Because sometimes, starting over takes one small but terrifying step.
I never thought I’d be the guy to write something like this. Honestly, if you’d told me two years ago that I’d be sharing what I’m about to, I’d have laughed and politely told you to mind your business. But life has a way of humbling you, right? Or, to put it more accurately, life sometimes smacks you upside the head and yells, “Fix this mess.” That’s where I found myself not too long ago.
If I’m being honest, the cracks had been there for a while. My wife, Ellie, and I had been married for nearly two decades. That’s a lot of years to love, laugh, bicker, and occasionally want to murder each other over ridiculously minor things. (Side note, who forgets the trash every single Thursday? Oh, right, that’d be me.)
But jokes aside, we’d built a life together. Two kids, bills we constantly complained about, and enough Friday night takeout boxes to build a fort. Life was full, but somewhere along this well-worn path we were walking, something shifted.
At first, I didn’t really notice. No one puts up a neon sign that says “Warning! Your intimacy is about to nosedive!” But one awkward moment led to another… and then another. You know what I’m talking about. The kind of thing you hope is just a fluke. Except it wasn’t.
I started avoiding bedtime conversations or even small touches that might lead to… you know. It wasn’t Ellie. God knows it wasn’t her. It was me.
But try telling yourself that late at night when you’re wide awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the latest attempt-that-wasn’t. I was spiraling into something I couldn’t name, and I didn’t know how to stop it.
Ellie isn’t one to push too hard or make a scene. That’s never been her style. She just gives you this look. It’s quiet but pointed, and it pretty much says, “I see you, and you’re not getting away with this.”
That look showed up after dinner one Tuesday. I think the kids were arguing about who’d eat the last chicken tender, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was in my head, which had become a constant thing by then.
“Hey,” she said softly, almost too softly.
I glanced up but didn’t say much. Playing the “distracted husband” card was starting to feel routine.
“I don’t know where you’ve gone,” she said after a moment, her voice breaking just enough to punch me in the gut. “But I really miss you being here.”
Oh, that one hurt.
Not that she was wrong or mean about it. Ellie doesn’t do mean, even when I deserve it. But hearing her say she missed me—that stung worse than any argument we could’ve had. Because deep down, I already knew what she wasn’t saying.
Something had to change.
I avoided it for weeks. Months, even. But the thing about problems like mine is that they don’t just disappear if you ignore them. Trust me, I know because I tried.
One particularly sleepless night, I grabbed my phone and typed “erectile dysfunction” into Google. (Yes, I cringed just writing that.) Nobody tells you how much it sucks to sift through endless articles about your current failings as a human. Forum threads didn’t feel much better.
Then I saw a random comment about Vigora 100 mg. No big explanations or flashy promises, just some guy saying, “This totally helped me when I thought I was out of options.” It stopped me mid-scroll. Could something really… help?
I wasn’t convinced. I wasn’t unconvinced, either. Mostly, I was embarrassed and tired. But the comment lingered in the back of my mind until a week later when I decided to talk to someone who might actually know what they were doing.
Booking the doctor’s appointment felt like trudging toward my own funeral. Every step seemed heavier than the last. What was I supposed to say? “Hey, Doc, so I’ve kind of forgotten how to exist as a functional adult recently”?
But he didn’t judge. I think he might’ve seen the wild panic in my face as I stumbled through the basics. “Things just stopped… working like they used to,” I mumbled, looking anywhere but his eyes.
He nodded. Calmly. Like I wasn’t even the tenth guy that week to drop the same bomb. He asked a few questions, explained the mechanics of what was probably happening, and then mentioned Vigora. Hearing someone say it out loud made me feel less like a failure and more like a guy with options.
I left the office with a prescription and a tiny glimmer of hope.
Taking that first pill wasn’t exactly a chill experience. I wish I could lie and tell you I popped it with confidence like some action hero. Nope. I was a wreck. My hands were actually sweating. Ellie noticed, of course.
“What’s going on?” she asked, eyeing me like I’d grown a second head.
“I just… I’m trying something new,” I said finally. I could barely get the words out. She didn’t laugh or joke. She just nodded. And that was enough.
Vigora worked. Plain and simple. But it wasn’t magical. It didn’t erase months of second-guessing myself or the little wounds we both carried by then. What it did do was open a door. A crack. Enough space to start rebuilding.
It’s strange how something as small as a pill can create space for way bigger shifts. With time, and, honestly, more effort than I think I’ve put into anything, Ellie and I started reconnecting.
It wasn’t overnight. It took work. Stuff like touching her hand in the grocery store for no reason or sitting through yet another rom-com because it made her laugh. Small moments layered over time that reminded us both of why we chose each other in the first place.
Vigora didn’t fix my marriage. But it gave me enough courage to stop running from everything we’d built.
Life isn’t some Instagram-perfect grid of moments where everything falls perfectly into place. It’s messy. Sometimes painfully so. But buried in all that muck are things worth fighting for. Ellie? Worth every battle.
If you’re reading this and feeling even remotely like I did, just take the step, man. The one you’ve been too scared to take. You’ve got more to gain than you realize.
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