In the late 1980s, Dr. Jan Halper ran a study that asked 4,100 successful men—executives, entrepreneurs, professionals—the kind of question you can’t answer without shifting in your seat: “Did you leave your wife for the other woman?” Only 3 percent said yes. Not exactly a groundswell of romantic rebellion.
But here’s where it gets stickier. Of that small, defiant sliver—those who left the boardroom and the bedroom behind for a shot at forbidden love— another study from Frank Pittman shows 75 percent of their new marriages ended in divorce. Surprisingly another researcher discovered most of them didn’t even make it past year two.
It’s not just a fluke. It’s a pattern. And as someone who’s spent years sitting across from couples trying to stitch their lives back together after infidelity, I can tell you: the data is just the beginning. What it doesn’t explain is why. Why do these relationships, born in heat and secrecy, so often crash and burn once the dust settles?
That’s the real question. And if you're standing at the edge of that particular cliff—wondering whether to jump—you deserve more than a statistic. You deserve the whole story.
Here are 13 reasons I wouldn’t leave for the affair partner.
Personally, as a couples therapist, I’ve never seen it work. Not once. Every couple I’ve worked with who started as an affair ended up in my office for the same reason: someone cheated again. The names changed, the circumstances varied, but the theme was constant—what began with secrecy and adrenaline couldn’t sustain itself in daylight. The betrayal that once bound them together now turned inward. Because if you both broke the rules to be together, what keeps either of you from breaking them again? The affair wasn’t the exception—it was the template. And templates have a way of repeating themselves
One couple I worked with had been married for less than a year when they came into my office. They’d started as an affair—she left her husband, he left his wife—and now, the cracks were showing. During a session, the wife, Monica, looked down at her hands and said quietly, “I think I made a huge mistake.”Her husband, the affair partner, stiffened but said nothing. She continued, “I thought I was choosing love. But I realize now, I was choosing escape. My ex-husband wasn’t perfect, but he was steady. Loyal. He was good to our kids. This… this is chaos.”Then she looked at me and said, “I thought I was trading up. But I left someone who genuinely cared for me for someone who made me feel alive for a few months. That high is gone. And now I’m left with the reality—I blew up my life for a man who doesn’t treat me half as well.”That session was filled with silence. Not the awkward kind—but the heavy, truth-hangs-in-the-air kind. Because Monica wasn’t just mourning her past. She was facing it—and realizing that what felt like passion was really just a painful detour away from something that had real, if flawed, value.
2. The personal growth never happens. That’s the silent consequence no one warns you about. When someone leaves their spouse for the affair partner, they don’t go through the internal reckoning that real change demands. They just change scenery. It’s like skipping rehab and assuming a new apartment will cure your addiction. In my office, the pattern is painfully consistent: they blame their spouse—“I married the wrong person,” “They didn’t meet my needs,” “We just grew apart.” But blame is a great short-term strategy with terrible long-term returns. Because the truth is, staying after an affair to work on their marriage forces people to confront themselves—their emptiness, their coping strategies, their unmet needs. It’s hard. It’s humbling. But it grows you. Leaving for the affair partner, on the other hand, often just preserves the illusion. You get the new relationship, but the same baggage shows up—only now, it’s more complicated. You didn’t outgrow your internal problems and dysfunction that contributed to the downfall of your marriage. You just moved it to a new relationship.
Sarah walked into my office six months after leaving her marriage of twelve years for someone new. At first, she was radiant—“I feel reborn,” she said, describing the thrilling early days of her affair. But when the glow dimmed, something else emerged: frustration. “He’s polite,” she said of her new partner. “But he still doesn’t get me.” She paused. “And sometimes… I’m not even sure I know me anymore.”
As our session moved on, a pattern became clear. She blamed her ex-husband for everything—“He was so emotionally distant,” “He never appreciated me”—but when asked what she’d done to improve communication, manage expectations, or develop her self-worth, she faltered. There had been no reckoning with her own avoidance, no therapy, no honest work. Instead, she’d just packed up and moved—emotionally, geographically, relationally. What followed was predictable: her old insecurities, unmet needs, and unhealthy coping strategies whispered through the new backdrop. And without confronting them, the same issues began to undermine this relationship too.
Sarah’s story isn’t unique—it’s the silent consequence no one warns you about. Changing partners without doing the internal work doesn’t lead to transformation; it leads to reruns. You get the new scenery—but the same unresolved baggage shows up, unpacked, and more complicated. And eventually, it haunts even the honeymoon phase.
3. Frank Pittman—a man who studied infidelity—had a sobering stat: of the rare 3% who do marry their affair partner, 75% will divorce. And not just eventually—quickly. Most don’t even make it past the honeymoon phase before the cracks start to show. Why? Pittman called it “the intervention of reality.” A perfect phrase. What ends the fantasy isn’t a fight or a betrayal—it’s real life showing up with the lights on. Guilt, suspicion, unmet expectations, and a creeping sense that if you built your love on a lie, what’s to stop another one from showing up later? The same trust that made the affair exciting becomes the thing neither person can fully give again. They both know what the other is capable of—and it’s not exactly a sturdy foundation for a forever kind of love.
4. The Intervention of Reality. This is the trouble with castles built on quicksand. A marriage born from an affair starts with adrenaline, not alignment. It’s thrilling, sure. But then reality intervenes. And reality is a buzzkill. Grocery bills, parenting differences, a fight over in-laws—suddenly, the magic fades, and all that’s left is the uncomfortable silence of two people who skipped the hard conversations. A marriage that begins in betrayal has to climb out of a deeper hole than most. Trust doesn’t come pre-installed; it comes with a scar. And loyalty? That’s the question echoing in both of their heads every time one of them is late getting home.
5. The very ingredients that made their affair intoxicating are the ones that poison the marriage. In the shadows, the affair thrived—hidden, idealized, and untouched by daily drudgery. It wasn’t built on the boring work of love; it was built on the fantasy of being seen, desired, and rescued. But once the curtain is pulled back—once they move in together, share bills, navigate each other’s parenting disasters—it’s no longer a dream. It’s Tuesday night with crying children and someone forgot to take the trash out. Limerence, that intoxicating chemical cocktail of desire and illusion, wears off. What’s left is a relationship that skipped the part where people learn how to really love each other—without the thrill of secrecy, without the high of escape.
6. Beauty Turns Into the Beast. The man who fancied himself a white knight often discovers, too late, that the damsel he rescued was never really in distress—she was just really good at playing the part. And once the curtain drops, once the rescuing is done, he’s not holding a grateful partner—he’s holding a ticking time bomb of unmet needs, unresolved trauma, and emotional chaos. That "abusive husband" she needed saving from? Maybe. But sometimes, it wasn’t abuse—it was a pattern. And now, he’s next in line. What started as heroism ends in confusion. He thought he was escaping dysfunction, only to marry directly into it.
Jessica thought she had found the answer. After years of feeling invisible in her marriage—neglected, unheard—she fell into something that felt electric. Her affair partner, Derek, was attentive, romantic, always saying the right thing. He told her she deserved better. That he couldn’t stand watching her suffer. That her husband didn’t appreciate her, but he would. He made her feel seen in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
So, she left. She risked everything—her marriage, her reputation, her kids’ stability—to build a life with him.
But six months into their new life together, something shifted.
Derek wasn’t the man she thought she’d moved heaven and earth for. He had a temper. He got moody when she didn’t respond fast enough to his texts. He accused her of wanting to go back to her ex whenever she had a bad day. He drank more than she realized. He flattered her less. Argued more. And in her quietest moments, Jessica began to question if the stories he’d told her about his ex-wife—how “controlling” and “crazy” she’d been—were really the whole truth. Because now, he was saying the same things about her.
She didn’t just leave her husband—she jumped into a fire. And for the first time, she wondered if her ex was really the problem… or if Derek had just been playing a part.
The knight in shining armor? Just another guy with a sword—and some seriously sharp edges.
7. Guilt is a funny thing. It often shows up late to the party, but when it arrives, it brings all its friends—regret, shame, and second-guessing. In the glow of the affair, guilt is easy to ignore. Everything feels justified. But after the dust settles and the wedding rings are swapped, it starts to creep in. Not because of the ceremony, but because of the consequences. The kids who were supposed to be "resilient" are suddenly withdrawn. School performance tanks. Social circles shrink. And the person who once seemed like a prize now reminds them daily of what it cost to be together. Pittman said it plainly: “Only after their marriage did the divorce become real enough to see that it was a horrible mistake.” Because when you’re drunk on infatuation, you forget to ask if what you’re doing makes any sense at all.
8. Uneven Sacrifice. One of them gave up everything—home, spouse, maybe even custody of the kids—while the other took their time, hedged bets, stayed married “just a little longer.” That imbalance doesn’t disappear after the wedding cake is cut. It festers. One partner silently calculates the cost: I blew up my entire life for you.The other feels cornered, blamed, and maybe even duped. Trust, already fragile, buckles under the weight of these unspoken resentments. What began as a grand escape becomes a courtroom drama, with each side presenting receipts of who lost more. And the irony? The affair that once promised freedom now becomes the very thing that imprisons them.
Lena left everything. Her husband, her home, her two teenage sons who chose to live with their father after the divorce. She packed her bags and moved into a one-bedroom apartment across town, all because Jake—her affair partner—said he couldn’t imagine life without her. But Jake? Jake took his time. He stayed in his marriage for another nine months, citing logistics, finances, the kids’ school schedule. He said he’d leave “when the time was right.”
By the time he moved in with Lena, the damage was done. Her boys barely spoke to her. Her parents wouldn’t return her calls. Her ex-husband had taken the high road—and won everyone’s sympathy.
Lena never said it out loud, but it simmered: I gave up everything. You didn’t. And Jake felt it too. The way she questioned his phone calls, the edge in her voice when old friends asked about his ex, the occasional jab—“Must be nice to still have your family talking to you.”
They tried to pretend it didn’t matter. But it did. Jake felt like he was always on trial. Lena felt like she’d been conned. What started as the most passionate chapter of her life was now a ledger of losses—and she wasn’t sure it added up to love.
9. Unrealistic Expectations—bloated, cinematic, and utterly unsustainable. The new couple, forged in heat and secrecy, assumes the fire will last forever. But marriage isn’t a montage of hotel rooms and hushed phone calls—it’s bills, bad moods, and Monday nights. And when reality knocks, they’re often unprepared. The greater the wreckage left behind—the families fractured, the reputations bruised—the greater the pressure for this new relationship to mean something. But when the magic inevitably fades, as it does in all relationships, they misread it as failure rather than evolution. And if one or both partners have unresolved mental health struggles or character vulnerabilities, or an anxious attachment, avoidant attachment or fearful avoidant attachment style they’re even less equipped to transition from passion to partnership. They don’t fall out of love. They fall out of the fantasy—and they assume it’s the same thing.
10. They Don’t Trust Each Other—ironically, the one thing these relationships need most and get the least. The very nature of how it all began becomes the wedge. “You took me from my family,” one might say. “You knew I was married, and you didn’t care.” Now that they're married, those once-charming traits—flirting, seduction, spontaneity—start to feel like landmines. Every glance at a stranger is suspect. Every compliment triggers old scripts. And beneath it all is the uncomfortable truth: if we were willing to lie to everyone else, what makes us think we were telling the truth to each other? What was once passion becomes paranoia. One or both might uncover a trail of lies told even to them. Or worse, they realize they simply don’t like each other. Not the fantasy version, but the real person: selfish, emotionally immature, or just not who they pretended to be. Limerence may have blurred the flaws, but it never erased them. And once the fog lifts, the cracks show—sometimes in places too deep to repair.
Jason used to feel like a king when Marla looked at him. It was during that lonely stretch of his first marriage—when he felt invisible at home, like a paycheck with a pulse. Marla, his coworker, laughed at his jokes, touched his arm when she talked, told him he deserved more. She made him feel seen. Chosen. Alive.
Now, three years and one divorce later, she’s his wife.
But things feel different now.
Marla scrolls through his Instagram, checking who he’s liked, reading into every comment. She brings up women from the office—names he barely remembers—with an edge in her voice. “You’re still so friendly with Melissa,” she says one night, too casually. Jason bristles. “She’s just a coworker.” But he remembers how that used to sound. He used to say the same thing about Marla.
He catches himself watching her too—when she’s on her phone, when she says she’s running late. Not because she’s done anything wrong. But because now he knows she’s capable of doing what they did. He knows she knows how to lie well. How to hide things in plain sight.
And suddenly, every ordinary moment is a potential threat. Not because of what’s happening—but because of what’s already happened. They don’t trust each other. Not fully. Not deeply. And maybe they never will.
11. Smaller Social Circle. During the affair and the divorce, the unfaithful couple often builds a bunker. They retreat, cut ties, disappear into their own little world where no one can question them, shame them, or remind them of who they used to be. But eventually, they try to come out. They want to reconnect with family, rebuild friendships. Only to discover those bridges have burned. The friends they abandoned? Gone. The family they betrayed? Wary and cold. What they’re left with is each other—just each other—and that’s not romantic. It’s isolating. Now every stress, every disappointment, every unmet expectation has nowhere to go but back into the relationship. And the person who was once the rescuer becomes the problem. The safe haven becomes the pressure cooker. When the rescue fantasy fades, what’s left are two people realizing they bet everything on a high—and lost.
Nicole used to host dinners every Friday night—her house full of laughter, wine, and the kind of friendships that felt like family. But when the affair started, the invitations stopped. One by one, the group fell away. Some didn’t approve. Others just felt awkward. And when she left her husband for Michael—the man she swore was “the one”—no one followed her into that new chapter.
At first, she didn’t notice. She and Michael were in their bubble—texting all day, nesting in their new apartment, pretending the world was just them. But after a year, it started to ache.
Her sister still hadn’t visited. Her college best friend unfriended her. Her kids were polite but distant, never staying long. Even Michael’s family kept her at arm’s length.
And on the nights when Michael got quiet—tired from work, distracted by his phone—there was no one else to call. No girls’ night. No brunch crew. Just silence. Just Michael.
She’d traded a community for a fantasy. And now, she was alone with the only person who still saw her as the woman worth leaving it all for. But even he was starting to look tired. Distant. Less like her savior and more like another mirror reflecting back her own regret.
12. They don’t have a golden past to draw strength from. No nostalgic wedding album. No fond “remember when” to get them through the storms. Just a backstory that makes people uncomfortable—a beginning built on betrayal. When most couples hit rough patches, they lean on early memories, relive the better times to remind themselves why they chose each other. But couples who started as an affair? They flinch from their origin story. They tiptoe around it. Because revisiting the past isn’t romantic—it’s radioactive. And when it does come up, it’s not soothing. It’s triggering. The mention of an ex-spouse's good qualities can ignite jealousy. Recalling the laughter shared in the former marriage becomes emotional landmines. Everyone wants to feel irreplaceable. But in a story that began with someone else’s heartbreak, there’s always a ghost at the table.
Mike and Jenna had no shared foundation to anchor them. No lean years they’d survived together. No broke-but-happy stories to laugh about now. Their origin was scandal, not solidarity. And when real pressure hit, they couldn’t fall back on who they’d been—only on who they had betrayed to be together. Every rough patch felt heavier without history to steady them. What they had wasn’t a past—it was a wound. And it kept reopening.
13. Competing Loyalties
Affairs don’t come with clean breaks—they come with whiplash. One foot in, one foot out. The affair partner may have imagined they were the chosen one, but the reality? They were often second place in a game of emotional tug-of-war. Time and again, the unfaithful spouse would go back to their marriage. Try again. Sleep in the guest room. Make promises. Then break them. Then return to the affair. Rinse, repeat. Each cycle didn’t just shatter the betrayed spouse’s trust—it gutted the affair partner’s as well. The result? A romance born in betrayal, marinated in rejection. This is the emotional glue of the new relationship. And people expect to build a lasting marriage on that? It’s not a fresh start—it’s a trail of broken allegiances. When your honeymoon phase is defined by hiding, lying, and being the runner-up, trust isn’t just hard—it’s practically extinct.
Sophie used to believe she was the one James truly loved. He said all the right things: that his marriage was over, that she made him feel alive, that it was only a matter of time. But then, he’d disappear for days. “We’re trying one last counseling session—for the kids,” he’d text. Or, “I’m sleeping in the guest room, but it’s still tense.”
She told herself to be patient.
But patience wore thin.
By the time James finally left his wife, Sophie wasn’t celebrating. She was bitter. Because she’d already endured months of being the backup plan—waiting while he gave his marriage second, third, and fourth chances. She watched him cry over his kids. She watched him lie to his wife. And somewhere along the way, the fantasy curdled.
Now they were together—but she didn’t feel chosen. She felt like the last one standing. And she couldn’t shake the question: if he wavered once, what’s to stop him from doing it again?
Their love story wasn’t about destiny. It was about delay. And that made all the difference.
When Ruin Becomes Rational
You’d think the fallout would stop them. The kids crying. The partner unraveling. The scorched-earth family group chats. But for some people deep in an affair, it’s not enough. They double down. Not because they’re sociopaths. Because they’re looking for redemption.
It’s a strange kind of logic, the kind you only find inside a brain hooked on limerence. If this affair caused all this damage, then surely—it must mean something. Otherwise, the destruction was pointless. And that’s a pill too bitter to swallow. So they stay. They don’t pause. They don’t pivot. They sprint harder toward the very thing unraveling their life, hoping to extract some last-minute meaning from the mess.
They tell themselves this is how love stories begin. “It’ll be worth it.” “We just need time.” But underneath the hope is fear. Fear that if they stop, if they let go, then all they’ll be left with is the wreckage. And no one wants to be the villain in their own story.
So they stay. Not out of love. Out of narrative necessity.
It’s not a relationship anymore—it’s a salvage operation.
Tom’s affair started at a conference in Denver—four nights, too many drinks, and one late conversation that tipped into something more. When his wife, Elena, discovered it months later, she didn’t leave. Not right away. She was furious, yes. Devastated. But also determined. They had twenty years, three kids, a mortgage, a shared history that stretched back to college. She wasn’t ready to throw it away.
But Tom didn’t end the affair.
He said he would. He promised. But quietly, it continued. He told himself it was complicated. That his feelings were real. That after causing so much damage, surely something redemptive had to come from it. If he left the affair behind, what was the point of all the wreckage? He needed it to be worth something—anything.
So he stayed in it. Even while Elena went to therapy. Even while she read every book, forgave him more than once, fought to hold their family together. But Tom wasn’t fighting—he was preserving the illusion that the affair still mattered, that it hadn’t all been a colossal mistake. And slowly, the real tragedy unfolded: not just the betrayal of Elena, but the betrayal of the second chance she gave him. Because Tom didn’t choose the affair partner out of love—he chose her because he couldn’t face the idea that everything he broke was for nothing.
Tom’s affair started at a conference in Denver—four nights, too many drinks, and one late conversation that tipped into something more. When his wife, Elena, discovered it months later, she didn’t leave. Not right away. She was furious, yes. Devastated. But also determined. They had twenty years, three kids, a mortgage, a shared history that stretched back to college. She wasn’t ready to throw it away.
But Tom didn’t end the affair.
He said he would. He promised. But quietly, it continued. He told himself it was complicated. That his feelings were real. That after causing so much damage, surely something redemptive had to come from it. If he left the affair behind, what was the point of all the wreckage? He needed it to be worth something—anything.
So he stayed in it. Even while Elena went to therapy. Even while she read every book, forgave him more than once, fought to hold their family together. But Tom wasn’t fighting—he was preserving the illusion that the affair still mattered, that it hadn’t all been a colossal mistake. And slowly, the real tragedy unfolded: not just the betrayal of Elena, but the betrayal of the second chance she gave him. Because Tom didn’t choose the affair partner out of love—he chose her because he couldn’t face the idea that everything he broke was for nothing.
Affairs that begin in chaos often end in silence—not with some cinematic reckoning, but with the slow erosion of the fantasy. What was once a thrilling escape becomes a burden too heavy to carry, a relationship held together by guilt, fear, and the stubborn hope that something good must come from all the damage. It leads to ruin disguised as romance. The real work—the kind that actually heals—only begins when the fantasy dies and the truth is faced.
If you're ready to step out of the confusion and begin a path toward clarity, healing, and real connection, join us at the Healing Broken Trust Couples Workshop. Whether you're reeling from infidelity or stuck in the wreckage it left behind, this workshop is a guided, proven process for rebuilding trust and repairing your relationship. You don’t have to live in limbo. Come to healingbrokentrust.com/hbtworkshop and take the next step toward restoration. We’ll walk with you—every step of the way.
