Hi, my name is Sarah and I’m addicted to reality TV—especially the ones about relationships.
There’s something fascinating about watching people put themselves in high-stress situations and seeing what unfolds. Sure, a lot of it is scripted. But not all of it. You can still spot real emotion—those moments when someone is truly relaxed and open, or tightly guarded. And often, the story arcs mirror the emotional patterns we’ve lived ourselves.
Which brings me to Netflix’s new show, Cheat: Unfinished Business. No spoilers here (though I make no promises for the comments), but I just have to say… Craig? Really?
The premise of the show is exactly what the title suggests: exes return to confront deception in their relationships and find out whether healing is even possible. What stood out most to me was the advice given by Paul C. Brunson. He emphasizes that even relationships scarred by cheating can recover—but only if there’s full transparency moving forward. (I’m all about planting seeds, so Paul, if you're out there—let’s do a podcast episode sometime!)
What struck me most wasn’t the deception itself, but people’s reactions to it. The hurt, the confusion, the gut-wrenching moment of realizing: How didn’t I know?
That’s the question that hits hard.
Because when you’re deeply connected to someone—when you’ve opened your heart and body and soul—it can feel like a betrayal not just by them, but by your own intuition. If I didn’t see that coming, can I even trust myself?
For the record, I don’t think I’ve ever been cheated on. At least not in the classic, dramatic way. But I can’t help but wonder if I subconsciously designed my life to avoid that particular pain altogether.
One of the main reasons I married my ex-husband was because I was 100% sure he wouldn’t cheat. My father had cheated on my mother, which led to their divorce, and even at 23, I was determined not to repeat that pattern. But in hyperfixating on one form of betrayal, I overlooked other issues. And ultimately, our divorce turned out to be even messier than my parents’.
Before things went south, we mutually agreed to try an open marriage. And from then on, I spent most of my adult life in open relationships—until recently, when I returned to monogamy.
Maybe open relationships felt safer because they removed the fear of cheating. Maybe I believed fidelity was too much to ask of people. Maybe I just wasn’t allowing myself to form the kind of attachment that could hurt me the way my mother had been hurt.
But relationships are mirrors.
They reflect back what we most need to heal. They are portals to growth—not in spite of the discomfort, but because of it. And even though I spent years trying to sidestep certain wounds, they found their way to the surface in other forms.
As I’ve deepened my connection to intuition, I’ve learned to hold those messy moments with more compassion. To let the pain become a teacher. To give myself grace.
Because let’s be honest—intimate relationships are complicated. There are so many reasons we ignore red flags or gut feelings: fear of starting over, financial entanglement, amazing sex, attachment to a future we thought we were building. It’s human.
But if you’ve ever been blindsided, I hope you don’t give up on yourself.
You still have intuition.
It’s still there.
And it’s still worth trusting.
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If you've ever questioned your intuition in love, you're not alone. What helped you reconnect with your inner knowing?
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