Possessiveness Is Not Protection: Why I Refuse to Surrender My Phone in the Name of Love

In today’s relationship culture, a disturbing trend has quietly crept into the dynamics of modern love: the notion that access to one’s phone is an acceptable benchmark for trust. To that, I say—absolutely not. I reject it in its entirety.

This isn’t a gendered issue, though admittedly, men and women tend to enact this behaviour differently. In my personal experience, however, it is men—particularly those driven by unhealed wounds and a warped sense of ownership—who attempt to dominate through digital control. And I’ve lived through it. Twice.

Let me take you back to a particular situation that left a deep mark on my psyche. I had been talking to a man—married, Muslim—who expressed interest in taking me as a second wife. Culturally and religiously, this is permissible, and I wasn’t opposed to the idea in principle. However, I wasn’t certain whether I wanted to proceed with him. I was still evaluating my options, still speaking to my ex, trying to discern whether reconciliation might be possible. That attempt at reconciliation fell apart, but what followed was far more revealing.

As I got to know this married man, he became aware that I was also going on casual, non-sexual dates—trying to understand what I liked in a man, trying to gauge compatibility with potential suitors. I made no commitment to him, nor did I deceive him. I was merely in the exploratory stage, something entirely appropriate for a woman seeking an Islamic marriage.

And then came the audacity.

He told me—without hesitation—that the next time we met, he would like to go through my phone and delete all the dating apps himself. His justification? To “cut off other men.” Let that sink in. A man who hadn’t even been selected as a life partner yet—who hadn’t earned my trust or my commitment—felt entitled to my phone, my privacy, and my autonomy.

That was the moment I saw him clearly.

He wasn’t a man seeking a partner; he was a man seeking possession. Control masquerading as care. His protectiveness wasn’t love—it was a silent threat to my agency.

You see, I’ve done the inner work. I’ve spent years peeling back the layers of trauma, confronting my pain, reconstructing my identity, and reclaiming my peace. So when a man arrives with a chaotic sense of entitlement and delusions of dominance, my spirit knows to recoil. And my body follows. Literally.

I began fainting. Randomly. My body was so distressed that it started shutting down in protest. That’s the level of psychological pressure I was under during that talking stage. I was drained, suffocated, and deeply unsettled. It became painfully clear that continuing with him would mean sacrificing my mental health—and that, I will never do again.

I’ve heard too many stories. Women trapped in relationships with possessive men who later became violent, unhinged, or emotionally abusive. Men who began by asking for passwords and ended up monitoring their wives’ movements, thoughts, and friendships. It starts with the phone—and it rarely ends there.

I’d much rather be alone than tether myself to such volatility. I have come too far, fought too many inner battles, to settle for a man who thinks love means control.

I’ve also come to realise that men like this—those who demand digital access and constant reassurance—often carry unresolved traumas. Their childhoods, their past betrayals, their unprocessed heartbreaks all converge into a desperate need to dominate their partners. But instead of doing the emotional work, they project that insecurity onto women like me. Women with strong minds, unshakeable values, and lives of our own.

And let’s be honest—such men cannot handle women like us. They want submission without resistance. Obedience without question. But I’m not a puppet. I am a whole woman. With a mind, a voice, and a vision that cannot be dimmed.

Now, let’s talk about the women.

Yes, women too have weaponised the phone. Not always from a place of control, but often from a place of fear. A woman in love, especially one who feels her partner slipping, may begin to equate access to his phone with emotional security. It becomes a tool for reassurance. A desperate attempt to compete with all the other women he may find attractive. It’s not about trust—it’s about comparison. It’s a way of saying, “Am I still enough for you?”

I get it. But it’s also sad.

Because the truth is—there will always be more beautiful women. There will always be other options. That’s the nature of the world we live in. Men are visual creatures. They love novelty. They thrive on the chase. But if that reality makes a woman feel undesirable, it speaks to something deeper—an internal sense of unworthiness that no number of phone checks can soothe.

And so, both genders end up entangled in toxic patterns. Men assert control to avoid emotional vulnerability. Women surrender their dignity in search of assurance. And in between, love becomes a power game. A farce. A battlefield.

But I won’t play those games. I know who I am. I know what I offer. And I refuse to reduce myself to a pawn in someone else’s insecurity.

So to the man who dares ask for my phone: no, you may not. You are not entitled to that access. Not because I have secrets, but because I have boundaries. Because I know that true love is rooted in mutual respect, not surveillance.

Because I know that if you trusted me, you wouldn’t need my phone to feel safe.

And because I know that if you don’t trust me, no amount of access will ever be enough.

I have grown too much to accept that kind of nonsense. I’m far too seasoned to entertain drama. I will choose peace over partnership if it means preserving my mental health.

Possessiveness is not protection.

And love without freedom is just another form of prison.