At first glance, they are asking very different things. One is about what happens when an open relationship gets spectacularly off script. The other is about trying to practice polyamory thoughtfully when hierarchy is part of the existing relationship.

You can DM me questions via Instagram or via the form below.

But beneath both lies a question that, I think, recurs again and again in non-monogamy: What do we do when real human feelings refuse to follow the rules and agreements we created to contain them?

Question 1 | What happens when “no feelings allowed” turns into love?

“Ok, here’s an interesting one for you. Our close friends are in an “open” relationship, maybe better defined as a “don’t ask, don’t tell” kind of deal. She’s got a “boyfriend” and, I’m sure the term won’t go down well, but this guy is punching above. We’ve never liked it, as we love her husband, and we distance ourselves so we don’t know that much, right?

Anywho, she leaves her phone open, he goes through it, sees a lot of graphic photos from this dude and the wife of our friend saying, “I’m going to leave as soon as our daughter is in uni.”

He’s heartbroken and at our door at 2 am (with a giant English sheepdog — incidental, but why leave it out) crying his eyes out because “there were never supposed to be feelings involved.”

So now we’re in the middle. What should he do? What should we do? How do you do what you do and NOT let feelings get involved? Seems impossible and puts other people under impossible strain. Advice grateful.”

I don’t. I don’t do what I do without feelings getting involved. My husband and I have never built our relationship agreements around preventing feelings. We’ve built them around what we do when those feelings inevitably show up.

There’s a big difference between making an agreement about behavior and making agreements about emotion. People can agree not to spend the night, not to introduce partners to children, not to merge finances, whatever, but “don’t fall in love” is much harder because feelings aren’t an action someone can promise not to experience.

But many couples want to explore sexual openness without wanting romantic relationships. So their agreements need to reflect that. The only “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policies I’ve seen work are those with regular check-ins to ensure agreements are upheld and to share a limited amount of information. Without some kind of regular check-in, it’s really easy for a DADT to turn into one person hiding their feelings or pretending that feelings don’t exist. A DADT very quickly enables two people to maintain completely different understandings of what their marriage currently is.

There’s a very important distinction between her developing feelings and her secretly planning to leave the marriage once their daughter goes to university. Those are not the same problem. Falling in love may not be controllable, but maintaining a hidden exit plan while your spouse believes you’re both operating under the same relationship agreement is a choice.

So what should your friend do? Determine the relationship he wants with his partner and have an open discussion about what she wants in her relationships. Is there enough common ground for them to rebuild together?

Lastly, I really appreciate you reaching out, especially since you’re honest that you’ve never particularly liked their open relationship. What should you do as friends? This is an interesting one, because what responsibility do friends have here? Probably very little responsibility to solve the marriage.

You can love him, sit with him at 2:00 a.m., make tea, accommodate the enormous sheepdog he showed up with, and tell him he deserves an honest conversation with his wife. But you can also refuse to become investigators, messengers, or judges.

You don’t need to turn one partner into the villain and one into the innocent party. I also don’t want to skip over the fact that he went through her private messages. That’s its own breach of trust. It’s also a clear signal that he knew he wasn’t getting the information that he needed in his relationship, even before discovering devastating news.

Question 2 | Does hierarchy give other relationships an expiration date?

“Hi Danielle, since my husband and I opened up our relationship, I have followed many influencers over the years to find community and listen to shared experiences and values. Your voice has always resonated with us the most.

Seemingly like you, we also have a hierarchical nested marriage. We have been trying to figure out how to engage in polyamory in the most ethical way possible, while providing any other partners we have with the love they deserve. But it sometimes feels limited by our circumstances as married primary partners.

Heartbreaks and breakups have left us wondering if, due to hierarchy, other relationships will always feel like they have an inevitable “expiration date” because we cannot fulfill the role of a primary within their life.

Might you have any words of wisdom to share?”

It’s interesting to me that you write “the love they deserve,” because there’s an assumption hidden here that ethical love requires being able to offer someone everything. I’m just not sure that’s true.

I’m only speaking from personal experience here, but I don’t think a relationship is inherently inferior because it has limitations. Most relationships have structural limitations:

• distance

• children

• careers

• existing commitments

• someone not wanting/wanting marriage

• someone not wanting/wanting children

• someone not wanting to cohabitate

Not to mention, I don’t think anyone can actually decide the love that a person deserves, but let’s pause on that one for now.

I think the ethical question isn’t “Can I offer this person everything?” but rather “Am I being honest about what I can and cannot offer, and does what I can offer genuinely work for them?”

I know that hierarchy has become a dirty word in the polyamory community, but it exists whether we like the word or not. Hierarchy and disposability are not the same thing. Marriage, children, mortgages, legal rights, immigration rights, decades of history, and living together create real structural priority. Calling everyone equal doesn’t magically erase those things. In some ways, acknowledging the hierarchy clearly can be kinder than pretending it doesn’t exist.

And here’s the other truth: in some relationships, there is an expiration date. Some relationships will end because eventually that person wants something the partner genuinely cannot provide. I don’t think that makes the relationship unethical, unsuccessful, or not worth having.

My husband was in a relationship with a woman who was a huge part of our lives for two years. She was coming out of another relationship and initially wanted guardrails in place. She wanted limits, and then she didn’t. She healed, realized she wanted a family of her own (not to merge with ours) and Rich couldn’t offer that. Neither of them was wrong. Love wasn’t the compatibility problem; structure was.

We often think that relationships that last until death do us part are successful, whereas a relationship that was deeply meaningful for four years somehow failed. Non-monogamy challenges relationship scripts, so I think we need to challenge this one as well.

I don’t want to romanticize anything here. If someone repeatedly dates people who clearly want a nesting partner, marriage, and children while knowing they can never offer those things, then “oh, all relationships are temporary anyway” can become a convenient excuse. There’s a responsibility to pay attention to compatibility, not just chemistry. You cannot ethically compensate for hierarchy by promising someone an importance you cannot structurally give them. It’s much more important to be clear about what a relationship can actually become, and so maybe these are the questions that you need to ask yourselves instead:

• Can this person become family?

• Can they be present at holidays?

• Can they meet your children? Can you travel together?

• Can they rely on you in an emergency?

• Can you make each other feel safe?

• Can the relationship deepen over the next 10 years, even if you never share a mortgage?

I think those questions matter much more than labeling someone as “primary” or “secondary.”

I wish we could easily make agreements about relationships that fit perfectly and neatly inside checkable boxes, but we’re human beings, so we can’t really do that.

Sometimes our feelings become too big to fit inside the agreements we made to contain them. Other times, we worry that the structure of the life we've already built isn't big enough to accommodate those feelings.

I'm going to keep experimenting with Dear Danielle, so if there's something you've been wrestling with that deserves more than a quick DM response, send it my way.

ASK ME A QUESTION

And because this community often gives better advice than I do, if you have genuinely constructive thoughts for either person above, share them in the comments. As always, disagreement is welcome. Cruelty isn't.

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So I decided to actually answer it. At a pub. In front of lots of people.

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During my research, one thing stuck with me more than anything else.

About 5,000 to 7,000 years ago, Y-chromosome diversity, the line passed down from fathers, collapsed.

The diversity of our mitochondrial DNA, the genetic line passed down from mothers, stayed roughly the same. In some populations, seventeen women passed on their DNA to only 1 man, passing on his Y chromosome. Seventeen to One.

Entire paternal lines, wiped out. Most men were reproductive dead ends.

There are two leading theories for why this happened.

Theory 1) Agriculture brought war. Settled life meant crops worth fighting for. Land worth defending. Patrilineal clans went to war with each other over resources, and violent, genocidal conflict wiped out entire male lineages. The men who survived to reproduce were the ones who’d conquered everyone else.

Theory 2) Agriculture brought hierarchy. A few men had more resources. More property. They got rich. So the moment we settled down and started owning things, the equation changed. Wealth bought wives. Wives produced heirs. Heirs kept the property in the family.

And once you start looking for this pattern in history, you can’t unsee it.

The very first kings appeared in this period. King Solomon, according to the Hebrew Bible, had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines. I don’t even know how you schedule that. The same pattern shows up in every major civilization that recorded its rulers, from ancient Egypt to the Ottoman Empire, which didn’t abolish its imperial harem until 1909. All but one of the Chinese emperors had harems.

Inheritance mattered so much, in fact, that the very first marriage contract on record — written in cuneiform about 4,000 years ago — specified that the husband was allowed to take a second wife, or have sex with his slave, in order to father a son. I never said they practiced ethical non-monogamy back then!

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Polygamy was normal. Especially for wealthy, powerful men. Monogamy was for the men who couldn’t afford otherwise.

But here’s where it gets uncomfortable. Because all of those wealthy, powerful, polygamous men (the kings and emperors and pharaohs who consolidated property and concentrated reproduction), they’re the ones who wrote down the first laws.

The Code of Hammurabi, in Mesopotamia, about 3,800 years ago, was a law of property and strict social hierarchy. It allowed men to take wives, concubines, and slaves. It punished female adultery with death by drowning.

And then, fascinatingly, the same code forbade rape. Not for any moral reason. But because a woman was considered her father’s or husband’s property. Raping her wasn’t a violation of her. It was a form of theft.

So, the first written law against rape in human history wasn’t about protecting women. It was about protecting the men who owned them.

That logic, that women’s sexuality belongs to men, and exists to secure male inheritance, didn’t go away. It was part of the foundation of early law.

Hammurabi laid the groundwork. Mosaic Law adapted the exact framework into religious commandments. Greco-Roman law preserved the lineage logic. And English common law, the system most of the Western world still operates within, carried the whole stack forward.

The laws weren’t replaced. They were layered. For four thousand years.

Which means the legal system you and I are living inside today carries a direct inheritance from rules originally written by powerful polygamous men in ancient Mesopotamia.

I expected history to give me a clean answer to the question, “Are humans naturally non-monogamous?” It didn’t. What humans actually did was wildly varied and overwhelmingly shaped by who held the property.

For most of recorded human history, women couldn’t own property because women were property.

The right of a married woman to own her own property, keep her own inheritance, and keep her own wages came around 178 years ago in the United States and 156 years ago in the United Kingdom. The right to take out credit in her own name — not a credit card to go shopping, but actual credit, the kind that lets you buy a house, or a car, or eventually have a phone in your own name — came only 52 years ago in the US and 51 years ago in the UK.

The right to walk away from a marriage just because she wanted to is four years old in the United Kingdom. April 2022. My youngest child was five when that law passed.

So when people ask me whether humans are naturally monogamous, I’ve stopped trying to answer the question. Because the question isn’t fair.

For 99% of human history, men were free to choose polygamy or monogamy. Women weren’t free to choose.

Do women want monogamy? And I think that is the more interesting question now that, for the first time in history, we can choose.

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I stopped mid-stride. My face fell. I felt my shoulders slump, my eyes widen, then droop. I took a deep breath, my back heavy, and looked at her. She saw my face and immediately exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, Danielle, I’m so sorry — I thought it was silly!” I looked at her. My friend Ayla comes from a traditional Catholic family and is happily married and monogamous. And the comment wasn’t funny. But in that moment, I couldn’t quite explain why I was so hurt.

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A joke is not always just a joke. It reveals biases and stigmas. My friend immediately started to reassure me. “I trust you so much, Danielle. That’s just my mom. She’s old school, and she found out about your open relationship on TikTok about a year ago.”

I smiled at that. Then, I tried to laugh it off, but my friend could see that I was upset. Because I was. Ayla is one of my best friends, but what her om thinks of me really shouldn’t matter. She and I have been close friends for the past 20 years. We met at university, which is also when I met her mom.

Ayla invited us over to her house for home-cooked family meals a few times. Her mom made us comfort food when we went over there. Large bowls of beans and rice that we never had enough room for in our stomachs, and that she would carefully place into Tupperware for us to take back to our dorm rooms. Ayla’s mom has known me for 20 years, too. And since those days in university, she also knows that Ayla and I have stayed in close contact. My family has been on ski vacations with her family. That our husbands are friends. That our kids are friends.

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And despite all of that, she didn’t trust me to be around her daughter’s husband. How on earth had 20 years of her knowing me, knowing of my relationship with her daughter, suddenly disappeared the moment she found out my relationship style? It was as if the stigma and her preconceived notions about an open relationship outweighed 20 years of history.

I couldn’t articulate all of that in the moment as we walked along the Seine, planning the rest of our day, about to walk into Musée d’Orsay. But my friend knew that I was being quiet—something that is not normal for me—as I sat there and contemplated all of this. She stopped us in the middle of the sidewalk and held one of my hands in hers. “Danielle,” she said. “She said it once, and I defended you. I trust you completely, and she’s never brought it up since.”

The fact that she trusts me, that is all that matters. But I shrugged my shoulders and gave her a slight smile. I hate that the stigma around an open relationship is still so strong that it completely outweighs personal knowledge and history sometimes.

I also told this story on Instagram here.

Stigma. Preconceived notions. There is so much misunderstanding around an open relationship. And I’m not the only one who feels this way.

I polled my community to find out their number one stigma around open relationships that they wish they could change, and I definitely heard a lot of them. There was a diverse range, but there are definitely some strong themes that emerged as well:

The first, and loudest, theme:

1. It’s just cheating.

“It’s cheating with permission” — a phrase one follower pointed out doesn’t even make sense syntactically. Others wrote about people simply assuming they were cheating, or being told outright, “I’m ok with you cheating on your wife with me.” One reader put it bluntly: “That ENM is cheating 🤦‍♀️ it’s in the NAME and people still perceive it as that way.” The irony being, of course, that ethical non-monogamy is the literal opposite of cheating. Cheating requires deception. ENM requires the reverse. Radical, ongoing, sometimes-uncomfortable honesty.

2. It’s only about sex.

“It’s only about sex.” “That all you want is sex.” “That it’s all about s*x.” Over and over, in nearly identical words, my community wrote in to say this is the assumption they are most exhausted by. As one follower wrote, “That we are all sex addicts or defiant fiends, when in reality we’re just full of a lot of love.” Because that’s the truth that gets buried under the stigma: most people I know in ENM relationships aren’t running toward more sex. They’re running toward more love, more honesty, more capacity to show up fully for the people they care about.

3. You must not really love your partner.

That you’re trying to replace them. That your partner isn’t enough for you. That you love them less. That your love isn’t as strong because you’re open. One reader wrote, “That you love your partner less if you’re engaging in ENM.” Another: “That our love isn’t as strong because we are open.” This one cuts deep, because it’s the exact opposite of what most of us experience. Choosing to be open, for many of us, is a testament to how secure the love is. Not how shaky.

4. Something must be broken.

“Did you open up because something was wrong with your relationship?” “You’re postponing a divorce.” “That either of you aren’t happy in the relationship.” This is the assumption that lives just under the surface of nearly every conversation about ENM. The idea that no happy, healthy couple would ever choose this. That openness must be a symptom of something gone wrong, rather than something built intentionally from a place of strength.

5. Gendered double standard.

“That a woman is loose and easy, if she says she’s into ENM.” “The trolls love to come at me ‘the slut’ but not my husband — double standards 🙄.” “It’s always the man’s decision, and the woman endures it.” “That we are loose and slutty, like my 32-year-old daughter thinks I am!!!! 🤪.” The women in my community wrote in, again and again, about being slut-shamed while their male partners were quietly admired. Or about being assumed to be coerced into a lifestyle their husband supposedly chose for them. Both stigmas, somehow, applied to the same women at the same time.

6. Lack of commitment.

“That it lacks commitment.” “That we’re all afraid of commitment 😂.” “That your relationships aren’t built on respect, and taken seriously.” “That our relationships aren’t ‘serious.’” This is maybe the most ironic stigma of all, because anyone who has actually done the work of an ethically non-monogamous relationship knows it requires more commitment, not less. More communication. More boundaries. More check-ins. More honesty about the parts of yourself you’d rather not examine.

And then there were the quieter ones, the ones that didn’t fit neatly into a theme but stayed with me long after I read them. The follower who wrote, “That people feel like that they get to tell you if they ‘approve’ of your relationship style 🙄.” The one who wrote, “My husbands just left me and everyone’s blaming ENM/poly but that’s not it.”

And the one I keep coming back to, from a reader who reminded me what this is actually about: “Love comes in many forms. Not all love is sexual. Not all of us are sluts.”

I think about Ayla’s mom, the Tupperware of beans and rice, and the 20 years of dinners, family ski trips, girls’ trips, and birthdays I shared with her daughter. And I think about how quickly all of that became background noise the moment a single word —open—entered the picture. That’s what stigma does. It flattens a whole person into a single assumption. It takes “Danielle, who I’ve fed and hosted and watched become a wife and a mother” and reduces her to “a woman who can’t be trusted around my daughter’s husband.” It overwrites two decades of evidence with a story she heard somewhere on the internet.

I don't blame her, exactly. I think she believes what many people in society still believe. I hope that, eventually, the stigma changes. Because that’s what this whole thing —my social media, this Substack, this poll, this conversation— is really about. Not convincing anyone to live the way I live. Just trying to change the stigma around an open marriage.

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And because Paris was overall a wonderful trip with two of my close friends, here are a few photos from the weekend that started this whole reflection.

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That gap between perception and reality says a lot about dating as a mother. Especially dating as a mother in an open relationship. People imagine a wild, sexy, free-flowing life where you are always out meeting new people. What it actually feels like, at least for me, is much less glamorous and much more mathematical.

The cost has to be worth the reward. That is the equation.

Because dating after kids is not just, Am I attracted to this person? It’s not even just, Do we have chemistry? It’s, Is this worth the time away from my family, the logistics, the travel, the mental load, the emotional bandwidth, and the very real guilt that comes with choosing something I do not technically need?

I think that is one of the biggest misconceptions about non-monogamy for parents. People think it means more freedom. In some ways, yes. But it also means the bar gets much, much higher.

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I live in southern England on the coast. Most of my dates happen in London, which is about a forty-five-minute to an hour trip each way from my house. So before I ever get dressed up and leave the house, there has usually already been a lot of effort. Messaging on apps. Trying to get a sense of whether someone is honest about their relationship status and emotionally intelligent. Whether they understand non-monogamy. Whether they are going to be interesting enough, grounded enough, self-aware enough that I can justify the cost of meeting them in person.

This is why I sometimes do a video chat before a date. A few days of messaging at the very least. I use that time to determine whether a date is worth it.

Because the apps are a swamp. For women, it can feel like swiping through hundreds, if not thousands, of people trying to find dry land and someone you could have an emotional connection with. For men, it often feels like being in a desert looking for a spring of water. I recently recorded a winter version of this analogy where I turn the swamp and desert into a snowstorm here.

The amount of time and money and energy the dating experience takes away from us right now, just in order to get that one good date, the math is not adding up. The cost of all the effort needed to put into finding that one good date is so high that, to many people, it is simply not worth it.

This is one of the many things that inspired me to launch an ENM matchmaking service.

Because, honestly, I get it. I am really picky now. Partly because I am a mom with limited time and capacity. Partly because my husband and I have a really stable, incredible marriage. We have two kids, a dog, a business, a million logistics, and full lives. Plus we have a weekly date night for the two of us.

So why do we keep dating? I also answered in a video here.

Because we also know how good it can be. We have both had incredible dates with others. And we’ve both experienced really beautiful relationships in the past, and that makes it harder, not easier. When you know how rare a truly good connection is, you stop wanting to spend your precious time on anything that is just fine.

I had this happen recently.

Usually, I keep a first date under an hour, just to see how it is going. I didn’t quite realize he had booked drinks, and then dinner, and it turned into a three-hour date.

It was nice. It was fine. I’m glad I did it. But it was not awesome. And if something is not awesome, it is really hard to justify the time away from kids a second time.

I think that is true for a lot of parents, not just mothers, but I do think moms especially will understand this particular math. How do you balance the things that you do not need to do, the things that take time away from your children during this very short period when they are still children, in order to do something for yourself just because it makes you happy? It has to make you really, really happy.

That happiness is important. AND there is a cost.

There is a financial cost sometimes. There is a logistical cost. There is the cost of your partner having to be fully on while you are gone. There is the cost of being away from your kids. And when the thing you chose is deeply fulfilling, that cost can feel worth it.

I feel that with skiing. Skiing makes me so insanely, deeply happy. It gives me fulfillment. It puts a smile on my face the entire day. It makes me feel like myself. So the cost feels worth it.

Right now I’m actually in Colorado, where I come every year to teach skiing at the end of the season, even though I live in England now. And this year we’re having an exceptionally poor snow season. I’ve caught myself wondering whether this time away from my kids to instruct is worth it.

Dating is the same.

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Every once in a while, I meet someone and the chemistry is amazing. It gives me a mental vacation, a physical vacation, a reset. It helps me feel more like myself again. On those nights, or in those relationships, dating feels worth it. A great date makes me feel desirable and excited. I daydream and feel like a lighter version of myself.

But skiing and dating have something else in common: Neither one is predictable.

Skiing depends on the weather. Dating depends on humans. It’s even less predictable.

One of the strange gifts of being open for so long is that it has made me more honest about cost. About capacity. About what I can and cannot hold. I do not romanticize effort for effort’s sake the way I used to. I do not believe every promising connection deserves endless patience and possibility. I do not think “nothing is technically wrong” is enough reason to continue.

I have kids. I have work. I have a marriage I care deeply about. I have a body and brain that need actual rest. I have a life I genuinely like.

So no, the question is not just, Do I like this person? The question is, Is this connection worth the cost to my life?

And that is a much better question.

Because when the answer is yes, you feel it. It feels like Hell Yes!

And when the answer is no, you feel that too.

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I leaned forward, my forehead to hers, letting my hair fall around us, creating a curtain. It was just us. My husband wasn’t home. He was out with our son. I whispered, so quietly I’m not sure if I spoke aloud or in my mind. “I think I’m falling in love with someone.” She didn’t budge. “Someone other than your father.”

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I looked in my inbox and, sure enough, the email is still there. Some of her advice still holds up. Some of it feels dated. But what stood out most was this: it was addressed to Rich. Advice for him.

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So I took a step back. What would my version look like? What would I send to a couple who emailed me today asking the same question he asked all those years ago: How do we explore an open relationship together?

Here it is.

The initial conversation is scary. If social media comments are anything to go by, a lot of people fear that the moment they bring up the idea of an open relationship, their partner will look them up and down, storm out, and end the relationship on the spot. Game over. In my experience, that’s social media reality, not real life.

The first conversation is often messy, emotional, and uncomfortable, even when it’s rooted in love. And that’s okay. Wanting to change or adapt a relationship doesn’t mean it’s broken. But it might go more smoothly if you start with why.

1) Start with your why, not the solution.

Before you say anything to your partner, pause and ask yourself one question: Why?

Not why non-monogamy in theory. Why you. Why now.

Are you craving novelty? Feeling boxed in? Curious about your sexuality? Wanting more connection? Feeling a pull toward someone else? Sitting with a truth you haven’t said out loud yet?

Start there.

When you lead with “I want an open relationship,” you’re leading with a solution. When you lead with “I’ve been feeling…”, you’re inviting collaboration. A want, desire, or challenge where both partners are part of the solution. Together.

👉 Watch + read more: How to Have the Initial Conversation

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2) Go at the speed of the slowest person.

There is no universal timeline for opening a relationship. I’ve spoken to many couples who feel like they need to change their relationship from monogamous to polyamorous overnight, as if there’s a switch you flip and suddenly you’re “doing it right.”

Some couples open early. Some take years. Some never do. Some start with swinging. My husband used to say that we could choose to be open on the first Tuesday of months that start with the letter “J”. I don’t actually recommend that, but his point was this: we decide our timing.

I teach skiing, so forgive me for how often I associate learning new things with skiing. The best thing for the group in the long term is to move at the speed of the slowest person. It’s the only way everyone stays upright and learning. Relationships work the same way. If one partner is sprinting and the other is bracing, resentment builds fast.

👉 Watch + read more: Timing

3) Think in phases, not leaps.

Opening up doesn’t have to be all-or-nothing. In fact, it usually works better when it’s not. Think in phases:

• Phase 1: What feels doable now

• Future phases: What might be possible later

Everything you’re not ready for yet goes into the future column. Not to ignore it. Just to stop negotiating it endlessly in the present. That alone lowers anxiety dramatically.

Phase 1 might include flirting. Or dating apps. Or just conversations. It might last two weeks or two years. You decide.

What matters is agreeing on:

• What’s allowed now

• When you check in again

• What needs to feel true before moving forward

👉 Watch + read more: Phases

4) Communicate early, and more than feels necessary.

Every couple I’ve talked to that opened up says the same thing in hindsight: “We should have communicated more.” Communication in non-monogamy isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being honest early, before emotions harden.

I wrote recently about practicing more gratitude in 2026. This is one of those places where I fail loudly. I almost always start conversations with what I want to change or optimize, not what I’m grateful for. Drives. My Husband. Nuts.

One framework I (ahem, try to) use is Have / Need / Want:

• What do I already have in this relationship?

• What do I truly need to feel okay?

• What do I want that would add something extra, but isn’t essential?

It’s a Danielle original. It’s not perfect. There are many wiser people out there who have more and better communication tools. Here are a few:

• “This is important to me” — a way to signal emotional weight

• Spotlight — one person speaks, the other listens

• Parroting — repeating back what you heard before responding

• Pause buttons — permission to slow things down when it’s too much

The goal isn’t perfect communication. The goal is trust.

👉 Watch + read more: Communication

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5) Know the difference between boundaries and rules.

They are not, in fact, the same thing. Even though they are often used interchangeably. Here’s a simple distinction:

• Boundaries are personal limits you set for yourself.

• Rules are agreements you make together.

For example, a couple might agree on a rule that they always have protected sex with other partners. A boundary, on the other hand, could be that if one partner has unprotected sex, the other partner will choose not to have sex with them until testing has happened. One is an agreement. The other is something a person can uphold on their own (assuming, of course, their partner doesn’t lie).

And that assumption matters. Boundaries only work when honesty exists. Without it, no amount of rules will create safety.

When thinking through boundaries and rules, I like to run them through five lenses:

• Who

• What

• Where

• When

• Why (for each of the above)

The why matters more than people think. It’s what turns rules from control into care.

Rules often emerge in areas where partners’ individual boundaries overlap, especially around finances, sexual health, privacy, and time. When two people care about the same limits, it makes sense to turn those shared concerns into agreements. And yes, those rules can change. That doesn’t mean you failed. It usually means you’re entering a new phase of the relationship.

👉 Watch + read more: Boundaries & Rules

6) Treat jealousy as information, not failure.

Jealousy isn’t a sign you’re doing this wrong. It’s a signal that something feels at risk.

When jealousy shows up:

1. Name it.

2. Breathe.

3. Ask why. Then ask why again.

4. Translate jealousy into a solvable need.

“I’m jealous” is a feeling.
“I need more reassurance and time with you” is actionable.

You may also hear about compersion—feeling joy for your partner’s joy. You might feel it. You might not. Here’s a not-well-kept secret: I rarely, rarely experience compersion.

There’s no gold star for performing the “right” emotion. Honesty beats telling someone what you think they want to hear every time.

👉 Watch + read more: Managing Big Emotions

Final Thoughts

Opening a relationship won’t fix what’s broken, but it can deepen a relationship.

Things won’t always feel equal. They don’t need to. Balance often shows up over years, not weeks. My husband and I have almost never both been dating the same amount at the same time. Maybe more on that in a future post.

Most importantly: no one else gets to decide how you love. Not culture. Not tradition. Not the internet. Not me.

Take what’s useful. Leave what isn’t. If you want to go deeper, each section above links to a full Substack post and video. And if you’re somewhere in the middle of this and feeling lost, you’re not alone. I promise. I’ve been there too.

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I haven’t set any goals. I haven’t accomplished anything in the past seven days.

In fact, I spent three of them in a perimenopausal cave of depression, constructed entirely out of my thick, heavy winter duvet. No light. No hope. Very cozy.

Yesterday, I cleaned my room. Or started to. I started filming a video and didn’t finish that either. I am struggling to kickstart this new year.

And annoyingly, because I’m a content creator, I had already drafted a video back in early December, all about gratitude. That was supposed to be my first video of the year: I wanted to set a relationship goal to be more grateful in 2026. It’s something my husband and I talked about multiple times in 2025.

Eight days into the new year, and I am nowhere near deep, overwhelming feelings of gratitude. Which feels wrong. I should be grateful.

When we were back in the Bay Area and Texas in December, many people asked us about our move to England. We planned it for a long time. We were so excited. We sold our house. Moving was a big deal. We’ve lived here for a year and a half now.

And yet, every time someone asked how the move was, I found myself saying: seven out of ten.

Not the 110% right decision I expected it to be. Not for me. Not for my husband.

So, before I plan 2026, I’m pausing to admit that seven out of ten in 2025 isn’t bad.

We traveled. The #1 reason we wanted to move to Europe.

We wanted to explore new countries, languages, and food together, which was impossible during the first year while we waited for the kids’ citizenships. We skied in Austria! Then, in March, I was deported from the UK and had to reapply for my spousal visa from Colorado before I was allowed back in.

By October, all the paperwork was approved, and we took our first trip to Belgium and France, through an underwater tunnel, and back home by ferry. I met up with friends in both Nice and Munich for a few days. It was wonderful, but not enough. A phrase I use often and will hopefully use less in 2026 if I’m actually focusing on gratitude.

We settled. And for us, that’s a really big deal.

We moved into a rented terraced house. Four stories tall, in typical Edwardian fashion. Two rooms per floor. So many stairs. Cardio, I did not consent to.

After three years of furnished rentals, we’re finally surrounded by our things. Our art. Our family photos. Rich and I set a vision for a bright, bold home. Color. Texture. Plants everywhere. There’s still plenty to do, but I’m grateful.

We invested. In a school that challenges the kids.

And as any parent knows, you’re only ever as happy as your least happy child.

It’s been a privilege to be part of a school we genuinely believe in. One that encourages technology use in the right contexts. Languages. Our eleven-year-old is learning German, Spanish, and Mandarin. Our kids are learning instruments. Making friends. And we had their schedules filled with playdates.

So much of what we valued during our homeschool years on the road now exists within the four walls of their (OMG… very expensive) school. Do they still grumble about getting up every morning? Yes. It’s school. They’re kids.

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We prioritized. To be home when the kids get home.

I need to pause on that, because this was THE goal. This has been THE goal for years.

It took both my husband and me a long time to build remote teams and find remote projects that allow both of us to do school drop-offs and pick-ups. Every day. I grew up with nannies. We had nannies in the Bay Area. One reason we moved to a place with a lower cost of living was so we wouldn’t need them anymore.

We’ve had this version of life for less than a year. And somehow… I already take it for granted. Typing this out makes me realize how much it took to get here. And if I’m not grateful for this, then honestly, I suck.

We dated. Mostly each other. A plot twist in a long-term open marriage.

In 2025, my husband and I went on more dates than we have since having kids. Here’s how: our new house is on the same street as not one, but two pubs. Yes, it’s an England thing. And both are close enough that, once the kids are asleep, we set up a baby-monitor app on the iPad and sneak out for a drink together. Game. Changer.

We’ve deepened our rituals for connection, something I wrote about in a previous Substack essay here. Our rituals matter more than perfectly planned date nights out.

And yes, we dated others, too.

Dating is a surprisingly good way to explore a new city. I went on six first dates. Two led to second dates that went nowhere. I also had one long-distance-friends-with-benefits-going-through-chemo-no-definition-relationship where I did the most intimate thing I’ve ever done with another man besides my husband: I washed his hair. It changed me. And I’m not ready to write or share anything more publicly than that. Yet.

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So fine. I’m revising my rating. It’s an eight out of ten. A strong B+ year.

I’m still (and will probably always be) someone who wants to optimize. We still need to build community, feel more financially stable, and strengthen our connection to family.

But also, it might be time to crawl out of the perimenopausal hormone bubble, finally book a doctor’s appointment for HRT, and acknowledge how good eight out of ten really is. And now, here it is.

My goal for 2026 is to be more grateful in my relationship.

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This isn’t my usual writing about relationships or non-monogamy. But writing has become my way of processing and reflecting. This was one of the scariest moments of my life, not because of how dangerous it was (spoiler alert: it wasn’t) but because of how scared my kids were when it happened. So here you go:

I sat in the middle of my two kids on the cable car. We picked the seat facing outwards. The old bench was yellowed with age, but oiled to a shine. My 8-year-old daughter had refused to wear her coat. It had been sunny when we left my friend’s house, so I told her to sit closest to the front-facing window. It would block the wind and keep her warmer. I sat in the middle and pulled her close to me. I took my arm out of the left sleeve of my jacket and wrapped it around her body, tucking the loose sleeve between her thighs to keep it tight and snug around her.

My son sat on the other side of me and asked the driver how old the streetcar was.
“This one?” the driver replied. “I don’t know, but the system is 152 years old.” Before we boarded, my son asked me the same question. I had guessed 120 years. My son guessed 180.

“You used to love riding this cable car,” I told my son. When I worked in the city, my old office was on the California line. I saw it every day, but I only rode it a handful of times. Always with him. It was a touristy thing to do.

At the first stop, I told them to look down, where the street suddenly dropped away, revealing an entire neighborhood of houses, stacked and stretching into the distance. Then I pointed in the other direction, where the hill went straight up. “Watch,” I told them. “It will be a completely different view at the next stop.” And it was.

“Why do you think that is?” I asked. “Because the city is really hilly,” my son said immediately, and then made a face as if this was obvious. “It is,” I confirmed.

My daughter looked out the window as the cable car started moving straight up California Street. “I don’t want to go up,” she said. “Oh,” I responded, “it’s not scary. And the ride down the other side is really fun.”

I pulled a white box of Junior Mints from my purse. There were a handful of sweets we couldn’t get in the UK, and this was one of them. I poured a few pieces into my son’s hand and a few into my daughter’s. My son carefully put one into his mouth and savored it. My daughter lifted her whole hand and swallowed five in one gulp.

We were headed to Union Square to see the giant gingerbread house at the Fairmont Hotel and drink hot chocolate at the Powell Street Christmas market. The plan was to do Christmassy things.

My daughter turned to me. “Mom, are we—”

Then the world stopped.

I looked up at the cable car and the bench where I had just been sitting. The ground was black and cold and crumbly under my hands as I pushed off, reaching for my daughter with one hand and my son with the other.

Tears streamed down her face. Her cheeks were red. My coat hung off one of my shoulders. I should have put it on her completely, I thought. She breathed hard, each inhale sharp, each exhale breaking into louder sobs. What began as a few tears quickly became thick, choking cries. “I want to get off. I want to get off. I want to go home.”

I squeezed her hand. “Step down, sweetheart. Step down.” The cable car wasn’t moving. The driver behind my kids was moaning. He was clearly in pain.

My daughter slid off the bench on her bottom, from the seat to the step to the second step, and onto the street. When she reached me, she pressed her entire face into my stomach and kept crying. “I want to go home. I want to leave.” She repeated.

My left hand held my son’s hand gently, almost loosely. He stared ahead, mouth open, skin pale, eyes unblinking. I could feel him trembling, but he didn’t make a sound. I had never seen him make that face. Frozen. Mouth still hanging open even as we started walking.

I crossed the street without looking both ways and set them down on a nearby stoop. Three steps led up to an apartment building. I crouched in front of them.

“Look at me,” I said. “I want you to take deep breaths, just like we do if we get injured skiing. Okay?” I guided my daughter first. “In. One, two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four.” Then I turned to my son and asked him to do the same. He did.

“Good job,” I told them. “What hurts?” I asked, scanning their bodies for injuries.

My daughter had blood on her lip, her face, her hands. When I turned her palms over, there were no scrapes. I realized it was my blood. My hands were bleeding. I wiped them on my sweater and reached back for the kids.

“I want daddy,” my daughter cried, then louder. “I want daddy!”

“I need you to tell me what hurts,” I said calmly.

“My head,” my son said. “I hit it on the pole.”
“Okay, let me look.” He tilted his head toward me, and I combed through his hair with my fingers, checking carefully. There was no bleeding and no obvious bump. Not yet.

The door behind them opened, and a woman stepped out. “Oh my God. What happened? Are they okay?”

My son was visibly trembling. It probably looked like shivering. The woman disappeared and returned seconds later with two blankets.

“I’ve called 911,” she said. “Help is on the way. Is there anyone you can call?”
“Yes,” I said without looking up. “I’ll call their dad.”

She tapped my son gently on the shoulder and handed him a blanket. “Do you know what city you’re in, buddy?”
“San Francisco,” he said, and pushed the blanket away.

I tried calling my husband. It didn’t go through. We were in the US, and I’d tried his UK number. I hate data roaming, I thought. I went to stand up, but my vision filled with sparkles, and then it went black.

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I was on the ground again. “Mom!” I heard. My son’s voice.
Then, “MOM!” my son shouted again. Louder this time.
The woman knelt beside me.
“Don’t stand up. Can you stay right there?” I shook my head.
I felt nauseous.
“No,” I said, rolling onto my hands and knees. “I need to call my husband.”

I called him via WhatsApp and handed her the phone, “Can you tell him where we are?”
I shouldn’t have asked that. He has my location via FindMyFriends. He just needs to know to come.
She told him she’d called 911. An ambulance was on the way.
“He’s on his way.”

I leaned on my arms and followed the same breathing instructions I’d just given my kids. In. One, two, three, four. Out. Two, three, four.

I looked back at the streetcar. The three teenage girls who had sat on the opposite side from us were standing. They seemed fine. A cane lay in the street. Two legs stuck out from the back of the car, not moving. An older man. Three people hovered around him, helping.

I turned back to my kids. I wrapped the second blanket around my daughter, whose hands were freezing, and tucked her in tighter. “Baby burrito,” I said, trying to smile. It’s what I said sometimes when I tucked her in at night.

Sirens approached. A fire truck pulled up.
“Is everyone okay?” the firefighter asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“My mom’s not,” my son stated immediately. “She fainted.”

An EMT approached in blue trousers and a blue shirt. I asked him to check the kids first. He spoke cheerfully, calmly. I told him my daughter’s face hurt, and my son might have hit his head. He examined my son carefully.

A police officer asked me what happened. I told him the cable car had suddenly stopped. There was nothing in front of us. We hadn’t hit anything. I thought my son had hit his head on the pole in front of us.

“No,” my son corrected me. “I hit the pole behind us. I fell forward, then backward. I hit the pole when I fell back. My mom fell out of the cable car. I didn’t. My sister didn’t. But my mom did.”

They asked us to move into the ambulance. My daughter cried again, clinging to me, saying she didn’t want to go to the hospital. The paramedic reassured her that it was just somewhere warmer. I tried to make it sound exciting. “I’ve never been in an ambulance,” I said with fake enthusiasm. “I don’t know what it’s like.” I felt dizzy standing, but he steadied me.

Inside, they took blood pressure and asked questions. A police officer sketched a diagram and asked where we’d been sitting. He asked me to step outside the ambulance and, as he pointed, asked me again to go over all the details. That’s when I noticed the shattered glass.
“Was that my daughter’s head?” I asked him.
“We don’t know,” he said, “we were hoping you could tell us.”

“How fast do you think the cable car was going?” he asked.
“I honestly don’t know.”
“Ten to twenty miles an hour,” my son shouted out to him from inside the ambulance.

The officer smiled, looking up at him, “Fun fact. These cable cars max out at 7.5 miles per hour. They can accelerate to their top speed faster than any other can to their top speed.”
“They’re 152 years old,” my son replied with the same authority.
“I think you might be right,” the officer said.

Another officer looked around the cable car carefully, “What's that?” he asked, crouching down and pointing to a small, round, brown shape. There were three scattered around.
“Junior Mints,” I said.

My husband arrived. My daughter collapsed into his arms and wouldn’t let go. He asked the paramedics and officers to go over everything they knew with him while holding her tight against his chest.

The paramedics recommended I go to the hospital just to be 100% certain, but I shook my head. The paramedic poked and prodded my ribs. Took my blood pressure and examined my eyes. “I know my body pretty well. It feels like I took a hard fall, but there are no sharp pains. Tell me what to look for in the next 24 hours in case I do need to go to the hospital.” And he did.

We took an Uber back to my friend’s house, where we were staying. My friend greeted us at the door and asked what we needed. Rich turned to me and said, “We need a bit of space.” He looked down at our son and back up at me. I nodded. My daughter and I went to a different room and watched a YouTube science video together.

That evening, my husband told me that our son had cried with him. “Was he that upset?” I asked. “He wasn’t hurt worse than he let on, was he?”

My husband shook his head and told me what he thought had happened.

For a few minutes, when I was on the ground, and later when I fainted, our son had been in charge. For minutes. Maybe seconds. But long enough.
His dad wasn’t there yet. So he’d been brave. He’d held it together. Those were probably some very big minutes in his life. He did the job that would normally have been mine. He’s eleven. Almost twelve.

I thought back to the way he interrupted me to explain my injuries, how clearly he spoke when I couldn’t. I hadn’t known how he got hurt. I hadn’t seen it happen. He needed to explain it for all of us.

The image that will stay with me is his face. Frozen. Silent. His mouth slightly open, as if he were screaming without sound.

Only later could I see the full picture. None of us were seriously injured. The cable car was only going 7.5 miles per hour. We’ve never been in a car accident. We had no precedent for this experience. They were terrified. I was terrified. And my son, scared himself, suddenly grew up.

After everyone was safe, after it was clear things were going to be okay, my husband knew what our son needed. When the bedroom door closed, and it was just the two of them, our son finally let go. He needed to cry.

It breaks my heart that my son had to grow up a tiny bit that day. As a little kid, he used to love the cable car.

The next day, he told me he still thought we should take the cable car again someday. Maybe the next time we’re back in San Francisco. “Can we take one of those cool self-driving Waymo cars instead? They look safer.”

This happened Dec. 15th. If you want to read about it in the news, you can go here.

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“You would have hated it.” He assured me, patting the bright blue fabric of our couch. I love colorful furniture.

“I would have loved getting a hotel room together,” I said.

Then he told me about the wine tasting they had booked.

“I would have loved that too.” Concrete plans. A scheduled activity.

When she came over a week later, and we sat together, I tried not to picture their night away filled with reservations, bookings, and her planned outfits. I was jealous of the effort he had made, sure. But mostly, I was jealous that they had looked forward to it. There had been anticipation. And I felt a slight pang. I wanted some of that too.

Then she told me something that stopped my mind from its spin. She looked up and smiled. “I know it sounds silly, but I get jealous of this couch sometimes.”

I must have looked thoroughly confused.

She shrugged. “The time you spend here together. Doing nothing.”

Not the date nights. Not the big plans. She meant the unstructured time. The slow evenings on the couch. The half-awake conversations before bed. The everyday closeness that happens when two people live a whole life side by side.

“I know it sounds silly, but I get jealous that you get to plan date outfits days in advance.” I shrugged.

It took both of our confessions for me to see it clearly. We were jealous of each other’s version of time. I wanted structured time that made things feel special. She wanted unstructured closeness.

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The truth is that every relationship is made up of both kinds of time. The planned. The unplanned. The magic. The mundane. The calendar moments and the nothing moments that end up mattering.

So I started paying attention. Structured time has its place. Trips. Reservations. Celebrations. The moments we craft on purpose. They create anchors in a relationship. Excitement. Something to look forward to.

Unstructured time matters just as much. The errands. The slow mornings. The daily rhythms that repeat. The moments that feel forgettable but somehow weave the relationship tighter. This is where comfort lives. Ease. The kind of intimacy that grows quietly in the background.

And when one partner has more of one and less of the other, something starts to feel off. A little unbalanced.

I imagine divorced parents who split time feel this often. Especially if one parent has the kids most of the week and the other has them on weekends. The weekday parent envies the weekend parent’s fun. The pool trips. The park. The trampoline place that always smells like dirty socks and serves refrozen pizza. The weekend parent envies the weekday parent’s car conversations.

The same dynamic plays out in adult relationships. We want what we do not get as often. My husband and his ex-girlfriend are no longer together, but I still think about those few moments together on the couch when I want more strucutred time in my marriage.

Which brings me to gifting. Winter is the season when everyone asks what you want or what you are giving. This year, I keep thinking about the kind of time people actually crave. What kind of time does your partner get more of? And what kind of time do they miss? I even recorded a video on the topic here.

If your relationship has little structure, plan something. A night away. A cooking class. Tickets for months from now. Something with anticipation built in.

But if your relationship is packed with structure, gift something unstructured. A long morning together with breakfast in bed. A lazy afternoon to watch an entire series. A day where nothing is scheduled.

It does not have to be extravagant. It just has to be intentional. Because the gifts that stay with us are never the things, they are the moments someone created on purpose. Or the quiet space they made for you when you needed it.

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And people make statements. Sometimes out of love. Sometimes from fear. Sometimes from both. Often with the best of intentions. Sometimes, with a lack of social decorum.

These are the five statements I hear on social media that I imagine family members might make, along with some ideas for how to answer them honestly and with grace.

1. “An open relationship is just cheating. You’re going to break up.”

Try responding, “Yup, we might break up.”

I know this isn’t something many partners want to say aloud, but here’s what it does: it disarms the grenade. If the worst thing that could happen is that you break up or divorce, then say it. Name it. Make it clear you recognize the worst-case scenario.

Then, reframe it gently. “Monogamous relationships, even ones without a hint of infidelity, don’t protect people from breakups or divorce.” This helps put all relationship styles on the same playing field.

Make a statement about cheating that most people agree with. Very few people believe cheating is just the physical act of being with someone else, but rather the deceit and lying that hurt. “Cheating is betrayal. It’s lying.”

Open relationships are built on consent and communication, not just “allowing” a partner to cheat. I filmed this response as a mini-video dialogue here.

2. “This is going to harm your kids.”

Before you respond to this one, here’s something I remind myself every time I see this comment on social media: this statement often comes from fear.

Grandparents want to know their grandchildren will feel safe and secure. People who worry at the Thanksgiving dinner table often love your kids. If the person asking you this loves your children, take a deep breath before responding.

And respond with love. “I know you worry about our kids. We do too. Our kids are growing up surrounded by love, stability, and respect.” Because isn’t that the truth?

My parents wanted reassurance that I worry about the impact of what we do on our children. Of course I do. I worry about the impact of being vegetarian, about too much sun, and about not getting enough sleep. Acknowledge that. “We worry about the impact our relationship style will have on our kids. We make decisions regarding our family with thought and care.”

And then, address the adult stranger elephant-sized concern in the room: “We keep adult relationships private until there’s real trust. We are always careful about who is part of our children’s lives. Period.”

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3. “You just haven’t found the right person. When you do, you will want monogamy.”

Stay calm. This statement drives me up the wall. It assumes that I don’t know what I want for myself. “Is it so hard to imagine that this is what I want for myself?” or “Do you not believe that I know my own mind and what kind of relationship I want?”

If you can respond to statements with questions, I highly recommend doing so. Questions invite reflection instead of defense. Feel free to add a touch of sassy girl boss.

This comment also reveals something old-fashioned. The person saying it wants to believe that love can make everything simple. That there’s one person who fills every need. That if you just “found the right one,” everything else would fall away.

But open relationships challenge that idea. They ask: What if one person doesn’t have to be everything?

“I know what I want for myself. This is the relationship structure that works for me. I’m not waiting for someone to fix me. I’m choosing what fits me.”

And then gently remind them that non-monogamy isn’t a placeholder until something “better” comes along. “I know what I want for me. This is the relationship style that I want for myself. And I have a partner who wants this too.”

4. One person should be enough. Are you secretly gay?

If you are. Great! Say that. Or however you identify.

But the assumption behind this question is often that non-monogamy must be about sex or orientation. That non-monogamy is a way to fill something missing. That if you aren’t happy in an existing relationship, you need something else. Or something more.

For me, it’s not about needing more. It’s about being more. More honest. More curious. More myself. And giving more to my partner.

You can respond with that. “This isn’t about being ‘enough’ or ‘not enough.’ It’s about allowing both of us to be full people. To keep discovering who we are inside and outside our marriage.”

You might even remind them that most people crave connection with more than one person. Friends, mentors, siblings, chosen family. Romantic love is just one layer of that.

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5. Slut. You’re going to get an STD

If anyone calls you a slut over the holidays. You have my encouragement to spill your drink on them. Some people think it. Whether they say it or not, it most likely has to do with how much they’ve had to drink. Adapt your responses accordingly.

But in most cases, you won’t hear the word. You’ll feel it. Floating under the surface of a conversation, wrapped in concern or judgment or a cousin’s too-long pause.

You can decide whether it’s worth addressing. If it is, stay grounded in facts, not shame.

“Actually, non-monogamous people tend to talk about sexual health more often. And get tested more regularly than most. Honesty and safety go hand in hand.”

And if that still doesn’t land, remember: their discomfort isn’t your responsibility. The people who lead with shame usually aren’t curious yet. And you don’t owe them education at the expense of your peace. Find the wine. And lots of pie.

You don’t owe anyone every detail of your life. Even family. If you aren’t ready to tell them you’re open, don’t. Boundaries aren’t secrecy. They’re self-protection.

The goal isn’t to convince anyone. But if you’ve recently told or decided you want to tell family, hopefully these statements and responses help as you prepare for the holidays!

I wish you and yours a wonderful, love-filled Thanksgiving!

I am grateful every day for this openly committed community! Thank you for reading, supporting me here, and sharing your experiences and stories with me. I get so much inspiration and strength from this tiny corner of the internet. And can’t wait to share more stories, recommendations, and ideas with you.

Around the holidays, when families gather, there’s this quiet pressure to share who we are. Maybe it’s the closeness. Maybe it’s the rituals. Maybe it’s just being in the same room with people who once knew every version of us. It’s partially the wine. The holidays make us think about identity and belonging. About what we’re hiding and what we’re ready to name.

Coming out over the holidays is both an opportunity and a minefield. The only advice I’ve ever felt confident giving is this: be ready to answer the hard questions.

Answering difficult questions from strangers is one thing. Answering difficult questions from people who love you is 10x harder. If you can do so calmly and with love, then you are probably ready.

And if you read to the end, this story has a happy ending! Even though my mother and father still don’t agree with our relationship choices, I feel loved and supported.

My Mom wrote a note at the end of this post with her thoughts and perspective.

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Four of us sat in the living room of our home, each of us with a drink in hand. Only mine was untouched. My mom, my dad, Rich, and I.

My parents had flown in for a long weekend visit, and Rich and I had agreed it was time to tell them. We wanted my parents to hear that we were open—from us. We didn’t want them to find out from someone else. And yes, there was someone who threatened to tell them if we didn’t.

Rich and I hadn’t rehearsed every word, but we’d practiced how to respond to a few questions we thought they might ask. Over seven years earlier, I had told my two friends from University, but back then, Rich and I had only been open for a few months. I was still deciding our agreements together. And I hadn’t been ready for their questions. Their questions had felt like judgment. I was immediately defensive. Then doubtful. Then scared. The night ended with me calling Rich, crying from a hotel hallway, asking if he was using me.

But after marriage, two kids, and a mortgage, Rich and I were an established couple by society's standards. I was ready to answer the hard questions from the two people who loved me the longest in the world. I wanted us to be straightforward and concise, then open the conversation to their questions. That was the plan, anyway.

I reached over and instinctively put my hand in Rich’s. He squeezed.

“Mom, Dad,” I began, voice steady, but my heart was pounding, “Rich and I have something to tell you.”

I didn’t wait for them to brace themselves. They had no idea what was coming. “We’re in an open marriage. We always have been. It doesn’t change how much we love each other.”

“We feel committed,” Rich added, “to each other. And we occasionally date other people.”

Silence.

I looked at Rich and squeezed his hand back.

He let out an exhale.

I picked up my wine glass, but couldn’t bring it to my lips. My arm stopped moving, and the full glass wavered, suspended in the air.

My mother crossed her arms and sat back in the chair. She wiggled uncomfortably and turned and widened her eyes at my father. He shook his head in response to her unasked question. 40+ years of marriage, and they sometimes didn’t need words to communicate.

It was my dad who spoke first. “Couples that are committed don’t date others. They don’t cheat.”

We had prepared for that one.

“Dad, we don’t see it as cheating,” I said, more confidently than I felt. My voice didn’t shake, even though my body did. “To us, cheating is betrayal. It’s lying. Rich and I…” I turned to Rich, and he nodded. “Rich and I are honest. We communicate.”

My mother leaned forward, hands gripping the edge of the sofa. “What about your kids? Think about your kids.”

Her voice had risen. Her face was tight with worry.

“I have thought about them, Mom,” I said calmly. “We don’t talk to them about this. We don’t tell them we’re dating other people. Full stop.”

“When they’re older? But what if someone finds out?” She dropped her head into her hands and spoke through her fingers. “When they get teased at school because their parents are having affairs? You have no idea what that’s like. You have no idea what it’s like to have your parents get divorced, and every kid at school talks about it.”

“I know, Mom—I mean, I don’t know,” I admitted. “You and Dad are happily married.”

“And monogamous!” she stated. Then her voice dropped in disappointment. “What on earth about our marriage was so wrong that led you to this?”

Rich stepped in. “We look up to your relationship. We value many of the same things you do. And we model our relationship more closely after yours than my parents’.”

He didn’t need to say more than that. In our eight years together, my parents had come to understand how deeply Rich was shaped by his parents’ divorce.

My mom shook her head again. “But your children’s safety. You’re inviting strangers into your home.”

“No, we’re not, Mom,” I said firmly. “We’re thoughtful about who meets our children. Whether it’s friends’ parents or someone we’re dating. Our children always come first.”

“If your children came first,” she snapped, “you wouldn’t be in an open relationship.”

I shook my head. “Mom, I want my kids to live whatever life they want. Authentically. And someday, when they’re older, I hope they’ll understand our lifestyle.”

“It’s one thing to say they can live however they want,” she said. “It’s another when they see it in their parents.”

“I want them to see it in us. I want them to see that we love each other tremendously, that we fight and figure things out. That we’re independent people. And doing some things our own way.”

“This is horrible,” my mother muttered, shaking her head again. “I can’t believe you’ve lied to us all these years.”

Rich leaned forward. “This feels like our information to share,” he said.

“Does anyone else in the family know?” she asked.

I paused. “Just my sister,” I said. “No one else.”

“Good,” she said. “Keep it that way.”

She looked deflated. My father stood up. “I never want to hear another word about this again,” he said. “I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”

“Okay,” I said softly. “If that’s what you need.”

He left the room. And my mom followed.

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When your daughter sits across from you and says something that shakes the ground you’ve always stood on, time slows down in the strangest way. I remember the night Danielle and Rich told us. The room was warm, the lights soft, the kids asleep upstairs. And yet inside my chest, everything tightened.

I heard their words, but my heart was scrambling — trying to reconcile the daughter I raised with the daughter in front of me, trying to protect the grandchildren I adore. It felt like all the hopes and expectations I’d carefully, quietly held for years were suddenly blowing apart - exploding.

And in those first moments, my reaction wasn’t graceful. It was raw. I was confused, hurt, and afraid. Afraid for them, and especially for the little ones whose hearts I would lay down my life to shield.

But over time — through tears, through long walks, through nights spent whispering prayers in the dark — I kept coming back to the same place: the heart of my faith.

Jesus’s words: “Love one another as I have loved you.” (John 13:34)

And Paul’s reminder: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” (1 Corinthians 13:7)

Those verses weren’t written for tidy moments. They were written for the messy ones — the moments when everything feels upside down and love has to stretch across differences you never pictured facing.

And I’ll tell you something else honestly: I am not perfect, not even close. I have not always lived out the teachings of the Bible. I’ve stumbled plenty. I’ve made choices I regret. I’ve had to ask for forgiveness more times than I can count. So who am I to withhold the grace God has poured out on me?

“For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” (Romans 3:23)

We are all learning. All growing. All navigating our own blind spots and weaknesses. In that light, my job is not to stand above my children in judgment but to walk beside them in love.

Do I still have concerns? Yes, of course. Every grandparent I know carries their quiet bundle of fears about how their children’s choices — any of them — will shape the next generation. Families are complicated. People are complicated. And sin, brokenness, and struggle show up in a thousand forms. But love — true, Christ-rooted love — has one shape: steady, honest, and unconditional.

There’s a verse that has whispered to my heart more times than I can count:

“Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers a multitude of sins.” (1 Peter 4:8)

It doesn’t say love erases differences or ignores hard things. It says love covers — meaning love protects, love holds, love creates room for God to move.

So that is what I try to do. Day by day. Moment by moment.

I love Danielle. I love Rich. And I love those kids with a fierceness I can hardly describe. I can disagree, I can worry, I can pray — and still love with my whole heart. A mother’s love doesn’t diminish when a child walks a path you never expected. If anything, it grows deeper, wider, and braver.

And I hold onto this promise:

“I am the way, the truth, and the life.” (John 14:6)

God isn’t finished with any of us. He sees the whole arc of our stories, including Danielle’s, Rich’s, my husband’s, and mine. I trust Him to guide, to forgive, and to reveal Himself in His timing.

And until then — I will love. I will pray. I will listen.

Because that is what a mother does.

And because that is what Christ asks of me.

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Early on in a relationship, we often need a certain level of trust before we can be fully ourselves. For many, we need a certain level of security before we feel safe enough to explore outside our comfort zones.

But here’s the paradox: the very things that make us feel safe don’t always make our hearts race. It’s hard to enjoy the thrill of the unknown with someone who knows you inside and out. It’s hard to feel excitement and surprise while also feeling 100% safe.

Last month, Rich and I booked a table at the restaurant in our city. The one that requires booking months in advance. The one with awards. The one that makes you feel like somebody special just by going there.

I showered. Curled my hair. Put on the ten-year anniversary earrings Rich gave me. I asked him to wear his blue jacket. He did. The babysitter arrived right on time. And unlike most date nights, I was completely ready to walk out the door when she arrived.

It was just the two of us. We ordered an Uber to dinner, something we only do when I’m wearing my four-inch heels.

And then we sat down. Menus in hand. Candles flickering. Music low. And somehow—somehow—within five minutes, we were talking about school pickup and drop-off.

What. The. Actual. F***.

We were having the exact same conversation we would’ve had if we were home, eating pasta and tomato sauce straight from the jar.

My husband and I share almost everything. Finances. A car payment. Two kids. We both work from home. We share who takes the kids to and from school, who remembers the doctor appointments, who buys the birthday gifts, and who actually remembers to wrap them.

Our lives are deeply entwined. We are stable. We are solid. And we both want to have romantic date nights free from the weight of all that responsibility.

So why is it so hard to do? Specifically with him.

It’s not like I’ve forgotten how to talk about other things. I do—with my friends. And on other dates.

My husband and I are in an open marriage. And not to brag, but I’m a great first date. I’m energetic. Fun. Curious. I ask good questions. I listen. I laugh easily. I love new restaurants, new stories, and new people.

Dating excites me. And when I come home, I bring that energy back with me. To my husband. Sometimes, even to our date night dinner table.

But dating others made it painfully obvious how light we often feel on dates with others. A few hours of logistics-free conversation can feel therapeutic.

My husband's and my date nights, on the other hand, are weighted down with the heaviness of our entanglements. If anything, being desired and feeling desirable outside our marriage has made us even more aware of how important it is to create that same excitement and curiosity inside our marriage, too. It’s possible. Just harder.

I recorded the video below on this topic for a workshop with Sex with Emily’s Smart SX Community. The full 20-minute video with my thoughts on balancing security with desire and stability with mystery is available to paid subscribers.

The video goes deeper into how safety and freedom can coexist. How privacy, autonomy, and curiosity can keep relationships alive without hiding, secrecy, or losing trust. Spoiler alert: I don’t have a magical formula.

I share thoughts, stories from my open marriage, lessons from other couples, and practical tools for bringing desire and mystery back into any relationship, monogamous or not. I hope you take something away from it. And in the comments, I hope you share ideas for keeping things exciting within the safety of a long-term partnership.

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If you’re thinking: Wait. Haven’t you already left that house? Yes. Didn’t you even write about it? Also Yes. Here. We have been leaving California for three years.

We left on a road trip with two kids and a dog in the back seat of a Ram 1500. We left for two years for North Carolina. Then last summer, we left once more. This time for England.

Leaving. Coming back. Leaving again. It’s felt like one of those relationships that never got a clean break.

And even though it’s just wood and walls, that house held us steady through years of uncertainty. Our Airbnb income kept us afloat. At Christmas, we always returned, pulled out the ornaments, the stockings, the wreaths. I even had my holiday grocery order saved in the store’s system, just a click away.

But this time is official. The last time. The final goodbye. The house has been sold. Another family will fill it with their chaos, birthdays, and grocery lists.

Logically, we’ve known that selling was the right decision. That didn’t make it easier. Just like a breakup. The head knows, and the heart lags behind.

I’m sentimental. I needed to go through the process of packing up. I sorted through photos, handmade pottery, and the kids’ school art. My husband doesn’t have the patience to sort through what to keep and what to release. I watched movers wrap the pieces that made this house feel like ours. The cabinet with its giant carved fox was carefully covered. The tapestry I carried home from Laos was tightly rolled.

I knew I wanted to do one last walk. A 12-mile stretch along the coastline from our house to one of our favorite beaches. In all the years we lived there, I had never completed the entire route. This was the one thing I wanted (and needed!) to do.

Luckily, I have a “yes” friend. The kind who, when I called and said, “I want to get high and walk the coast, will you join me?”, only hesitated a minute before saying “yes”.

She drove five hours north from LA for the weekend, and we set off.

About five miles into our walk, I watched a kite surfer strap his harness around his waist, launch his kite into the air, and glide effortlessly out into the ocean. And that’s when the tears finally came. Big, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs.

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Why did that set me off? Because kite surfing was one of the many things I’d promised myself I’d do when we moved to coastal California. I had the gear. The intention. And yet I never got good enough to go out on my own without an instructor. Standing there, watching someone else do it easily, all I could think about was the experiences I hadn’t had. The things I’d never gotten around to doing. All the dreams I still had for this place that I was leaving undone.

I’d been in this situation before. I’d been in that exact spot once before, in fact, mourning something else that would never come to be: A relationship. A potential relationship, really.

I was in a 3-month whirlwind comet relationship that ended when the guy ghosted me. At the point it was clear I would never hear back, I had gone to that same beach back then and said goodbye on my own. Not just to him, but to all the dreams I’d had for what that relationship could have been.

I had to give myself the gift of closure. Because he sure as hell wasn’t going to give it to me.

After adding more tears to that particular stretch of sand, my friend came over and let me collapse into her arms. I sat down, cried harder, watched the waves, and let the emotions wash over me.

“Do you remember when we collected sea glass here for your daughter’s Birthday party?” She asked me.

My “yes” friend is also my daughter’s godmother and has driven up from LA for almost all of her Summer birthday parties. I nodded.

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And finally, instead of focusing on all the things I hadn’t done (like kite surfing), I let myself remember all the things we had done. Seven Christmases. Many beach picnics. Countless runs along the ocean. During the pandemic, we hosted a backyard pod-school. My son learned to ride a bike on the coastal paths. Countless friends visited. We had enjoyed every sunset.

I’m the kind of person who needs closure, whether it’s a breakup with a person or a goodbye to a place I loved. Even when I know logically it’s time to move on—like knowing that guy wasn’t right for me, or knowing it’s time to let the house go—emotionally it is still hard to release something I was once excited about.

What helps is remembering what did happen. All the good memories I get to carry with me. I would never trade those memories just because the ending hurt.

Closure is a gift I give myself, a way to say goodbye on my own terms, remember all the memories I get to keep, and move forward.

Some people don’t need that. My husband and daughter can close the door and move on. My son and I need rituals. He couldn’t come with me because we are waiting for his British citizenship. But I’ll find a way. Maybe a photo book of our home. Maybe a day just for us to talk about what we loved there.

Because closure isn’t just for grownups. Or breakups. Or big moves. We don’t move on by forgetting. We move on by carrying what we love forward with us.

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Saturday night. I walked into our bedroom holding a vase of flowers, only to find another one already standing on the dresser. I smiled. My husband, Rich, has never been consistent at buying me flowers, but often does for special occasions. He thought of tonight as a special occasion.

Rich was upstairs reading to our eight-year-old daughter. Downstairs, the dishwasher was running. I could faintly hear the murmurs of his voice and the rumbling in the kitchen, and I smiled. It was going to be a good night in.

If I were writing this for another audience, I might make a joke, Oh, He only does these things when he knows he’s about to get lucky. And maybe that’s part of it. But it’s not the full story. Besides, I’m about to get “lucky” too, but luck has nothing to do with it.

We’d both been looking forward to this night. We don’t have a fancy name for it. We call it: Our Night In. However, when I discuss it in the context of an open relationship, I refer to it as Our Ritual for (Re)connection. That sounds official, right?

In some ways, it feels easy. In others, it’s taken us 15 years to get here. Okay—13, if we’re counting from when this tradition began.

We put the kids to bed at 8 p.m. sharp. The house has to be clean—not perfect, but clean enough that neither of us wakes up with anything to do. I told him once, “For you to get my full attention, the dishes need to be done, the floor swept. That’s what I need to mentally let go and be present.”

Some couples relax with wine, some with illicit substances. To each their own, and all things in moderation. Two years ago, my husband and I had something we wanted to try, so we made a whole evening of it. No problem to solve, just curiosity and intention. A little experimentation can go a long way. And that was the night our new ritual for (re)connection was born.

Since then, it’s been a little different every time. I like to buy myself lingerie. We both appreciate fresh sheets. A clean duvet. I bought him a candle from a store he loved when we lived in Amsterdam. And a shared playlist, full of songs we’ve collected in the weeks leading up to our night in—romantic favorites, weird finds, and tracks that spark stories tangled together where one of us shouts out, “This made me think of you!” We try to have our night in every few months.

These nights often stretch for four or five hours. We talk, we touch, we get high, or we drink, we laugh. I used to think we’d run out of things to talk about. But we haven’t. Somehow, after all this time, we’re still learning new things about each other. When I wondered aloud how live TV feeds are shot, he casually explained and then said, “I once worked in the media room for a political campaign.” I blinked. “How did I not know that about you?”

Sometimes the questions are more philosophical. One of our favorite questions on first dates is, “Tell me something you believe that most people don’t.” And on Saturday night, I realized I didn’t know if his answer to that question was still the same.

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But often, it’s in these nights that we also talk about the more vulnerable things, including our other dates. Right now, we’re both only casually dating, but in the past, this is when we talked about the things that either of us sometimes finds hard to hear. When we’re lying in bed, Yin-Yang style, bodies tangled, touch softens the sting.

Maybe This Started Sooner Than We Thought

Sometimes I think this ritual is new. But maybe we’ve been doing a version of it since we opened our relationship fifteen years ago.

I don’t remember the exact details of the first time I told him I kissed someone else. Or the first time he told me about a date with another woman. Maybe we were sitting on his couch, or mine. Maybe we had cups of tea or beers in our hands. I don’t know if we were touching, but I imagine we must have been.

Over the years, I picture our tough conversations happening on different couches: the army-grade khaki one in Amsterdam, the bottle-green one from our first Seattle apartment, the beige one in San Francisco, the blue one, the grey ones here in England. With wine. Or cocktails. Or coffee. Most often with tea and beer.

We didn’t call those moments “rituals,” but in hindsight, they were. We sat across from each other on the couch to reconnect whenever we felt disconnected.

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Rituals from Other Relationships

When I asked my community on Instagram about their rituals for connection and reconnection, the responses were beautiful! And varied.

One couple takes a specific walk along the beach every time they need to talk. If the conversation runs long, they just walk farther. A few couples shared with me about the rituals they have outdoors, disconnected from their phones, knowing that at the end of the conversation, they will go home together. Sometimes to make love. Sometimes, just to be close again.

Another couple has hard conversations in an empty bathtub. That image stuck with me. Two people in a small, contained space without water.

Many said their shared bed has too much emotional history. Too many arguments, associations. They need neutral ground. For us, our bed has always been a sanctuary, but I understand their need for something different.

I found myself feeling a little envious of certain rituals. I wish my husband gave foot rubs—he doesn’t, not readily. I wish we could cook together, but neither of us makes a very good sous-chef.

It’s easy to romanticize other couples’ rituals—hand-holding, breakfast, and tantric eye contact. But I remind myself that their thing doesn’t have to be our thing. And ours definitely isn’t for everyone.

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So, what are the key ingredients for a ritual to reconnect?

• Intention, first and foremost. A ritual doesn’t have to be fancy, but it does have to be on purpose.

• Something to look forward to helps, too. Anticipation is underrated.

• And then: time. Not five rushed minutes. Enough time to slow down, get a little vulnerable, and actually hear each other.

• A safe space matters—whether that’s a candlelit bedroom, a beach walk, or an empty bathtub.

• And you have to disconnect from everything else: phones, logistics, the endless to-do list.

Everything else? That’s just personal preference.
The core is making it feel right for the two of you. And choosing to come back, even when it’s not easy.

💬 Your Turn:
Do you and your partner have a ritual—planned or accidental—that brings you back to one another? I’d love to hear it in the comments. You can also read more from the community in my saved story on Instagram here.

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If you’ve asked any version of those questions lately, you’re not alone. And I share my story related to this below.

But first, I want to let you know that I am hosting In Good Company, a live, supportive event for people navigating non-monogamy, whether you're ENM-curious or years into the journey. Think of it as the group chat your monogamous friends can’t quite offer. No experts, no pressure. Just real people sharing real stories.

🗓️ Saturday, June 22nd
9 PM UK / 4 PM EST / 1 PM PST
👉 Join the June event » Register here.

🗓️ Saturday, July 13th
9 PM UK / 4 PM EST / 1 PM PST
👉 Join the July event » Register here.

Sometimes all we need is someone saying, “Yes. That’s normal. I’ve felt that too.” Which is what I needed to hear 10 years ago, before I had kids, before I married Rich, back when we lived in Seattle, Washington. Sage was doing my makeup for the Seattle Pride event. And she was my first friend also in an open relationship.

She was also a burlesque dancer, complete with the costumes and makeup palettes that come with the profession. At that moment, she wore a tight, bright purple corset. And not much else. Feathers stood straight up, an elaborate mohawk from the headdress on top of her head. Her arms shimmered with colorful bangles, and tattooed gold swirls wrapped around her skin. She would carry two giant feathered wings in the parade. Her face had been meticulously painted, bright purple lashes stretching into tiny feathers at the tips.

But right then, I wasn’t allowed to look at her. She was face-painting detailed flowers and intricate vines down the side of my face, and I had to keep perfectly still, eyes locked on the mirror in front of me. I had already been chastised for wiggling. But I had questions I desperately wanted to ask.

Sage was also in an open relationship, even though she had never told me directly. I had recently found out from a mutual friend, and I couldn’t help myself.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?”

“Not if you keep still,” she said, snapping playfully but smiling.

I swallowed hard. “Rich and I… we’re in an, um—an open relationship.” I exhaled. “Have been for a while.”

“Mmhmm,” she said, dipping a fine-tipped brush into something sparkly.

“Are you?” I said, turning my head slightly, but she pushed my chin to face the mirror again.

“Mmhmm,” she responded again, as if I’d asked whether she was vegetarian.

“I guess… we’ve moved in together. It’s getting serious,” I started. “And I keep wondering… how do I know it’s real if he still wants to be open? You have two boyfriends, but it seems serious with them, too. So, how do I know?

She didn’t look up, just kept tracing a thin line of glitter along my cheekbone. “Know what?”

“That the relationship is serious. Even though we’re open.”

She let out a quiet laugh. “The same way you know it’s serious when you’re monogamous. You just know.”

I hesitated. “Even though I get jealous?”

She met my eyes briefly in the mirror, then went back to painting. “Jealousy doesn’t mean it’s not serious. It means you care.”

“I want to have a serious relationship,” I said, and then, as if confessing a second truth, “But I also want to be open. Because… well, because it’s fun. But I sometimes feel guilty, especially when I’m dating and he’s not. And when he’s dating, I’m happy for him. And sometimes I’m angry at the same time.”

I could hear my voice getting quieter. “I guess my question is… is this normal?”

She leaned back, set the brush down, and looked at me directly through the mirror. Her gaze wasn’t pitying. It was soft and steady, like she had sat across from this exact question in her reflection before.

“Of course it’s normal,” she said.

Rich and I lived in Seattle for only a year and a half, but it was the first time we met and became friends with people—individuals, and couples—who were navigating polyamory in all its forms. It was the first time we didn’t feel like the only ones.

We built a community there. One conversation, one awkward question, one glitter-dusted Pride Parade at a time. Although it took an embarrassing amount of Facebook scrolling to find this pic, here’s a photo of me from Seattle Pride that year. Yes, this is the makeup Sage did. And her hairpiece that I borrowed.

Sometimes all it takes is one person saying, “Of course it’s normal.” That’s the kind of space I want to hold for others now.

If you’re looking for that kind of company, we’d love to have you:

🗓️ June 22nd – Register for the event here »
🗓️ July 13th – Register for the event here »

Because you’re not the only one.

And honestly? I still don’t know how to answer that question.

The easy replies are: “You’ll just know.” Or “Trust your gut.” But those assume you'll reach a point of absolute clarity. Like some lightning bolt will strike and your brain will go ZING ZAP, and suddenly you're an Officially Open Person™, ready to join the non-monogamy club.

And maybe that concept comes from consent culture, where if you’re not answering a question with a full-body-hell-yes, it’s a no.

When it comes to physical intimacy? I agree. Hell yes or no. But for everything else in life? It’s rarely that simple.

I wasn’t 100% sure I wanted to open up. Not even close.

But I haven’t been 100% certain about many of my major life decisions. Was I 100% sure when I left my career to pursue writing? Nope. I was maybe 90% sure—and then I leapt. I still doubt.

Was I 100% sure when Rich and I moved our family from the United States to the United Kingdom last summer? More like 85%. But the lease was up, and we had to make a choice. Sometimes, you move forward without certainty.

Looking back, those first two years of opening up felt like a sliding scale in terms of certainty. Initially, I was about 40% sure. I was curious! In those early days of opening up, we were learning. We read books. We talked to friends. We kissed other people. We even had a threesome. (Note to others: It's probably best to be more than 40% sure before trying that one. It did feel a bit like jumping into the deep end before I was confident I could even swim.)

By the time we had both kissed someone else and talked about it, I was probably 60% ready. Then we both flirted with others and talked about it. That brought me closer to 70%. And we talked and talked and talked. Each conversation inched me closer and closer to certainty.

Rich, on the other hand, is a diver. He sees the water, makes a call, and jumps. I’m not like that. Not in real life. Not at the pool. I didn’t suddenly become 100% certain overnight. Some days I felt steady. Other days, unsure. I waded in slowly to get used to the water temperature. I needed to analyze, think, process, and imagine every possible scenario. Figure out in advance how to avoid all of the things that could go wrong and answer all the what-if questions.

• What if it doesn’t work?

• What if one of us falls in love with someone else?

• What if one of us gets pregnant?

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Most big decisions happen around 85–95% certain.

At least, that's my hypothesis. Eventually, I got to 95% yes. And when I got that close, I ultimately reached a point where the only thing left to do was dunk my whole head underwater and take the risk. The final step. Because significant changes, whether career shifts, cross-country moves, or opening a relationship, rarely come with guarantees. Sometimes, the last thing to do is try it and find out for yourself.

The flip side for a partner is that when it comes to significant changes, I don’t know if it’s reasonable to expect someone else to be 100% ready either.

So if you’re asking your partner (or yourself), “Are you really in?” try asking instead:
“What percent are you today?”

Some days, I was 95% sure. Some days? 80%. But I was still in. And I feel like this might be a more honest answer. A way to communicate, “I’m still a yes. But I’m a little less certain today. I have questions and things to figure out together.”

If something isn’t working, step back.

When I quit my job, Rich reminded me, “If it doesn’t work out, then go back!”

“It’s not that simple,” I exclaimed. “It’s a tough job market!”

“Yes,” he said, “but at least you’ll know. You’ll look for a new job with more knowledge and experience than when you left.”

He said the same thing when we moved abroad. “It’s just moving. Suitcases. A plane ticket.”

“What?!” I countered. “It’s so much more—apartment rentals, schools...”

“I’m not saying they aren’t big decisions,” he replied. “I’m saying if it doesn’t work out, we can change and figure it out together.”

And 15 years ago, when we opened up? He said the same thing then, too. “If non-monogamy doesn’t work for us, we can be monogamous.”

It’s what I tell people now, when they ask me, “What if we open up and it doesn’t work?”

Well, then you know. And knowing is better than not knowing.

So here it is:

• If being open doesn’t work out? Great—you’ll know. You can always close back up or try something else.

  If someone falls in love? It’s happened to me. And it didn’t erase the love I had for my husband.

  If someone gets pregnant? Honestly… I still don’t know. We take precautions. But if it happened? We’d figure it out.

You don’t need 100% certainty to try something new.
Sometimes, the only way to find out is to try.

✨ What percent are you today?

I’d truly love to hear your thoughts in the comments or chat with you in the group! It’s always so helpful for others who might not be feeling 100% certain to read about the experiences of those who feel (or once felt) the same way.

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When I first created A Couples Guide to Opening Up, I had no idea what I was going to do with it. I just knew it needed to exist. This content is what I wish I’d had 15 years ago when we were stumbling through our first conversations about non-monogamy.

Filming the series forced me to get clear on what I believe, what I’ve learned, and what’s useful to say out loud. Of course, the moment I hit publish, I started thinking about everything I wanted to tweak or add. It could have been better!

But if I have a motto right now, it’s this:
100% done is better than not done, but perfect.

Whether you're here because you're curious, actively exploring, or years deep in non-monogamy, your input seriously matters.

This short survey (really, less than a minute) will help me figure out what to make next.
Videos? Stories? Something deeper or weirder? Please let me know.👇

Start Survey

The Big Takeaway

There’s a quote on Esther Perel’s website that I love:

“The quality of our relationships determines the quality of our lives.”

And that’s what Beyond Boundaries is really about. Not about “doing non-monogamy right.” Not about replicating anyone else’s version. But about designing a relationship, monogamous or not, that enables you to live the life you want for yourself.

Making your own mistakes. And then giving yourself permission to keep changing.

For what it’s worth, Rich and I opened our relationship 15 years ago. We’ve had time to screw it up, learn things the hard way, and try again. We’re still figuring it out.

So please, don’t compare your beginning to my middle.
You don’t need to have it all figured out. Just be honest about where you are.

Didn’t watch the full series? Here’s the TL;DR:

1. The Initial Conversation 👉 Watch the video
✨ Know your why. Don’t just say what you want—explain what’s not working, and let your partner become part of the solution. Opening up is one solution, not the only one.

2. Timing 👉 Watch the video
✨ There’s no perfect time. Go at the pace of the slowest person.

3. Phases 👉 Watch the video
✨ You don’t need to go from monogamy to polyamory overnight. Think in phases. Take baby steps. Set boundaries for where you are now. Then adjust as you go.

4. Communicating Clearly 👉 Watch the video
✨ Be honest with yourself. That’s the only way to be honest with anyone else.

5. Boundaries & Rules 👉 Watch the video
✨ Think through who, what, where, when, and especially, why. Rules only build trust if they’re honored. Change them if needed, but don’t break them without discussion.

6. Managing Emotions 👉 Watch the video
✨ Feelings aren’t facts, but they are real. Ask “why” over and over again until you hit something honest. It’s better to address what’s underneath the feeling of jealousy than just reacting to the trigger.

Each of these videos can stand alone, but together, they’re like a starter kit.
Something to return to when you need a reminder or a nudge. 👉 Watch the full series

Build Trust vs. Don’t Break Trust

I believe the best time to open your relationship (or do anything new and vulnerable) is when things are good. When you feel safe, seen, and like your relationship is sturdy enough to withstand a little chaos.

Because opening up is a renovation. It’s exciting. It’s messy. And sometimes it reveals stuff you didn’t know was hiding behind the walls.

We opened up from the very beginning, which meant that boundaries, rules, and communication were how we built trust. Brick by brick.

Is it harder to open up early on or years into a relationship? Honestly, I don’t know. But here’s what I have noticed:

• When you open from the start, boundaries and communication are tools to build trust.

• When you’ve been together a while, those same tools are more about not destroying the trust you have already cemented in place.

Either way, the goal isn’t to get it “right.”

And if you’ve spent time reading, researching, or reflecting on non-monogamy and then decided, “nope, hard pass”. Amazing. Now you know!

What I’ve heard from many people is that even if they ultimately decide non-monogamy isn’t for them, the process still strengthened the foundation. They communicated more clearly. They asked bigger questions. They reinforced parts of the relationship they didn’t even realize needed attention. They walked away more connected, no matter what they chose to build next.

I hope that’s true for you too.

P.S.

Thanks again for being here. You make this work worth doing.

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My answer?
I do get jealous. I’m human.

Non-monogamy brings out a full spectrum of emotions, from excitement and joy to fear, grief, and yes, jealousy. No amount of reading or planning can fully prepare you for the emotional waves that come with opening a relationship.

You’ll feel the highs.
You’ll feel the lows.
And you’ll face one very personal question:
Are the positive emotions worth working through the hard ones?

For many of us, jealousy is the hardest.

I am posting this video for free! This is the 6th video in my Couple’s Guide to Opening Up course, and today’s focus is emotional management. If you’ve followed the earlier videos, you know we’ve covered how to start the conversation, create a first phase, set boundaries, and communicate clearly.

But in this one, I want to go deeper than the video.

In the video, I left out one key thing—a practice that changed how I experience jealousy.

Since I recorded the video, I’ve researched, hosted events, and learned more than I knew then. So, I’ve written up my approach (and even included worksheets) below.

Can You Control Your Emotions?

The short answer: not really.

Emotions are reactions of our nervous system, influenced by neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin, and adrenaline. Daily life, including sleep, food, stress, and relationships, also significantly impacts them.

We might not control what we feel, but we can manage how we respond to those emotions. And that starts with one simple but powerful practice:

Remove “I should feel…” from your vocabulary.

Society, family, and movies tell us what we’re supposed to feel.
But in real life, your emotions might not match those scripts.

• You might expect to feel jealous seeing your partner with someone else, but actually feel turned on.

• You might expect to feel joy when they’re happy, but find yourself feeling anger or sadness.

The first step is to be honest with yourself about what you’re feeling, not what you think you should feel.

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The Big Question: What Happens When You Get Jealous?

Jealousy is a signal telling you that something important feels threatened. It’s rooted in fear and insecurity.

Rather than ignoring it, blaming others, or beating myself up, I try to:

• Recognize it. I say out loud, “I feel jealous.” Sometimes I even say it in the mirror.

• Own it. My jealousy is my responsibility.

• Breathe. Deep, intentional breaths help calm my nervous system.

• Ask “why?” Again and again—until I reach the root.

Once you find the root cause, you can have more productive conversations.
For example, instead of saying "I’m jealous of your date," you can say, "I feel like we haven’t had quality time together lately."

Clearer communication makes it easier to find solutions together—whether that's reassurance, more dates, new boundaries, or something else.

I feel responsible for my own emotions, but a partner who cares about me also cares about my emotions and wants to support me in solving them.

So here’s how I dig deeper!

And much deeper than I do in my video.

Have you ever heard of the 5 Whys exercise? Borrowed from the business world, this practice is shockingly effective for emotional processing. I started doing it for myself when I felt jealous. It's as simple as it sounds: when you feel jealous, ask yourself “Why?” five times.

You’ll often find that beneath the jealousy is something deeper—fear of being replaced, feeling unseen, unmet needs, or stories you're telling yourself.

Here's an example from my own life:

Trigger: My husband planned a weekend away at a hotel in Napa for his girlfriend.
Why did that make me jealous? Because that’s something that I want to do with him. I want to go to hotels in wine country, but I’ll be stuck home with the kids.
Why? He planned the trip. Usually I am the one who has to plan all the trips together because I’m the one that likes ‘activities.’
Why? He doesn’t like to plan, but he’s willing to make more effort with her than he is for me.
Why? If he makes more effort with her, he values her more than me.
Why? If he values her more than me, then he could replace me.

These realizations are vulnerable—but powerful.
When I name the deeper fear, I can do something about it.
I can ask for what I need, rather than stay stuck in silent resentment.

If you want to try this exercise yourself, I’ve included a worksheet below. Use it next time jealousy arises — you might be surprised by what you uncover.

And now what?

From Fear to Truth: A Simple Practice That Grounds Me

Once I reach that root fear, I write it down. Plain and simple. No sugarcoating. No judgment.

Here’s mine:
My husband could replace me.

Then, I counter it with the truth. I write down facts that anchor me in reality, not fear.

Here are some of mine:

• I am not replaceable as a partner or mother to our children.

• My value to our marriage is more important than weekends in Napa.

• My husband enjoys spending time with his girlfriend, but this does not change how much he also enjoys spending time with me.

• My husband is with me because he values me. I add value to his life.

• My partner is with me because he loves me. I trust his love.

This shift, from fear to truth, helps me regulate my emotions and reconnect with my own sense of worth. It’s a reminder that I don’t have to believe every thought or fear I have, especially when I’m vulnerable, or in my case, perimenopausal. 

As a paid subscriber, you can access the rest of the course, A Couple’s Guide to Opening Up, and support me in creating more content for this incredible community!

Subscribe now

If you’re feeling brave, I invite you to share in the comments:

• A recent jealousy trigger

• What did you uncover when you asked “Why?”

• The root fear underneath your jealousy

You don’t have to have it all figured out—start by being honest.

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Initially, I embraced the freedom. I wrote, skied, dated, and went out most nights. But midway through, the uncertainty crept in. What if I don’t get my visa? I began to feel paralyzed, missing my husband and kids deeply. I started counting down the days until they’d arrive.

Writing became a struggle (more on that below), and I wasn’t keeping up with my bi-monthly newsletter. I turned to my husband, Rich. A lot of people, myself included, miss his perspective. He no longer appears in my videos (comments can be brutal). When I asked if he’d answer some questions for this space, he said, “Yes.”

Scroll down to read my husband’s response to a question—and find out how to submit your questions for future posts.

So here it is. A long-overdue Hello from… Colorado, where I’ve now been “stuck” for nearly five weeks.

How did I get here?

We moved to southern England in August and immediately applied for my spousal visa. My husband is British, and we’ve been married for 12 years—but after five months and multiple emails exchanged with the home office, I still didn’t have a visa.

After a family trip to Austria in February, we returned to the UK. The passport officer looked up my file and gave me one of those inquisitive looks you never want to see. She asked a few questions, and I explained my situation. She nodded in that noncommittal way that gives nothing away. When she handed me back my passport, she told me to hire an immigration lawyer.

And thank goodness I could. Accessing legal help is a privilege I don’t take for granted. My lawyer pulled my file and told me what I couldn’t confirm: that I would almost certainly be denied my initial visa. I needed a new plan.

“Sometimes these things happen,” the lawyer said. “It’s not that it’s harder now. Immigration is a little up in the air, especially since November 2024. You got stuck in the middle of a process change.”

My lawyer’s recommendation? Leave the country and reapply from the U.S.

Luckily, I already had a trip planned to Colorado in mid-March. I’ve worked as a part-time ski instructor for the past four years, and my 10-day trips have always felt like “me time.” Now, I’d also be reapplying for my visa—and getting 10 extra days to myself. It sounded amazing. Rich is more than capable of handling our household, dinners, school drop-offs, and dog walks while I’m gone.

When the Wait Stopped Feeling Like a Vacation

I love teaching skiing. I have to pinch myself sometimes that after a 15-year marketing career, I get paid to ski. I’ve built a solid community at ski school and have taught some of the same families for years, watching their kids go from snowplowing to skiing black diamonds.

My schedule is mine: 5 AM wake-up to write, 8 AM stretch and coffee with ski instructors, work from 9 to 3, last laps with friends till 4, film content, then dinner with my parents or friends and in bed by 10, exhausted. I even went on a few wonderful dates with a close friend who’s becoming more than a friend.

But on day 11, something shifted. The freedom started to feel like limbo.

At first, I reminded myself I was one of the lucky ones. I had support, a place to stay, work I loved, and the means to be here at all. But the anxiety grew louder. What if the visa didn’t come through? What if everything we’d planned—our move, the kids’ schools, our whole future in the UK—fell apart? What if I had to tell my son he wouldn’t be starting at the school he was so excited about in September?

I started spiraling. I stopped writing. I stopped working out. I went out less. I wasn’t sleeping well. I kept repeating how lucky I was. It didn’t help much.

On day 20, Rich and the kids landed. I picked them up at the airport with their favorite American treats, an armful of flowers, and immediately started crying the second I had them pressed against me in hugs.

My favorite days in the world are skiing with my entire family—my husband, children, and parents. My sister visited for a week, too. On those ski days, the visa didn’t matter. But I still wasn’t sleeping.

Late at night, I confessed how anxious I’d become. Rich reminded me, in his steady, soothing way, that we have flexible jobs. We have options. After a week, he had to return to the UK, but the kids stayed with me to enjoy the last week of ski season.

And then this morning—day 34—I got it. The visa. My spousal visa finally arrived.

I didn’t realize how heavily it weighed on me until it was gone. As soon as I got the visa, I felt lighter. After weeks of feeling stuck, I finally woke up at 5 AM and opened my laptop to write.

Our flight is booked, and we have the next three days together skiing in the mushy, slushy snow, soaking up every second with my two favorite kids to teach. Now that the weight has lifted, it finally feels like a vacation again.

And I can’t wait to go home. Well… to our new home.

Q | Will he ever want monogamy with just you?
Rich | “Yes, possibly – these things are hard to predict. I would consider it normal and reasonable to ask for monogamy if that became important to me for some reason.”

Q | Has he ever met someone with more chemistry? Would he want to plan a life with that person?
Rich | “There are sometimes moments where there’s chemistry in some aspect that is weaker or harder to replicate in our marriage. But overall, no, I’d say Danielle and I have better chemistry than any other relationship I’ve had, by a long way.

The bar for me wanting to plan a whole other life with another person is incredibly high – I’d be leaving my partner of 15 years, my kids, it would cause a mountain of heartache for so many people I love. And what would I gain? Daily companionship with someone else instead? I’m happy and don’t need to change these things.

That said, I want my wife and kids to have the best, most fulfilling life they can. If Danielle felt strongly that she would be happier with someone else I’d hope to support that and not hold her back. So even if my answer was yes, one of us is likely to find someone they’d be happier with, that wouldn’t justify monogamy to me. I suspect monogamy is a poor defender against that sort of thing anyway.”

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If you want to ask my husband a question, please write an email addressed to Rich! and send your question to opencommitment@gmail.com. Please keep your questions respectful and 150–200 words max. If this is helpful for the community, I will continue to share questions with him and his responses on my Substack here.

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What’s the Difference?

A boundary is a personal limit I set for myself—something entirely within my control. For instance, I go home (to my home) after a first date. It's a decision I make for my own comfort. Similarly, I choose never to send nude pictures. These are boundaries because they are personal and non-negotiable.

I love Dr. Becky Kennedy’s definition! “A boundary is something you tell someone you will do, and it requires the other person to do nothing.” And “a boundary is a way of telling someone what you need to continue being in a relationship with them that feels good to you.”

However, some statements that seem like personal boundaries need agreement to function. For example, I view my bed as a safe space, but for the past 14 years, I've shared it with my husband. If I decide that no one else can be in our bed, I need his agreement to uphold this, turning it into a rule. For many poly couples, only partners known to and comfortable with all household members may stay overnight.

Another example is that my husband now dislikes sharing his face on public social media. While he set this boundary, maintaining it requires others' cooperation, especially mine, making it a rule.

A rule is an agreement between partners about what behaviors are acceptable and which aren't. Rules require consensus and are about maintaining standards together.

Many couples, for instance, agree always to use protection with other partners. A friend recently told me her husband had unprotected sex, breaking what she thought was a boundary. In reality, he broke a rule, and she can uphold her boundary by not being intimate with him until after an STI test.

A boundary is only as strong as our willingness to uphold it. If a boundary is crossed, it is up to the individual to reinforce it and take action.

Am I nit-picking over terms? I hope not. Individuals have boundaries. Relationships have rules. In an open relationship, those rules are determined by the people involved, not society, religion, or tradition.

The Evolution of Rules

In this video, part of the Couples’ Guide to Opening Up Course, I share three examples of couples opening up who have different boundaries and rules based on their haves, wants and needs. And now that I rewatch the video, ugh! Even I mess up the terms! 📌 The full video is available for paid subscribers.

I also discuss how boundaries and rules can be different depending on the relationship's phase. When setting your boundaries and agreements, don’t feel you must copy other couples just because they’ve been open for longer.

Early Days: When Rich and I first embarked on our journey into an open relationship, we had specific rules in place to ensure a sense of security. We agreed to be each other's primary partners, applied veto power judiciously, and committed to safety practices such as regular STI screenings. We even had strict communication rules about when we tell each other what. These rules helped to anchor our relationship during its early, more vulnerable days.

How Things Have Changed: As our relationship matured and we became more comfortable with our dynamic, our need for stringent rules diminished. We no longer need veto power. Communication about other partners has shifted to a more natural flow, without the need for rigid schedules or prior approvals. Our financial decisions and shared responsibilities, such as raising our children and managing our mortgage, now do more to underline our partnership than any rule could. This evolution took time and trust.

I try not to get too caught up in the specific jargon—social media already has enough acronyms and debates around vocabulary in the ENM community! Initially, the term 'rules' was comforting with its clear structure when we opened up. But these days, I find the word 'agreements' feels more fitting and a bit softer.

The Framework of Boundaries and Rules

In the video, I introduce a model to establish personal boundaries and subsequently shared agreements regarding Who?, What? Where? When? And for all of those, Why?

This framework is simple, and yes, I even made worksheets (below) 😊 But it's meant to be a guideline for discussion. I enjoy writing these down, but you don't have to!

Read more