A Personal Aftermath

I’ll be real with you — I’ve been cheated on. It was with my partner of two years, and finding out felt like someone had punched me in the chest. The betrayal wasn’t just about the act itself, but what it represented: the collapse of trust, the shattering of values I had held onto since childhood. Growing up in a Catholic family, monogamy wasn’t just a relationship choice, it was an expectation. Commitment and loyalty weren’t optional; they were stitched into who I was. When my partner broke that, it felt like my entire worldview cracked open.

I tried forgiveness, partly because I believed it was the “right” thing to do, and partly because I was terrified of letting go. But forgiveness didn’t heal the wound. Instead, I became possessive and insecure, monitoring their every move, losing myself in the process. Three months later, I ended it — not out of strength, but because the relationship had become unbearable. It took me almost a year to truly move on, to stop replaying every detail in my head and questioning my worth.

What that experience taught me was layered. First, the trauma of betrayal cuts deeper than words can describe. Second, forgiveness does not equal restoration. And third, when it comes to love and loyalty, humans are far more complicated than the rules we’ve been taught. That breakup was the catalyst for me to question not only relationships but also the very nature of monogamy and fidelity itself.

It also made me think about why cheating is so common, despite how devastating it feels. Are humans really meant to be with one person forever, or are we forcing ourselves into a mold that doesn’t fit? That question sent me digging into the psychology of monogamy.

What is Monogamy?

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: humans weren’t designed for strict monogamy.

As Ryan and Jethá argue in Sex at Dawn, “the human animal is not, by nature, a monogamous creature,” which explains why attraction to more than one person is deeply ingrained in us.

Evolutionary psychology tells us that our ancestors survived by spreading genes widely, ensuring diversity and increasing chances of survival. Pair bonds happened, but exclusivity wasn’t hardwired. Desire and attraction have always existed beyond a single partner, which is why even today, temptation exists no matter how committed we are.

As society evolved, however, fidelity became a necessity. Religion, culture, and law reshaped the way relationships were understood. Monogamy promised stability, clarity of inheritance, and the security needed to raise children. Over centuries, it became the “ideal,” not just a personal decision but a societal mandate. To betray it wasn’t just a personal wound; it was a violation of collective values.

This duality creates tension. On one side, our instincts still pull us toward multiple attractions, craving novelty and validation. On the other side, society tells us that true love equals exclusivity. The conflict between biology and expectation sits at the heart of many modern relationships. When one partner feels trapped, unfulfilled, or disconnected, the temptation to step outside the relationship grows.

But here’s the crucial part: temptation doesn’t equal inevitability. Attraction may be natural, but action is a choice. And this is where the debate over justifying cheating gets complicated. Is infidelity simply a reflection of our human wiring, or is it a conscious betrayal we should hold people accountable for?

Why People Cheat and the Thin Line of Justification

Cheating doesn’t come out of nowhere. It often grows from unmet needs — emotional neglect, lack of intimacy, or a desire for validation. Those feelings are real and valid. But when unmet needs are used as an excuse to betray, it becomes justification. And justification is dangerous. Because if we normalize it, we start telling people: “It’s okay to hurt someone deeply if you felt you had a reason.”

When I was betrayed, the aftermath wasn’t just about them — it was about me. Nights spent awake, replaying conversations, questioning whether everything had been a lie. I spiraled into self-blame: Was I not enough? Did I miss the signs? Even after I forgave them, the scar didn’t fade. Instead, I turned into someone I didn’t recognize — paranoid, controlling, drained of the joy that once made me who I was.

This is the cost of cheating: it doesn’t only break trust, it fractures identity. The betrayed partner often carries wounds that outlive the relationship, shaping how they approach love in the future. Forgiveness may help release anger, but it doesn’t erase the consequences. That’s why justification feels so hollow. It excuses the choice while ignoring the damage.

The line between understanding and justifying is thin but important. We can understand the psychology of cheating, the emotional triggers, and the complexity of human desire. But understanding is not the same as excusing. Once you excuse betrayal, you erase accountability, and without accountability, there is no growth.

Forgiveness, Growth, and Accountability

Forgiveness and justification are often confused, but they are worlds apart. Forgiveness is about your healing, not their redemption. It’s about letting go of anger so it doesn’t poison your future. Justification, on the other hand, erases accountability and allows betrayal to be normalized.

If someone cheats, they are not automatically doomed to repeat it. People can grow, people can change — but only if they own their actions. Accountability is the bridge between mistake and growth. Without it, betrayal simply becomes a cycle.

For me, forgiving my partner didn’t restore the relationship. It only highlighted the cracks. The truth was, I was holding on out of fear, not love. Walking away was the first step toward growth, even if it felt like failure at the time. In hindsight, it was an act of reclaiming myself. And that’s why accountability matters: it creates space for both people to decide who they want to be moving forward.

So, should cheaters be forever condemned? No. But should their actions be justified? Also no. Growth comes when people admit fault, not when society writes off betrayal as “understandable.”

Lessons for the Betrayed and the Bigger Picture

If you’ve been cheated on, let me say this clearly: it is not your fault. Their betrayal reflects their decision, not your worth. Healing is slow and uneven, but it begins with reclaiming your self-respect. For me, it meant turning inward, prioritizing my mental health, and rediscovering what I truly wanted in a partner. It meant realizing that staying in a broken relationship out of fear of loneliness wasn’t love — it was self-sabotage.

In today’s world, where relationships can feel disposable, it’s tempting to normalize betrayal, to say “everyone cheats” or “it was just a mistake.” But every time we do, we dilute the meaning of commitment. Honesty may be hard, even brutal, but it is always kinder than betrayal. Ending a relationship is painful, but it is still more respectful than pretending while seeking comfort elsewhere.

The bigger lesson is this: relationships are fragile ecosystems. They thrive on honesty and mutual respect. Betrayal poisons that system, and no justification can purify it. The only way forward is through accountability, communication, and the choice to be truthful — even when it’s uncomfortable.

So, should we justify a cheater? My answer is no. We can empathize with human flaws, understand the triggers, and acknowledge the complexity of desire. But justification is not compassion — it is complicity. And complicity is not love.

At the end of the day, relationships demand more than romance; they demand responsibility. Betrayal breaks not only trust but the very foundation of intimacy. People can change, but only when they face their choices without excuses. Accountability is the first step to growth. Justification, on the other hand, keeps the wound open.

So, as for me? I choose honesty.

By Dion Palandi — September 24, 2025