Salty, Not Sweet
written by: Poppy Sindral
What used to be felt as connection, was now felt as confinement.
I was just standing there, water running through my fingers, when it hit me: I didn’t want to be a “good wife” anymore.
The water was almost scalding. Not because I liked it hot, but because I liked to feel something. That’s what we do, right? When we’re numb, we reach for the burn.
I was burnt out though.
The sponge in my hand had that weird sour scent that clings to plastic after too many days of service. It was once bright yellow. Now it was the color of compromise that is clung to like a life raft. It had been used, worn down, dulled to something that was a poor reflection of its former shape.
That sponge carried the emotional weight of too many days, of routines, of resignation, of invisible labor. It was just a sponge, but that day it felt like the familiarity of patterns that used to feel like love. It felt like me, stuck in old, thankless patterns. I felt it as never before. A small object holding a tidal wave.
Later, I dried my hands and sat down on the cold kitchen tile. The cold pressed into my legs and I welcomed it. At least the floor didn’t expect anything from me.
There it was again. The ache. The one that asks: Is this all there is?
Then the one that follows: Is this what you’re choosing?
I remembered being twelve, watching my mother cry into a casserole. She thought I didn’t notice. I always noticed.
I remembered promising myself I’d never be a woman who made food for people who didn’t see her.
I was forty-seven, and I was serving those casseroles.
That night he said he was tired, so he went to bed early. But we stayed up. We talked about the moon and inflation and how women live loud inside even when they whisper.
“I think I’m sugar, not salt,” I said. I laughed too loud, not because it was funny, but because I knew exactly what I meant. For the first time in a long time, I’d said something true out loud.
Salt makes wounds sting and then it heals. Salt preserves. Sugar just makes everything look nice before it rots.
That next morning, I told him again that I was sugar. He asked if I was on my period.
And you know what? I was. I was shedding everything that no longer served me.
Later, after letting go, I learned:
I can be grateful for the life I have and still be eager for more.
I can stay quiet for decades and then find my voice mid-sentence.
I can wake up in the middle of my life and decide to begin again.
I can love someone with my whole body and still leave them.
For a long time, I’d thought relationships were built on truth. But the older I get, the more I see how often they’re built on shared illusions.
I’d match my blind spots, my needs, my stories, hoping they’d hold. When I stop pretending, when the illusions fall away, the bond breaks.
Now I don’t need others’ approval.
That morning, I looked around and realised I didn’t need to find myself in the mirror of someone else. I didn’t need his approval. I didn’t need the mirror to exist.
No longer do I find an identity by seeing myself in the mirror of a like-minded relationship.
I used to think freedom would feel like a lightning strike. Choosing myself without asking for permission, breaking free from the bonds of relationship, actually felt like a slow exhale after holding my breath for years.
All my relationships had been based on a bond created by shared illusions.
The most honest, inspiring relationship I’ve ever had is now the one I’m building with myself.
Tasting the truth on my tongue, it’s salty, not sweet.
- Salty, Not Sweet - June 9, 2025
