of my head and my neck, DEFCON 1, full alert.
I’m getting to know the anger, the need to defend, and the fear sitting behind both. It’s like getting to know a person, and the better I know it, the easier I can catch it.
The next time it hits, I’ll be ready with this: “There’s a lot coming up in me right now. I’m feeling really angry and defensive, and I just need a minute.”
What matters then isn’t defending the 20-year-old I used to be. It’s Lyndsey feeling seen and held, with her fears believed and given room. She’s told me before, it’s the moments when the big emotions hit and I can’t hold it together that wear her trust down.
The next time I ask Lyndsey how she’s doing and the answer is me, I want her to feel safe telling me.
Talk soon,
Evan
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This is the work I do one on one with men: catching the pull before they act on it, naming what’s underneath it, and saying it so she can actually hear it.
If your past still puts you on the defensive when she brings it up, start with these 12 questions.
