I’m involved with a man at the moment, and he is in a long-term with someone else, so I am the Other Woman. It’s not the first time I’ve been in this role. Over the past 45 years I’ve also been the cheater, and the one who was cheated on. Of the three, I prefer to be the Other Woman.
I know how that sounds. Thoughtless. Heartless. Downright evil. And totally incongruent with the vibe I put out there in the world. Believe me, I know. Dear friends who have known me for decades and love me unconditionally ask me pointedly why I think it’s okay to be the Other Woman. How do I reconcile that with my spirituality, my claim that I am love and light and healing? If I’m so connected to the Divine, if I’m so loving, then how can I justify this? How can I claim to be such a good person while doing such a bad thing?
I guess maybe I’m just a bad person. Or maybe, just maybe, there is more to the story.
When the Coldplay kiss cam debacle happened, I joined the rest of the world in thinking, “Dumbass. You don’t go out in public with your mistress.” I enjoyed the memes and shenanigans that followed, I openly laughed at the jokes borne of the infidelity that literally got put in the spotlight.
Inside me, though, was my dark little secret that only a handful of people knew, and I cowered there. I felt afraid. Afraid of the vitriol. Afraid for my safety, should my own affair get discovered by his girlfriend and her family. Afraid for myself, afraid for him.
Yet here I am, outing myself.
But why? If it’s supposed to be a secret, a dark, terrible secret, why take the risk of the wrong person seeing it? Why risk my reputation as a very loving and lovable human being? Why risk the wrath and ridicule of the general public? I’ve seen what can happen. I’m afraid of what could happen. Taking it public is counterintuitive in the extreme.
Well, what can I say? I’ve always wanted to tell the story, god knows I’ve been journaling about it for months. Partly to help me understand it myself, and partly because I hate keeping secrets. Writing is my catharsis. But mostly I’m sharing it because I know I can’t be the only one. I know I’m in the club with a few celebrities, but surely there are a few more. I suspect there are other Other Women out there who are probably feeling like I do now, watching the public flogging of these two people who - other than the fact they are in the 1% which automatically makes them loathsome - were two people who were drawn to one another and started a relationship, knowing full well the risks involved.
We Other Women saw Kristin Cabot, blissfully in the arms of the man she loves. We saw her horror, her dismay, and her instinct to protect herself. Watched her cover her face, duck away. We felt every single one of those feelings with her, thinking Jesus, that could be me. We saw that the person getting the first and most derision was the man, Andy. That Kristin herself, at least initially, was not instantly the bad guy. That didn’t last long, though.
I stopped following the story, because I’d seen enough. It’s inescapable, though, especially in comedy. I love comedians, and all of them jumped at the chance to ridicule. Even Josh Johnson, who I adore; who always brings his stories back around to the humanity of a situation, couldn’t find a way to to see it. If even Josh Johnson can’t see you as a human, does that mean you are unredeemable?
Today a couple of pictures of Kristin came through one of my social media feeds - she resigned her position in the company where he was CEO, and she went home in disgrace. She is being hounded by the media. In the photos she could be seen watering her garden. Just a woman, watering her garden, undoubtedly wishing everyone would just leave her alone, but knowing that won’t happen. Maybe she thinks she’s gotten what she deserves. Maybe she feels guilty. Maybe she wishes she hadn’t done such a thing.
Maybe.
Something inside me says that Kristin’s predominant feeling is sorrow. Raw grief. Because she knows that in all likelihood she and Andy will not be together again, unless they can somehow escape scrutiny, which is impossible right now, and for the foreseeable future.
Something inside me says that Kristin is screaming inside; wailing and furious, and in a very dark place.
I kept silent, but I didn’t hear anyone talking about what happened from their point of view, until I came across this post in my feed.
I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this post, which in essence reminds the reader that Andy Byron is a human being. It’s been so very easy for the world to malign these two. The verdict was instantaneous: they were doing something so wrong, so reprehensible that it deserved the immediate malicious coverage. They represent everything that is wrong with this country! They are selfish! They are cheaters! They got what’s coming to them! May they both burn in hell! GUILTY! GUILTY! GUILTY!
The writer asks gently for us to maybe take a moment and consider. To get off the Righteous Ride and think about them as people.
I’m going to add to that conversation.
Let me talk to ye among you who are without sin. Let’s talk about casting stones. Lemme just ask you, human to human:
Have you ever been attracted to, even fallen for, someone? A deep, inexplicable, sudden and undeniable connection?
What if they happen to be in a relationship already?
If so, what if they seem to feel the same about you? Enough so that they are willing to risk everything - livelihood, marriage, children, home - to spend time with you? Would you be with them?
What if you tried and tried to end it, but couldn’t? Knowing that this might be as good as it gets - just this little bit, stolen moments - but it’s worth it, because every fiber of your being lights up in the presence of that person? That person who makes you feel seen? That person who held up a mirror in which you saw how beautiful and amazing you are? Would you keep seeing them?
And what if you yourself had been cheated on, and you knew how painful it could be for their significant other, how earth shattering, how disastrous. What if you had learned the hard way that everyone has their own story? And although you may be the protagonist in your own story, sometimes you’re cast as the villain in someone else’s story?
Aye, there’s the rub.
It sucks. I don’t want to be a villain. But I am. I am the Other Woman. I am Kristin. I am every woman who met a man who made them feel like the most beautiful, angelic, desirable woman on the planet, and then found themselves face to face with their darkest selves. I am every woman who knew that this kind of soul connection - though forbidden - is so precious, so rare, that everything and everyone else is worth the sacrifice.
But do I even understand what he is risking? Of course I do. I think about his girlfriend, her daughter who he’s known for half her life. Of course I do. I know how important they are to him, how much he cares about them. I can also see what staying there for their sake is costing him. I don’t want to cause them pain. I simply want his pain to end. I know that I am a balm for him; I know that the days when he spent time with me are some of the best days of his life. It is the same for me. It’s hard to let that go.
Vilify me all you want. I’ve always made the best choices I could. And when he and I are not communicating (usually because I’m trying to stop seeing him, or he has gone silent), my mental health plummets. That’s just how it is. I am happier with him in my life, even with what little I get. It’s just that simple.
And before you launch into the very helpful diatribe “You shouldn’t need another person to love you and validate you and make you feel whole!”, I need you to know that’s not the case here. I was already a whole person when I met him. I was in love with myself and my life. I had accepted that I would probably be alone the rest of my days. That at 58, celibate for over a decade, my passionate years were over. And I was completely content with that. I was at a great place in my life. Loved my job, loved my home, loved my schedule. Life was good. Boring, but good.
Then he walked into my house and lit up the world and opened my heart and set off an explosion that shook me to my core and changed my whole life. For the better.
So, no, my mental health doesn’t suffer because I need him to feel whole - my mental health suffers when he’s not in it because his presence in my life is like frosting on a cupcake. Without frosting, a cupcake is just a naked muffin. Frosting makes it special.
With regards to my mental health, though: I had a breakdown when trump stole the election in 2016, and nearly left my family (in every sense of the word) due to my crushing despair and fear. So when I woke up the morning of November 6, 2024 and I could feel the horror and grief of the entire world before I even found out the news, I knew I couldn’t go down that road again. I would not survive. I was going to need to be very intentional about where I was putting my energy. I could not give in to the Swamp of Sadness.
I was already seeing him by then. And verily I say unto thee: this man was a gift from the Divine. He kept my head above water while the world went mad. He gave me hope. He brought me joy. He made me laugh. We had unbelievable, illogical chemistry in a way I had never before felt. Instant trust. Instant feeling of safety. Instant feeling of home. For all those things, I love him.
He made his choices. So did I. None of them have been easy. I made decisions after deep contemplation, facing uncomfortable truths, and plummeting into darkness. I made my decisions after taking a long hard look at my feelings on as many levels as I could.
I confronted my inner teenager and asked her how the hell she got control. She told me this was my chance to know what it felt like to truly love someone. That all the times I thought I loved were literally child’s play. Plus, she’s horny and he is just the guy to handle it.
I confronted my menopausal, celibate, dry desert self, asked WTF? She questioned me in return: how many times I thought I loved someone? What did it feel like? What did I learn? How does it compares to now? She asked me if I’d ever imagined I would be sexually awake again. Am I awake now? The answers were simple: the feelings are real, and never in my long illustrious career as a sexual human have I felt the way I am feeling now. It has never been like this. Never.
I also had many, many discussions with my spirit guides - some quite heated. What they told me is that this whole thing was divinely orchestrated - because I needed the awakening he brought. They will not, however, tell me what to do. It is up to me.
Ultimately I made my decisions based on my years of experience, my deep knowledge of myself, and my understanding of how the universe works. I never took it lightly.
I have no idea what this has been like for him. None. (He’s an avoidant, which adds a whole additional level to this thing. I’m going to avoid talking about that right now.) So I can only speak for myself. But even if he isn’t the navel-gazer that I am, he had his own reasons, his own desires, his own lessons. Those things are not for me to know - I only get what he chooses to give me.
A few months ago I reached a point in my spiritual healing journey where I realized I had learned all I could in my hometown environment, had done what I had set out to do, and that it was time to move on. I decided to put my personal growth first, to leave town, even though it meant leaving him. Because of that, maybe this time I could actually let him go, by brute force. I hoped and prayed that time and distance would be able to pry my soul away from his. Instead, it’s been like The Golden Compass, when they severed the children from their daemons. Horrific. Excruciating.
Driving away from him that final time, not knowing if I would ever see him again, I experienced a pain that was nearly unbearable. My heart was being ripped from my chest. Deep, primal anguish. I was excited about my new life’s adventures, yes, and I was also sobbing uncontrollably and trying to keep my heart and soul together.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, at first my being miles away was not a deterrent. Text messages, phone calls, and photos had formed the bulk of our relationship from the beginning, so for the first month it wasn’t all that different than it ever was. That has changed over time, and my feeling is that it might actually end organically, as we focus on our own lives - or it won’t. The jury is still out on whether we can tear ourselves away from each other.
Speaking of juries, I can surmise by the extreme reaction to Andy and Kristin, any jury trying me would be back in less than a minute, with a resounding guilty verdict and recommendations for severe punishment. Because I deserve it, don’t I?
They don’t really talk about this when you sign up, but steep is the price you pay when you are the Other Woman.
—-
And here we are. Everyone is vilifying the Cold Play kiss cam couple, as if they have committed the sin of the century. It’s unanimous. They are bad, because cheating on your spouse is unforgivable. Except it’s not our job to forgive - that pleasure goes to the betrayed significant other, and chances are slim that forgiveness is possible. At any rate, it’s really none of our business.
So I ask you to (re)consider infidelity and how under certain circumstances it’s actually okay. Roll with me here:
Billie Eilish, who I suspect is divinity, put out a raunchy and catchy song ‘Bad Guy’. Everyone loved it. She’s so naughty. She’s the bad girl, and we all get to be bad girls through her. Infidelity is just doing what - and who - you want, and saying ‘fuck you’ to everyone else. Wouldn’t that be empowering? Girl power Billie!
Taylor Swift sang plaintively about ‘Illicit Affairs’, and everyone got it. They hear the heartbreak and they sympathize. Of course it’s painful, having an affair. Of course it’s hard, and worthy of our pity and concern. Poor Taylor.
And do we even have to mention the plethora of shows which rely on adultery to snare their viewers. Game of Thrones comes to mind. Grey’s Anatomy. Viewers salivate over, get off on, watching people bang people they aren’t supposed to be banging. It’s a vicarious thrill. Sexy. Spicy.
My personal favorite handling of the topic is the movie Bridges of Madison County, in which Meryl Streep plays Francesca, a farm wife who is going through the motions and making the best of life, because that’s just what you do. She sends her husband and kids off to the state fair, grateful for some alone time. And then Clint Eastwood, playing a photographer named Robert, shows up at her door asking for directions. They fall into each other like they had been waiting for it their entire lives. They have a blissful week before her family returns, but she tells Robert she can’t go with him, can’t leave her family, much as she wants to. A few days later she is in the truck with her husband, running an errand in town, and she sees Robert in his truck. He told her he’d be there, to give her one last chance before he leaves. This is it. Her hand grips the door handle, she swallows back tears.
She stays in the truck with her husband.
There was not a dry eye in the theater, because it was so obvious that Robert was her soulmate, and it was heartbreaking that she chose not to be with him. Even though technically I’m Robert in this scenario, I relate most to Francesca, finding herself in love for maybe the first time in her life, but choosing to let him go, because it’s for the overall good. Our hearts broke for them. Not sure anyone gave a second thought to her amiable husband, but that’s another story.
I’m sure there are more examples. My point is that clearly sometimes infidelity is acceptable, whether because of its playful tantalizing naughtiness, or because sometimes two people fall into each other because they were meant to. They were brought together for a reason.
Given that, may I suggest we take it on a case-by-case basis, if we feel the need to take it at all?
I have no stones to throw at Kristin. In fact, if I could, I would bring her a cake, like Francesca later befriending the ostracized town harlot who also cheated on her man. Francesca had learned that you can’t help who you fall for; having that exquisite bliss, that divine connection, no matter how wrong, is so much bigger and more valuable than you ever thought it could be. And just as costly.
There never was and never will be a Coldplay concert for my lover and I. We are a well-kept secret - only a handful of my people know who he is. But now as I see that this country is full of people who would never do such a thing, who are circling like sharks while she bleeds, I just can’t cover my face and duck away anymore. Because maybe the ostracized town harlot needs a friend. Perhaps we can find someone other than the Other Woman to hang the sins of the world upon. We could bring a cake instead. Just a thought. Bring Kristin a cake, and sit down with her, and listen. Just listen.
Til next time,
Rhon