This is part of our continuing series of accounts by readers of how they shed the illusions of liberalism and became race realists.

Like so many others, I am a white man who grew up surrounded by whites — and immersed in anti-white propaganda. It had its intended effect, too. The innate loyalty to my country and my people was gradually replaced with shame. I became enamored with tales of foreign peoples — ones alleged to be much more cultured and civilized than Western whites, and more egalitarian than European patriarchy. As time went on, my fascination with civilizations different from my own grew and grew. This abstract “xenophilia” was compounded by my own awkwardness and timidity — especially when it came to interactions with the opposite sex. For most of my childhood and adolescence, I felt out of place, and doubted if I would ever fit in.

And so, when I was old enough to do so, I left the United States and spent three years abroad. I traveled to different countries and different continents. I learned about new cultures, new histories, and the basics of new languages. For the first time, people took notice of me. More than anything, I noticed a stunning difference in how I was treated by non-white women in foreign lands compared with how I was treated by white women in my native country. At home, they looked right through me — abroad, their eyes met mine steadily, and with regularity.

Eventually, I met a beautiful African woman. She was kind and smart. She was elegant. She was simultaneously frugal and generous. We dated, and in time, married. For a time, things were good: We were carefree and silly, danced and rode our bicycles together regularly. But at this point, we have spent more time angry at each other than we ever did happy. The fights are terrible. She screams at me relentlessly and at times I simply cannot take it anymore and flee my own home. There have even been times, I am ashamed to, that things have gotten physical too.

I used to believe that it was the strain of our careers that had taken its toll on our marriage, and that if we could take time off from work and have some quality time together, somehow someway, things would get better. However, we have tried this, and nothing ever changes. We only manage brief moments of happiness that give us just enough hope to keep trying. I find myself haunted by something my wife says in her times of quiet despair: “We are just too different”. A thousand times she has said this, and a thousand times I have brushed it aside as inconsequential. But even so, the question lingers within me, filling me with doubt.

Further worsening everything is the current political situation in America. Ever since the election of Donald Trump in 2016, and the frenzied anti-white media overdrive that followed, my white identity has come to matter to me more and more. I am proud to be white. I do not wish harm upon any race, but I believe white people have the right to exist, and have the right to proclaim a homeland. My poor wife has, to her horror, noticed this change in my worldview, and it is now yet another pressure point on our already strained marriage.

It would be dishonest and cowardly of me to blame my marital discord entirely on racial matters. I have not been a perfect husband and she and I have many problems unrelated to race. But more and more often I ask myself: Is she right? Are we just too different? And are these differences biological — and more importantly — can they be overcome for the sake of our marriage and the love we still have for one another? Would it have been better to have persevered through my periods of crushing loneliness and only dated within my own race? Would it be better to separate now and save ourselves future heartache?

My wife and I have been married for several years but are childless. However, we have recently been talking about having children. We think having kids might give us something to hope for, something to come together over, and would help motivate us to struggle through to the ultimate goal of a harmonious marriage. I am not so sure about this. I have serious doubts that marriage could ever be salvaged, and feel like we would just traumatize any poor child that we bring into this world. But now, right now, her period is late, and we have just had yet another demoralizing, soul crushing fight as I write this.

Please God, tell me what to do, because I just don’t know.

If you have a story about how you became racially aware, we’d like to hear it. If it is well written and compelling, we will publish it. Use a pen name, stay under 1,200 words, and send it to us here.