But How Did You Heal?

I held the bouquet close enough to catch the sweet peony scent and feel the vibrant lavender color reflect off my now flush cheeks. I was still in my scrubs and worn from the day, and this moment in the middle of a weekday-crowded grocery store was enough to illicit a few tears that made their way down my cheeks and onto the delicately wrapped pedals. I placed them gently back among their fellow, nested bunches, paused only briefly, and then returned the bouquet to the front seat of my shopping cart. When I got them home to my little, white-walled apartment that was I slowly coating in a few new decorative touches, I placed them on the corner of the kitchen island so I could see the pop of color from every angle. The reminder of life; blooming, changing, returning to the earth. My eyes and brain returning back to the sweetest reminder of you did something kind for yourself. I smiled each time my eyes caught that bouquet. And I continued to pick fresh flowers for the corner of that kitchen island until I moved out nearly two years later.

This is how I heal.

I remember sitting on the couch, staring at the empty wall and announcing I would not be purchasing a television. Family, my dearest friends, all offered to purchase me a television for the new space I would call home. I was just as shocked by my quick and brash declination for such a generous gift. But I was reminded of the many nights I had to alert Netflix I was, in fact, still watching. I was reminded of a bowl of popcorn, a bottle of wine, my sweet girl cuddled in a blanket at my feet and the text messages asking when he would be coming home. I did not need the distraction; the intense rumination. I did not need the painful memories. I chose here for new ones. So for nearly two years, I would instead spend evenings in my apartment bonus room; the den that my momma convinced me I would have a purpose for, despite a slightly higher rent fee. I read scripture, journaled, prayed, participated in virtual yoga classes, and learned the breathwork patterns that would lead me up to and including the day of my divorce. This den became my battle space. It became the new routine. The new neural pathways. My purposeful and intentional place to seek God and return to Self. I invested, and God faithfully provided.

This is how I heal.

I had a call shortly after my divorce with one of my dearest friends to discuss next steps for my retirement and personal savings goals. My financial picture. It was humiliating and humbling all at the same time to be a late 30s adult who needed support to make confident, independent, financial decisions. I was seeping anxiety from vulnerable wounds by the time I had this call. Frankly, what I wanted more than anything was a solid validation that I was financially safe. But as he spoke in a kind tone, with reassurance and confidence, not like a financial advisor but as a trusted friend, my goal for the call shifted from validation to curious. From curious to understanding. I wanted to understand how my money was being invested, and what, if anything, I could do better for investing in my future. I was capable of understanding. And the more I understood, the more bitterness for my prior lack of understanding subsided. The more I understood, the more compassion that surfaced for the wife that once placed trust in a financial picture that was coated in lies, and not in marital, shared financial truth.

This is how I heal.

Beauty.

New.

Education.

Conversation.

Compassion.

This, dear partner, is the process.

Reaching for the beauty that is still blooming among the ashes.

Seeking that which makes you feel good, whole, and new.

Educating yourself on what you may not understand. Confident, goal-oriented, and self-motivated choices.

Having the difficult conversations. Replacing humiliated with humility.

Speaking words of compassion over every day, every choice, and every moment that does, indeed, count as a step in your healing.

I return to younger me, sitting on the screen porch that hot, July summer day. I return to her, as she has mountains ahead and not a drop of assurance that she can climb. I return to her, basking in fear and sitting in a place that will no longer be her home in six months. I return to her, as she dares to even look up from that cold, cup of coffee, the morning she boldly spoke the words with no where to land, I am leaving you. I return to her, as she whispers, but how did you heal?

I chose you. I say.

I chose the mountain.

Pack light. Take only what you need.

Sit when you need to sit.

Stand again, when you can stand.

Pause to celebrate all of the steps you have taken.

Watch the sunset.

Breathe deep. Lean in.

Reach for the trusted souls you will meet along the way.

Follow the light.

Embrace all that you are becoming.

You are not who you once were. You are being made new.

This is how you heal.

Dear Friend of Betrayal Trauma

I had one friend during my betrayal trauma journey, from first disclosure to divorce, who knew my truth in its entirety. It wasn’t an objective or intentionally selective decision on my part to ask one friend to carry the heaviest of my burdens, watch them unfold on repeat, and support me as I vacillated between the worst, to surviving, to thriving versions of myself and back again. She was the one human I saw most consistently during this time period. We worked together. We had been in each other’s lives years prior, lost contact for a bit, and God returned her to me for a season I did not know I would desperately need her unique perspectives from lived experience, calming and nurturing soul, and peaceful presence. She is a gem of a human who showed up in ways I could not possibly sum up in words.

Today’s post is for all of the friends who hold my truth in any capacity.

Today’s post is for the friends who have the honor, and at times, absolute torture, of humbly walking beside us as we navigate one of life’s toughest journeys.

Today’s post is for the hard questions you may ask yourself, if you are a friend supporting someone walking through betrayal trauma.

What should I say, and not say, to a friend who is new in her betrayal trauma healing journey?

What can I say to support a friend who is separating?

What was most helpful to hear from a friend during times of uncertainty?

What can I say to a friend when I am concerned for her safety or well-being?

These are all courageous and well-meaning questions to consider, with having a friend’s experience, safety, and best interest in mind. I reflect back on the personal experience I had with my dear friend. It wasn’t so much what she said. It was perhaps, more importantly, how she made me feel.

Safe. Seen. Heard.

She learned the difference between my wanting her to hold space and listen, and when I wanted or needed advice. She spoke up in times she was concerned for my safety. She encouraged me to consider letting others into my trusted inner circle in whatever capacity felt best. She asked my permission if she could share my story with her husband, so she could have an outlet herself for the complexities and heaviness of the situations at hand. She was great for “checking-in” when I would go dark, pouring myself into our work and forgetting that I was a person with real needs in a situation that warranted time for self care. She picked up the pieces and filled in holes wherever she could, to lighten the load of an otherwise heavy day. She showed up as a real human with her own experiences, concerns, and perspectives, and just loved me. She unconditionally showed me so much love.

We do not need a plethora of sound advice or guidance from a friend. We likely have a team of therapists and a slew of self-help books to guide our healing journey. What we do need, is a friend who says, “This is absolutely terrible…” when our reality is absolutely terrible. A friend who redirects our ruminating brains to a coffee date or yoga class. A friend who calls us out, from a place of love, when we are ignoring obvious red flags that hinder our healing progress. A friend who interjects our rants about our spouse’s therapy and needs, and says, “But what do YOU need?” A friend who validates our lived experiences, and boldly states, “You are not crazy.” A friend who respects our boundaries, and loves us anyway, when a day is just too much for words.

We bring heavy bags to a friendship.

We may be emotionally and physically available one minute, to speechless with no available head space beyond our trauma the next. If we are doing our work, our healing work, we will respect the moments you need to take a pause from supporting a situation that may feel dark, bleak, or hopeless at times. Be sure to take care of yourself, if you are going to invest in supporting a loved one healing from trauma.

Thank you to all of my dearest, who bravely stepped in and stepped up to lighten my load.

Thank you for knowing how to say everything and nothing, all at the same time.

Thank you for restoring the belief that what I bring to the friendship, a genuine relationship, is enough.

Thank you for reminding me that I am brave. I am healing. I am worth fighting for.

Is Sex Addiction Real?

I was sitting in a pizza shop over drinks and fresh mozzarella with a new friend when my story came up. It is not often I am asked so directly, what happened? She was genuinely interested, as our conversations leading up to this question were about my move, job change, and other getting-to-know each other novelties. And naturally, a late 30s woman who picks up and moves to a new town, new job, without knowing a soul, has a story she could tell.

I am used to the hard pauses I take before I share even a superficial layer of my story. I am used to assessing the person’s emotional capacity to receive details beyond anything superficial. But even after a cocktail or two, my hard pause, and sharing the swift plot twist that includes almost a decade of multi-layered infidelity, I am still not entirely used to the question that has, on occasion, followed.

Is sex addiction real?

My new friend was well-meaning and genuinely curious. My hard pause continued as she shared a socially and culturally based perspective on pornography and men cheating on their wives. It happens all the time, perspective. But I could feel the shift in my body and energy. The mozzarella and cocktail no longer tasted like I was on a veranda in southern Italy. I was teleported in the span of 30 seconds to the inpatient stay, to the manipulation, to the lying. To the phone call with the practitioner that all but told me to run from the behaviors my ex husband was choosing, despite his marriage ending. And I asked God, as I swallowed my last bite, what should I reply to this question? What can I say to one soul, whose perspective is curious but otherwise jaded by a society we all live and breath in daily? What can I say, that would be both compassionate and impactful, and representative of the life we as partners have survived?

I could say that sex addiction, in my experience, is very much a spectrum with vast differences in the compulsive behaviors that manifest. That sex addiction isn’t just watching porn. That an entire lifestyle evolves and revolves around behaviors that will continue in spite of adverse consequences. That in spite of losing a job, losing a marriage, losing an entire family, their self dignity and worth, the behaviors continue to roar on at a volume so loud, the brain registers the need for nothing else, but the next high.

I could say that in some cases, sex addiction has nothing to do with sex, and everything to do with trauma.

I could say that living a life of sex addiction is it’s own reality. We, the outsiders, do not exist as humans in this reality. We are fictional characters. Objects, really. Communication, daily routine, “adulting” as we say, is on the back burner. We, the actual reality, are the bread crumbs. The after-thought.

I could say that I believe what manifested in my story was consistent with a diagnosis of sex addiction…and then some. The “then some” wasn’t for me to diagnose. And a bonus diagnosis would not have saved my marriage.

I could say that what happens when one is married to addiction, the devastation of their choices and the aftermath of the consequences, is life-altering.

I could say that the day my chains as a spouse of sex addiction hit the floor, and I walked free, I never looked back.

I could say that my faith grew more in those chains, and in the surviving of those chains, than it would have beyond any measure.

I could say that we all can use to hold a little space and compassion for the things we do not understand. For what we assume is just the way it is, is actually someone’s lived reality, and so much more.

I didn’t say any of this in that conversation in the pizza shop.

I did tell her the readers digest of my lived experiences.

I did tell her there are specialists, facilities, and treatment models, fighting at the front lines of sexual addiction.

And I noticed a subtle change in her energy. A subtle implication this question came from somewhere deep. A questioning. A longing, perhaps, for understanding. And this may have just been how I experienced it; a survivor with the hope that each time my story has a chance to be told, it is for purpose. For awareness. For redemption. For a single moment that my story perhaps mirrors another humans silent battle.

Nightmare on Divorce Street

I was standing in a dimly lit room beside her. Her daughter was there too. I could hear her voice in the distance. It was summer and we were whispering. Why are the lights off? I remember thinking. We stood beside a closet, with doors that looked like an old window shutter. My voice was shaky as I spoke to her. I could hardly hear my own words as they left my mouth and hovered in the tense atmosphere between us. I was then standing on a dirt road outside the home in a long, white summer dress. I was among tall pine trees. Blue sky peaked out between their limbs. The terrain beneath my bare feet was slightly rocky. Loose bits of gravel. And I looked back over my shoulder and saw him. He was a few feet back, and slowly retracing the outline of my footprints. He was coming and I could not run. I opened my mouth to speak and no audible words formed; not even a whisper.

The sound of my 5:30 AM alarm jolts this nightmare into present day reality; the sweaty pajamas and racing-heart reality. This was new. Nightmares of this capacity, with former life characters and fears, were very new.

I drove to work that morning, white knuckling the steering wheel and replaying a now fragmented scene of me in a bedroom with my ex husband’s affair partner. I could not remember the details of our conversation. I remember feeling incredibly tense. And whispering. And then I saw his face. The gravel road moving beneath my feet. The grip on the steering wheel tightening as I nearly run a red light.

My nightmares in the months post divorce ranged from being back in my marital home and wandering the hallways alone, to having a seamlessly ordinary dream and my ex-husband uninvitedly showing up and demanding I needed to come home, to seeing but being unseen in the middle of him and a woman as they laughed over dinner and wine. All of them ended the same. The abrupt coming back to life in a pool of sweat, heart racing, and five minutes of grounding in the physical space that was actually in front of me, and not still sifting about in my memories.

The nightmares would come in waves. Similar themes in recurring episodes would appear, and then disappear as quickly as they came. Surely they were triggered by more challenging days on my healing journey. When I met my now partner and we crossed the intimate bridge of sleeping beside each other, he would witness the aftermath of the nightmares on occasion. My now partner, a therapist by profession and a calming, confident soul by how God made him, introduced a therapeutic exercise one day that can be used to alleviate nightmares. Though he gave a fair warning the exercise may feel unnatural and silly, I was desperate for the haunting to dissipate.

I tore a piece of paper out of my journal, gathered a few highlighters and different-colored pens. He told me to draw my nightmares, and the characters that resided in them, as absolutely absurd as possible. He told me to draw anything and everything that comes out in my nightmares. My old house. Affair partners. Draw all of it as absurd as possible. Over-sized shoes, odd hair, obnoxious physical attributes. The use of color then locks in the experience of seeing that absurd image in the brain. I would look at my drawings before bed, like a child reading their favorite picture book. Sometimes I would laugh out loud. And it worked. Praise God, it worked.

As I move into different phases on my healing journey, the nightmares have resurfaced. I turned to my now partner one evening before bed, half venting but also half eagerly wanting an explanation, and asked, “why didn’t I have these nightmares when I was actually in the story?” He took me in his arms, as he always does in these moments, and said, “Because you were living it, baby…you didn’t need to dream it.”

So much of what I was living then exerted power over me. Power over my cognitive and conscious thoughts. My emotional amygdala all the way up to my reality-seeking frontal cortex. There was no space for the nightmare I was living daily, in 8 hours worth of subconscious dreams. But now, a dramatic shift in my life has occurred. My concerted, conscious baseline is to be regulated, boundary-filled, self-soothing, calm, and trusting, and I suppose my subconscious has shifted to becoming a playground for repressed or unprocessed memories that lie dormant in my DNA. I would need to cleanse my subconscious. I would need a continued reframe for the nightmares.

One of the last drawings I did was a road that ended at the edge of the page, but I decided it wasn’t actually ending. It was just the part of the road where my brain currently had access to. I named it, Divorce Street. The opposite end of Divorce Street twisted and turned as it ended on a hill at the top right corner of the page. The hill was high, resting in the clouds. This hill held my dreams. I labeled the dreams with names, places, and experiences, and placed them inside of closed circles. Each dream had a color. A fence enclosed the top of the hill. The fence enclosed my dreams. I decided my dreams could float up to the clouds and dissipate, but could not leave the fence and travel the road. And at the far opposite end of Divorce Street, the end that wasn’t an actual end but landing at the edge of the page, I drew me. Two faces, morphed into one solid body. One looking up to the hill and the fenced-in dreams, and one looking to the edge of the page. The edge representing more healing is coming, but I just can’t see it yet.

Both faces are smiling.

Because they are no longer nightmares.

They no longer have the power.

They are simply dreams.

A House With No Walls

The following is a continued reflection from an exercise I performed in a post traumatic growth group. This exercise allowed me to process missteps I made in protecting myself; specifically, in the way of setting boundaries. It was a blameless opportunity to reflect on the what happened, what could I have done better, and the how can I improve this in the future. This exercise was presented to me in a season when I was deciding which relationships would survive and thrive beyond divorce. It was the season where I realized I could actually decide who brings value to my newly healing space, my presence, and ultimately, my life.

Describe your house prior to your trauma. What did it look like? What did it feel like?

Describe how your house changed after the trauma.

And last, describe how you want your house to look, in post traumatic growth.*

I sat at my high top table in my barely lived in apartment, over 500 miles from the physical location of the house where my trauma began. I inhaled deeply and on the exhale, my journal pages began to capture a reality I had not tapped into for quite some time. It is both beautiful and haunting what the mind can retain when we give it the space to open.

My house prior to trauma had no walls.

It was a complete and entirely open concept. Not just from the walls we tore down during our first adventure with home renovations; the ceiling unexpectedly caving in and the support beams that would eventually be added. But even after an intense rebuild of new walls and infrastructure, my home remained all-access; as did my soul. The front door, though it locked, always seemed accessible. Often, I did not know who was coming, who was going, or how long they were staying. Changes to my home, big or small, were made without regard for my opinion or consent. There were abrupt moments I thought I was moving from my home, that were quickly overshadowed by plans to stay. And the atmosphere in my home vacillated between extremes. Unnaturally sexual to extreme rejection. Irritability and tension, to eager and promising. Disruptive and busy, to eerily quiet. The lack of walls enabled a range of energy and unhealthy relationships to roam freely.

My house changed dramatically after trauma.

The doors stayed locked. There were many, many walls. Walls from the parking lot to the welcome lobby of my apartment building. Walls between the lobby and the elevators. Walls between the elevators and my-key-fab only apartment. And this was safe. For that season, this was very safe.

I paused after these first two reflections for air and a fresh cup of tea. My shoulders were tense as I reflected back on my boundaryless first few years of marriage. Did I create this, or was it part of the grooming I married? Did I miss crucial developmental steps? Did I leave my inner compass and voice in childhood? Did I never actually find them?

I would need more air…

Dear partner.

Regardless of the how or the why such circumstances have landed in our stories. Regardless of the self-examinations we will inevitably perform with our therapists on our childhood or our adulthood-selves. The prognosis will remain the same. A house without walls will inevitably crumble. Crumble from the weight of carrying others burdens. Crumble from being a person for anyone but yourself. Crumble from taking on emotions, expectations, battles and the experiences of others, and not having any feasible room left for your own.

A house without walls will crumble.

We are not meant to be limitless, boundaryless, humans. When we expose our minds, our souls, our marriages, our most precious relationships to an all-access pass, we end up just that. So where do we begin to heal this? Where do we begin to initiate a life with boundaries, if a life with little to no limits on our emotional capacity or burden-bearing, was once our familiar zone?

We begin at the foundation.

We build our house with walls.

Here are a few considerations for the long term benefits of healthy boundaries:

• Learning to live a life with limits means we will have the ability to say no, and a deep appreciation for our yes. I recently declined an invitation to meet up with a friend after work. My brain was far to overstimulated from a challenging schedule that week, and I knew showing up to this event would likely push my anxiety over the edge and into a potential spiral that could impact how I showed up the next day, or even the remainder of the week. A simple and respectful, no, gave me an immense appreciation for the yes of self care I provided my brain and body instead that evening. Learning to live a life with limits means we prioritize self, which ultimately influences how we show up to the world and our most precious relationships.

• Learning to live a life of value, means we show up to new experiences and relationships with what we will and will not tolerate. What does not align with our values, our moral compass, is no longer given all-access. In fact, we have the ability to grant or deny access entirely. One of the first conversations I had with my now partner, shortly after we began dating, was about sexual integrity and character. Specifically, I asked about his sexual values when it came to pornography and authentic intimacy in a relationship. I went into this conversation on the coattails of new and exciting emotions I had not felt in quite some time. I also went into this conversation firm in my values; specifically, what I valued most for a new, intimate relationship. My wall decided. My boundary permitted or denied access, based on his responses to these questions aligning with my values.

I completed this exercise three months after my divorce. I reflect back on all that I could have chosen for my house in post traumatic growth. I could have granted access to situations and circumstances that were no longer my responsibility. I could have chosen walls of steel that granted absolutely no access; no moments for awe or curiosity.

I inhale deeply and exhale the freedom I have instead created, with my boundaries at the forefront of so much progress.

My house in post traumatic growth has a firm foundation, rooted in God’s truths.

My house in post traumatic growth has walls that echo laughter; a consistent joy and peace.

My house in post traumatic growth holds space for check-ins and deep conversation.

My house in post traumatic growth emulates a mutual respect for the time, love, and energy that moves among these walls.

My house in post traumatic growth, has taught me that I do have the capacity to live emotionally, spiritually, and physically regulated, among the walls I chose to build.

*With credit: Try Softer, by Aundi Kolber, MA LPC and Regeneration Ministries

Not From God

I was out on a walk and catching up with a dear friend. She was sharing the latest raw emotions with me on her own healing journey from betrayal, crying out to me and eventually to God. She asked me why God would allow this to happen to her. Why would God allow this to happen to her family? She is a good person with good moral character, and wanted to know why God would have this be her story.

Dear partner. These are the questions that rip you to your core. Questions that take you back to your own bedroom floor with tear-stained cheeks and anger running through your veins as you also once cried out to God, simply asking, why me? We serve a God who asks us to bring all of it. To bring all of our burdens, questions and anger, so he may pick them up, and carry them for us. But this, dear partner, this is not from God.

God is many things and evil is not one of them. Evil is not from God. And a belief in and serving God does not entitle us as exempt from the evils of this world. But anger is validated. Our anger at the evils of this world is completely validated, seen, heard, and mourned by God.

As we continue our journey, moving toward our 10ft view of healing, I encourage you to reflect on the following. If not from God, then where does it come? From where does the evil of betrayal come?

When I was playing with baby dolls and my sister was learning to French braid my hair, there were children among us who were already in or destined for the throws of sexual addiction. Children, who would eventually become adults, who would eventually become spouses. Children who maybe had an early exposure to pornography, compounded by, in some cases, a significant childhood trauma. Children who learned sexualized pain or numbing, alternative realities to sexual intimacy, as coping mechanisms for emotions they were not free or able to express otherwise. This is not an excuse for the character that walks the earth in adult form. It is not an excuse for the betrayal that ripped our families apart. But such experiences are an impactful foundation. We as partners or ex-partners cannot change what happened in the lives of our spouses, or even the choices and behaviors they exhibit now as functioning adults. But we do have another generation, our offspring and their offspring, and generations to come. Extensions of our stories that could, from exposure to our DNA and the ways of this world, follow in suit for a life of similarly manifested behaviors and choices.

So what can we do with this?

What can we do now, that provides a firm foundation for our children?

What can we do now, that provides opportunities to overcome the evils of this world?

We can be the example.

We can demonstrate a learned ability to sit in and process our discomfort, and not reach for a quick fix or high to replace it.

We can create safe and open environments for children to express difficult emotions, instead of hiding, running, or numbing.

We can share, when age appropriate, the raw truths about pornography. Defining what intimacy is and is not. Defining what authentic love is and is not.

We can demonstrate appropriate boundaries in how we choose to show up in the world, protecting our mind and space from the potential for negative, toxic influence. What we watch. What we expose our brain to, matters. And they are watching. Our littles are always watching.

And perhaps most importantly, we can emulate what is from God.

Love.

Truth.

Humility.

Compassion.

We can be honest that God does allow suffering, when he is a God that can also prevent it.

We can be honest that God is a healer. And he can make all things new.

We can be humble and true to our own healing journeys, and not paint on a face that otherwise says, I have it all together.

We can reflect our faith in the battles we carry, while articulating it is not our children’s job to carry them.

Evil is not from God, dear partner.

Evil is many, many, things. And God is not one of them.

Seventeen

When my nieces turned 17, I stressed for weeks on what to get them for their birthday. Not quite adults, but close enough for milestone moments and impactful decisions. They were youthfully busy preparing for college applications, dating, and traveling with friends. As I soaked up their excitement during our catch-up sessions, small doses of dread would seep into my conscious brain. I would think of 17-year-old me. At 17, I had planned out my life’s trajectory, written it down, prayed it out, and earnestly laid out all of the steps to make it happen. At 17, I was also three years from meeting my ex-husband.

I settled on copies of Boundaries in Dating, by Dr. Henry Cloud & Dr. John Townsend. As I wrapped the book, I envisioned far cooler gifts they would be receiving for their birthday. And I was the aunt sending a paper-back with the subtle (and not so subtle) messages of: Maybe don’t date for a while, or maybe ever? and Guard your heart, your life’s trajectory depends on it! I stared at the now gift-wrapped boxes and thought, how could I make this more personal? How could I make this gift impactful? I wanted to leave them with something they could refer back to on their cusp of adulthood, and well into their seasoned adult years. So I unwrapped the books and on the inside covers, I decided to write them a message. When they find the book one day, years later perhaps, as they are packing up their college dorm or moving into their first home, I wanted them to come back to the words that held my experienced truths. A few impactful lessons learned, and lessons I would have wanted in my bank of wisdom at 17.

As the bulleted thoughts poured out of me, I realized I wasn’t just writing them for my girls. I was also, very much so, writing them for newly single me. Therapeutically returning to 17-year-old me, and to simply say, it’s okay. It is all okay, and we can begin again.

Here are the lessons I captured on the inside cover of their books. I also highly recommend this book for anyone, in any part of their life, exploring dating and settling down to do life with another human.

My Top 17 for Your 17th Year

We are not enough, and God designed it this way. If we were everything, where would the desire to seek God for wholeness land?

Not all love is broken.

If you change your mind, go confidently, and change your mind.

God is so much bigger; God is so much bigger than all of it.

Embrace all of your life until now. All of it. God wastes none of it and He is working it all together for His good.

Admire and seek authenticity. Surround yourself with it.

Be your own Advocate. Ask for what you want. Say what you feel. And don’t be afraid of it.

Name your values. List them. And when you find yourself deviating from them (because we all do), it’s okay to come back. You are always worth coming back to your core values.

Success does not define you. You, define you.

Spiritual discipline + relationship with God. The end.

If you have to change who you are to fit someone’s mold, choose yourself, and not the mold.

Know your people, and tell them they are blessings to you. Your people can be a group of 2 or 25, but seek that point where you value trust and real connection over numbers.

The boyfriend of date nights, gifts, and silly moments will look different than the husband of doing dishes, taking out the trash, and embracing you at your worst. One does not just transform into the other. They choose it, maturely and spiritually. Just like they should choose you, daily. Consider this when considering a life partner.

The magic in relationships happens in the smallest of every day moments. Eye contact. Reaching for your hand. Bringing home your most favorite snack. Praying with you daily. These moments add the value, the good stuff, to intimate and deep, meaningful relationships.

Your past does not define you. Your past does not define you. Your past does not define you. Say it, until you believe it.

An ending relationship. An unforeseen change in career plans. A loss. An injury. A bad choice. These can be a part of your story, and yet, not be your whole story. Don’t allow one thing to be the whole thing.

Seek God honestly. He already knows. He already knows all of it.

We can try our very best to protect our most precious loved ones from the worst of this world. But they are free to be who they are, and who God made them to be. They are free to stumble, fall, and rise again. We can imprint our wisdom and tools, all that we have learned and value, onto their souls. We can hang it freely in their universe, to grab in a season it is most needed. We can leave them with the security of knowing they can always come back.

They can always come home to us.

He Knows My Name

I slid my documents under the window after one last glance. My grip was perhaps too strong, because the woman on the receiving end gave a confused look as she peeled them from my fingers. She glanced over the documents and confusion was immediately replaced by a full face smile as she expressed congratulations were in order. I didn’t even raise my eyes for full contact as I mumbled, “for what?” I knew her misunderstanding. I already knew the response that was coming. ”Marriage!” she eagerly said. A lone tear had already made its way down my cheek. A lone tear remained for the name I would be trading in that day. “Divorce,” I told her. “Divorce is why I am here. Divorce is the reason for my new name…”

I wasn’t emotional or feeling the intensity of this particular decision, because of the loss of my marriage. This loss was different entirely. I made a career with that name. I would now be showing up to my professional world and relationships as…different. From my email signature to the impactful research publications I was included on, I had made a name with that name. He took everything. And now he would be taking this too, I thought, as I climbed back into my car with my adult, professional name left in the hands of a stranger at the social security office.

Dear partner. This was a tough one.

I was a walking divorce decree for months. My certified with a seal document was never far as I navigated the name change process. I did an out-of-state move and job change in the middle of this time as well. Due to the timing of it all, I had to enter my new job under my married name until I had a new drivers license and established address. New colleagues, Human Resources, and email addresses, referring to married-name-me. My often triggered and less-than professional responses of this is who I am! That’s not me anymore!

It was a time of taking many steps forward and at an accelerated rate.

It was also a time for God to hit me with a hard pause for perspective and gratitude.

During this intense time of transition, I could show up in the world with an attitude that reflected demons I was battling, or I could show up reflecting all that which Christ had done and continues to do for me.

My story. My name.

What would I do with this name?

I humbly share this was not an easy shift. Surrendering my worldly relationship with a name that I had made a persona and life out of into a perspective of gratitude for a name I had not carried since I was 28 years old, was not an easy shift.

But, God.

I often ask God to remind me who and whose I am. To remind me that what I do and who I am is not for worldly recognition, a reputable Google search, or Linked In profile. My walk on this Earth is to serve him. To serve his will for my life. And I believe this is another step in our healing journey, dear partner. The stripping down of what was our identity. The release of what once defined us.

This perspective was a choice that I wrestled with, but mostly embraced.

Because I have been the 1 in 99 (Luke 15:3-7). I have been the woman at the well, feeling less than, and unworthy (John 4: 4-26) . I have been the woman on bended knees, washing the feet of Jesus (Luke 7: 37-39).

I have been both lost and found.

And it is not because of my accomplishments or Googled-accolades. God does not seek and continue to heal me, because of the initials before or titles after my name. My true identity rests in the one who sees me. The one who calls me by name. The one who saw a purpose far greater than I could have ever imagined.

Because He knows my name.

Withdrawal

When the phone calls, texts, and emails stopped and my days from start to finish looked entirely new, I experienced a different type of unsettled. That is the best word I can use to describe it. I would end most days reclined on my couch, with a cozy blanket and the latest book I was reading, a cup of tea, and clenched jaw. Multiple times a night, sleepless and hazy, my hand inadvertently would reach from my bed for my phone, turn it over to light the screen, and repeat. I was frequently checking all communication platforms throughout my day. What was I looking for? I was confusingly disappointed and distracted by an empty inbox. The world was suddenly quiet, but my brain and body were not. This was what I wanted. This is what I fought hard to walk through and where I wanted to arrive. So why were my unsettled behaviors saying otherwise?

Withdrawal.

I didn’t know the body can experience withdrawal from a person. More specifically, withdrawal from doing life with someone’s toxic behaviors. I learned about the process of withdrawal, specifically from a trauma bond, shortly after my divorce. It was a new and unsettling experience, and I could have benefited from preparation, knowledge, and resources.

My withdrawal symptoms began seeping out as my brain registered at a new baseline; one that no longer was under the influence of manipulative and toxic behaviors. A racing mind. A fidgeting body. An unsettled nervous system. And perhaps the most confusing and concerning symptom of them all. I had an overwhelming desire for contact. I was inexplicably craving communication with the one human who hurt me beyond measure.

The symptomatic presentation of withdrawing from a trauma bond, an abusive relationship, a narcissistic human, varies person to person. The presentation may include, but is not limited to, emotional dysregulation and distress, sleep disturbances, guilt, self-doubt, panic, and cravings for contact with the person. I can understand and appreciate the vulnerability of this period. The undeniable urge to return to the chaos, and that which was familiar. How easy it would have been to just pick up the phone. To share a sermon I saw and thought he would appreciate. To imagine a life where we were simply old friends who could catch up over coffee. None of this was possible. None of this would ever be possible.

The physical manifestations that strongly correlated with my withdrawal from the trauma bond, at their worst, lasted a few months. And then they dissipated. I humbly reflect on and appreciate how incredibly vulnerable I was during this phase of my healing. Vulnerable to returning to the trauma bond. Vulnerable to seek validation and quick-fixes to release me from the emotional distress and challenging behaviors I was experiencing.

If the unsettling effects of withdrawal are a part of your healing journey, I encourage you to consider the following suggestions to remain focused and stable during this period:

• Maintain open communication with accountability partners to stay grounded in reality.

• Journal your emotions and ruminating thoughts.

• Schedule therapy sessions in advance of needing them.

• Structure your days with constructive & intentional activity outside of your routine responsibilities.

• Go for a walk, have coffee with a friend, do something that brings your brain joy.

• Work with your therapy team to compose of a list of your core values. Reference this list often or as needed.

I share this season of my reality with you from a vulnerable place. In case you can relate. In case you need someone to say, yes, it’s absolutely real what you are experiencing.

Our healing does not end in divorce, separation, or when simply choosing a path to recovery. Each day, each moment, is an opportunity to lay a new and firm foundation. A firm foundation may be laid with a commitment to faith, sound knowledge, trusted resources, and reliable tools. Our brains undoubtedly require the opportunity to adjust to our foundation, as we form new and healthy pathways that are far from that which was familiar.

We can survive this refining period.

Our peace is coming, dear partner. I promise, it is coming.

Dear Affair Partner

Dear affair partner. 

I used to think about you. In the hours to days after D-Day. My mind would briefly wander from the ashes and aftermath to one question. Only one. What happened to you?

I would imagine the worst. You had to have your own story. A woman who chooses a married man for six years has a story. This made my story more palatable. Reason. Purpose behind devastating behaviors and consequences. And I would find myself praying for you. For your redemption. For a divine intervention. A new beginning with God, authentic love, and purpose beyond what you had chosen for yourself and your family. I forgave you. And I pray you forgave yourself.

Dear affair partner.

I knew what happened to you. You didn’t even have to tell me. I was in the therapy and trauma books so deep. The energy and the words you echoed through the phone that night reflected nothing short of a broken human. I hope you found support. I hope you found healing. I hope you go on to break the cycle for your children. I hope you feel loved and free. I forgive you.   

Dear affair partner.

I know you didn’t know. I believe you. And I am sorry.  I am so incredibly sorry this happened to you. Thank you for all your efforts to find me, to confirm I knew the truth.  Thank you for sending the images my heart needed to see. I prayed often for your healing and renewed sense of trust. I prayed for you to experience true, authentic love. I hope you found all of this and more.  

Dear affair partner.

I used to dream about you. Sometimes I see your face. Sometimes it is the shadow of you, moving about my marital home.  Sometimes I see your clothes in my closet, and I run my fingers across the hangars. Dainty. Petite. Sometimes I tell you what you already know to be true.  You can’t hear me. Sometimes I wonder what I would say, if you could hear. I know where you are, because I was there too. And we can’t hear, when we are there. But if there is a day. If there is a day the clouds break free, and the sun hits your face and for a solid second you can hear. I only want to tell you one thing…you are worth more.

To the others.

 To the souls I will never know. To the ones who were swept up by one encounter, months of chaos or years of hanging on to the idea of a life that simply did not exist. The truth of this entire picture, is we all arrived here at the hands of evil that exists in this world. At the hands of another’s brokenness converging with our own. The truth of this entire story, our story, connected by one ending and another beginning, is we are all seeking the same thing. We all desire love, acceptance, to be seen and valued. We will not find the true meaning of this in worldly relationships or things. We will try. We will certainly try. 

Dear affair partner.

In my story, this was your title. But in your story, you may be Mom. Wife. Daughter. Sister. In your story, this is how God sees you.

What if we hold titles that were not ours to bear? Titles cultivated for and given by the evil that exists in this world.

What if for today, you hang up that title.

What if for today, you have the opportunity to break a cycle that has defined you.

What if for today, you create a ripple that inspires change. Change that leads to no more broken homes. Present parents and spouses who own their brokenness and do not let it own them.

What if for today, you are not the affair partner in my story. You are not the affair partner in your story. And we allow God to take this from our hands, and use it for His good.

Curvilinear

One of the first steps of any autopsy is an external examination. We begin at the head, working our way down the body noting normalities and abnormalities. Injuries. And scars. I remember learning in my training all of the different ways you could describe a scar. Well-healed. Puckered. Linear. Each depiction representing the depth and shape of the cut that took place, and the different phases of healing. I remember being at the medical examiner and seeing a wavy scar that rose and fell like the ocean for the first time. I ran through my bank of scar terminology and could not land on any of them. I mustered up the humility to ask a Medical Examiner what he would call this not-so-linear scar. He paused, only briefly, but felt like eternity, as I did a quick permission to forgive myself for not knowing how to describe this scar. And then it melodically rolled off his tongue. Curvilinear, he called it. A type of scar that was not linear due to the location, the intricacy, and the type of closure necessary for healing.

It may be easy to read a blog like this and see a linear progression of events equals a linear path to healing. One post to the next, unfolding a picture of boxes checked, moving from the worst to best versions of your life. But just like the rise and fall of the ocean waves, our scars, our healing journeys, are never the same. They are intricate; never clear cut or well-defined. But our scars do tell a story.

Like the time I was in Austin, standing in a gift shop holding something that caught my eye and a man walked behind me wearing my then husbands cologne. I was traveling solo and wearing a new yoga outfit having just come from a local studio, feeling confident and zen. The scent of this cologne was too painfully strong. Without warning, my tears started embarrassingly and unavoidably flowing down my face. I could not stop them. Grieving had just started to really surface, and the sudden onset of crying in public was a new and uncomfortable experience. I rushed out of the store and back to my hotel room, as the rise and fall of my newly sutured scar whispered: I am so proud of you for getting out today.

Or the times I would sit on my kitchen counter in my little apartment as I heated up my aromatherapy neck wrap that I would routinely take to bed, placing drops of lavender oil behind my ears and on my wrists while swallowing melatonin and asking God for a peaceful night’s sleep. My puckered, healing scar whispering: Thank you for taking care of you today.

The time I was rushing home from work to go see a comedy show with my now partner, and the southern humidity had taken its toll on my natural head of curls. I stripped off my scrubs and into the outfit I had laid out, glanced in the mirror and could not bring myself to open the bathroom door. How could he be seen with me, with my hair like this? How could I have thought this would be okay? A soft knock and the door opened, as he reminds me dinner is getting cold and says, “Wow…you look amazing.” My well-healed scar whispering: You are beautiful, just the way you are.

Our healing is never linear.

There are many days, weeks, lonely nights and walks, drop to your knees crying sessions and faithful breakthroughs in between our scars healing, dear partner. But they do tell a story. What are your scars saying? Whispering?

I survived.

I am heal-ing.

I am here.

7 Minutes

I stared at the shirt on my dresser as I slipped out of bedroom slippers. I took a few sips of my coffee and thought of my mom, altering and ironing it the night before. She is the mom that made our childhood Halloween costumes, stitched on tutus for dance recitals, altered our adult tops and pants to fit our petite frames just right. But I don’t think a divorce-day shirt is ever anticipated in your alterations que as a mom. I had just hit her with the truth months prior. Eight years worth of truth that was still undoubtedly being processed, as I handed her the soft white t-shirt with subtle Script font stitched across the bust line. The words on the shirt now breaking my trance, as I spoke them out loud; my mantra for the day. I No Longer Paint Red Flags Green.

It was the day of my divorce. In a few hours I would earn a new title. Titles. Ex-wife. Divorced. Single. I had heard the saying on my t-shirt months before on a divorce podcast, and it made me laugh and feel strong. It made those titles feel like a badge of honor instead of a shame-filled label. At least for the day. My anxiety was at levels I had never experienced before in my life. I checked my lap top charge for the 15th time, made sure my zoom session was set to login and sat at my desk with minutes to spare while reciting Psalm 91.

Three zoom cameras clicked to life; our attorneys and the magistrate. Zoom court and court in general was unfamiliar territory for me. I had been doing so many things outside my comfort zone in the months leading up to this call. Grey rock communication. Changing my cell phone number. Moving what could be salvaged in one hour out of my marital home. Legal meetings. Bank account withdraws. One would think a zoom call would be a 70s-and-sunny walk in the park. But it wasn’t. By the time I arrived at this call, my emotional state registered at irritable and hypervigilant, with a bit of paranoia. In the months leading up to this call, I had awakened to what actually happened to me as a wife.

My then husband, soon to be ex, was last to join. This was not a surprise to me. What was a surprise, was the very public place he chose to join this call. I had taken the entire day off of work, and was tucked away inside my tiny apartment behind closed doors, with a cleared desk and calendar. My then husband was up high and outside. Tall buildings were in the background and people moved about intermittently behind him. A coffee cup nestled in front of him, likely holding a fresh latte. He wore a crisp button down shirt, his hair was shaped into that tight, hard-part style and his beard freshly trimmed. I was surprised, dear partner, that the usual butterfly dance I would feel in my belly, didn’t happen when I saw his face for the first time in 3 months. I was surprised, that my very first thought, was I have no idea who this person is.

My divorce was 7 minutes. A few questions. A few references to our settlement agreement. 14 years. 8 years of marriage. 2 years post that first disclosure on our back porch. 1 year of separation.

And it was over in 7 minutes.

My divorce was held on the exact date of my first D-Day, at the exact time I was sitting on that porch that hot, July summer day two years prior.

To say God orchestrated my days surviving and leading up to this moment is an understatement.

I bought a new, blue summer dress for that night to have dinner with my family. For some reason, the color made me think of Wendy from the childhood movie, Peter Pan, when I first saw it on the hangar. Wendy, and her beautiful blue dress, as she shifted around the island of the Lost Boys. I hung my t-shirt up and softly smiled as I did a celebratory twirl in the dress in front of my leaning mirror; lost boys and an isolating island were no longer to be my life.

Dear partner. If divorce is, was, or will be a part of your story, I pray it is at the end of a dirt road that was fighting the good fight for your marriage. I pray you can lay your head down at night and know with complete rest, every ounce of your being, that you did the best you could. I pray your support chain doesn’t end with the last casserole dish being dropped off at your door, or text that reads, “I’m thinking about you.” I pray your new days are held for the time to grieve, the time to reclaim, the time for forgiveness, the time for acceptance, and the life-long learning of healing.

You, dear partner, are the hero of your story. And you always will be.

The Ambiguous Loss

The last time I saw my then husband was outside my apartment complex.  His SUV rounded the bend, as I asked my parents to remain inside and on standby.  This wasn’t the first time he was in an emotionally charged state.  It was, however, the first time I would be experiencing it in this capacity in person.  I lost track of how many times he called my phone on his way over; call after call remaining unanswered, as I knew speaking in this state never ended in clarity and closure. As his car was pulling in, I saw the shadow of my sweet girl sitting in the backseat.  This would also be the last time I saw her, with a darkly tinted window between us.  The next several moments are hazy. I remember his window going down. I remember him saying he knew I called an attorney.  I remember him asking if I wanted a divorce. I remember pulling on the locked back door handle, hard, desperate to get to my girl. I remember the front doors of my apartment complex opening as my dad heard my voice escalate. I remember walking back to my building and realizing he was screening my phone calls.  I remember feeling an intense rush of anxiety, followed shortly thereafter by the sluggish state of shock, and eventually overwhelming sadness.

This would be our goodbye.

Dear partner.  Not all stories end like this one.  And if you find today’s post relatable or validating in any capacity, I feel your pain in my bones.  Today’s post is to shed light on stories that do end in loss.  And some of us partners may experience what is known as ambiguous loss.  

Ambiguous loss may be defined as a loss without closure or clear understanding.  There may never be a formal goodbye, or opportunity for an intentional last conversation. An apology may never come.  There may never be a true understanding of their impact, their choices, the consequences of those choices, experienced in the fullest capacity.  Because the truth, dear partner, is it’s nearly impossible to have such experiences with someone who is not grounded in reality. It is not possible with someone who is in radical denial, and not living in truth. And one of our toughest battles, among the many we have already fought and will continue to fight, is our acceptance of ambiguous loss.

Where does one begin to process this kind of loss?

How does one close the loop on a loss that otherwise continues on repeat, with no readily available opportunity for repair?

Much like breaking a trauma bond or the un-gaslighting process, it begins with the support of our therapy team, and unconditional love from our trusted inner circle. I explored writing an undelivered letter to my then husband, sharing what I would have said in our final moments.  Some therapists guide partners through the “empty chair technique,” when a chair is placed in the therapeutic setting and the partner uses the words they never had the chance to say, while imagining the person is present. Ultimately, dear partner, what helped me truly process and eventually overcome my ambiguous loss, was the daily reminder of all that I do have, and consistently choosing to not be defined by what I had lost.

Instead of waiting for a day, a conversation, a moment that may never come, we can choose to see the goodness that is alive and well among us.  I feel it when the orange and purple sun rays traverse early morning clouds on my drive in to work. I feel it when a stranger smiles and says, “How is your day?” I feel it when my favorite worship song (Gratitude, by Brandon Lake) covers me like a cozy blanket. The good that radiates among me, can and will, penetrate the gaping holes of my ambiguous loss.

Choosing in the losing, is a continued commitment to our healing. It may not be readily available to you at first; the ability to see goodness drifting among the loss. But eventually, you may begin to feel that shift.

Eventually, our gain may just become far greater than our deepest loss.

Allow Ordinary to be Extraordinary

I sat on my little apartment porch that overlooked the pond as evening clouds started to rest beside the sunset. I was wrapped in my softest blanket, pajamas underneath at 5:30 PM, and a glass of white wine that was now perfectly chilled from the December air. It was New Years Eve, and I was exactly where I wanted to be. I wanted to watch the year set. I wanted to watch the sun descend on the many days and nights that I took several brave steps forward into a year that nearly broke me. A year that made me. As I reflected back on 2023, I thanked God for all of it. For humbly leading me, and continuously providing an abundance of safety and love, through all of it. The final disclosure. The inpatient stay. The out-of-state move. The new job. The name change. The opportunity to date again; to experience connection in healthy relationship. And as the last of the sun caressed the tree tops, my chosen theme for the new year rose high into the sky among the stars that were now reflecting the promise of a new year. The year 2024 would be my year to allow ordinary to be extraordinary.

So much of every day life had been years of chaos followed by years of uncertain steps forward to leave the chaos. The ordinary of life had been acutely unpredictable. I needed to stabilize. I wanted to sit back and soak it all in; to be fully immersed and present in the ordinary of the every day life I worked hard to reclaim and redefine. I wanted to be intentional in how I spent my time. I wanted to be intentional in my healing.

I decided part of my healing in the New Year would involve the regulation of my thought patterns. Forming pathways in my brain for the new life I was creating that would eventually overcome and replace any lingering, ruminating thoughts of the prior chapter.

I decided part of my healing would be accepting the life that was prior, was in fact, a chapter. Not the whole story, but one part of the story, that God was continuing to unfold.

I decided part of my healing would be continuing to reach for self-compassion. I would shift some of the same love I have for helping others onto myself. I would learn to see myself, my values and my needs, as important.

I asked God to meet me in these declarations. To meet me exactly where I was in this phase of the healing process.

What are you reaching for in this New Year?

What feels tangible and safe?

What is already in us, that only needs to awaken?

As we hover in the space that rests between one year ending and a new year beginning, I pray for more moments of peace in your ordinary.

I pray this new year releases that which no longer serves you.

I pray we make room for the ordinary moments of life that can lead to extraordinary healing.

Reason in My Season

A significant part of my trauma, and some of the more cruel lies and manipulation I experienced in my marriage, happened on Christmas. For a few years, I avoided Christmas carols, movies, holiday functions outside of an intimate family setting, and commercialized stores. I was remembering a particular Christmas this week. Reflecting on and having so much compassion for younger me, as I battled the good fight to choose the reason for the season.

This particular Christmas morning, I was alone, sitting on the living room floor with a cup of coffee, my sweet girl nestled on the couch, and staring at a blank journal page. I was six months post the first disclosure, and believed my then husband was spending the holiday in the city where he had business travel. I told him not to come home. I was weeks away from our separation, and our marital home felt utterly bleak. There were no decorations. There was no one to share breakfast with over presents. There was no pending meal prep for family visiting that day. Just a blank journal page, and my bible beside it.

I casually flipped open my bible that morning, in full doubt of where God could possibly take my darkness, and landed on Luke 1:46. Mary’s Song of Praise. I had heard this scripture just a few weeks prior on the series, The Chosen. It was an incredibly powerful scene as the Mother Mary, in all her youthfulness, uncertainty, and fears, undoubtedly overwhelmed in the responsibility of her testimony, gracefully spoke this prayer of praise. “My Soul Magnifies the Lord…” she says. “My spirit rejoices in God my Savior…for he who is mighty has done great things for me…”. I glanced up briefly at my surroundings, my circumstances, the empty home that was once a home and now carried so much brokenness. And my gaze returned to the blank journal page. And I thought of Mary. A woman who could have been engulfed by her testimony, the heaviness of what was being asked of her, and was instead, rejoicing in God.

Dear partner. Our holidays will look inevitably different for a little while; or perhaps a long while. There were a few years, while fighting demons that no one knew, as I passed out dessert and refilled wine glasses, that I needed to find a reason to survive my season. I invited friends or acquaintances to Christmas dinner that had no family to speak of. I purchased gifts for children who wouldn’t have a Christmas morning otherwise. I sat in a pew for Christmas Eve service and distracted my tears by biting my lower lip and watching the clock count down. And it was that Christmas morning where God met me, with not a mouth to feed or host, not a forgotten child to clothe or gift wrap for; it was there, dear partner, that God met me in all of my darkness, and gave me a spirit to rejoice. Alone. Uncertain. Questioning my own ability to carry a testimony that was unfolding beyond my control. Rejoicing.

Here is the journal entry I wrote that Christmas morning:

12/25/21

It has been a while…No doubt I allowed numbing and feelings of being paralyzed by raw emotion to take over this month. Or in quite a possessive way, they just simply found a broken and vulnerable body to take over. But I am back. And what a day to reach for God again.

I am alone and that was exactly what I wanted this year. No one to please or fill up, just me & this time and peace I am receiving from God. Nothing to hide behind or with, but to open my hands and receive God’s never-ending & abundant grace & peace. “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my savior…”

God, you have been so good to me. In all of my weakness and emotions, you have been so good to me. The only light in my life. You continue to burn brightly in the midst of all the darkness. The narrow road I continue to walk trusting you, taking one step further; one daunting step further.

Thank you for filling me with the grace and ability to choose me and my needs. To be filled with this intimate time with you. For permission, to just be in your presence.

Faith is strengthened in our darkest moments. Fragmented moments that piece together to form a testimony that radiates, God is still good.

I didn’t need the darkness, dear partner. We do not need our circumstances to have a life of faith. But I am not certain I would have experienced the depth of where God’s love would reach for me, until I rejoiced in it. Until I rejoiced in the darkness. The uncertainty. The season.

I would never have a Christmas morning in that house, with the entirety of that family as I knew it, with my sweet girl, in the marriage or in that life ever again. But I would rejoice in the darkness. I would faithfully seek God, who continued to seek me.

My Justice Served

I went through an incredibly intense period of wanting justice shortly before my divorce. Sometimes I get lingering aftershocks from this period over a year later. I had one recently, standing in my kitchen seasoning chicken thighs for dinner when I remembered a serving bowl I left in my marital home. The flashback continued on to the visuals of photos I incidentally saw as I was deleting my social media accounts. Photos of a family reunion my then husband hosted in our marital home, a few months before our divorce. My serving bowls, a few I had collected over the years and others given to me by his grandma, were pictured all over the kitchen counter with chips and appetizers, surrounded by family I had not seen in quite some time. The next photo was my then husband’s affair partner and her child, standing in the kitchen wearing smiles and early-summer party attire. It was quite an event, I had heard later that evening. One where he introduced her to the family as new and taking it slow. My then husband, pictured full-smile beside this woman at a table covered in steamed crabs and beers. Two months post his discharge from the inpatient program. Days from emails and texts, lamenting the darkness and loss of our marriage. Weeks away from a divorce. The garage door closes, and I am startled back to present day, staring at the chicken thigh skin I have now caked in seasoning. My racing heart and flustered fingers are immediately at ease when my now partner rounds the corner for his consistent, warm, welcome-home greetings. I am back in my kitchen. I am back in my safe place. He comes immediately to hug me, chicken-thigh-seasoned hands and all. I feel peace.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

One can imagine the shift from very private to intense public humiliation is quite provoking. As if we have not been through enough, dear partner, the days leading up to my divorce were filled with calls from close friends and old acquaintances who wanted to know who she was; the woman my then husband was now bringing to professional events. Some that once knew me intimately, asking why my then husband said, we just fell out of love. I wanted to rage during each and every call. I wanted to blast his name, his reputation, sharing all that he had done to me and drop the mic with the end call button. But I knew this high, this intense desire for justice, would be so very short-lived. A therapist once told me, I could write an entire book and no one would believe me; he is just that good. So after I processed these calls, these visceral and deeply painful reminders of the continued humiliation experienced as his wife, I made a mission critical connection. I did not need to share one, true, relevant detail from my lips to their ears. My then husband was already living out what he had done to me; what his behaviors and choices continue to emulate. He is living it out, on public display for the world to see. I didn’t need to say anything.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

A full circle realization, is that justice wasn’t for me to decide. Justice for the how and the when accountability would come for his actions. It still isn’t for me to decide. And that is one part of radical acceptance on our healing journey.

I am acutely and often reminded, that the peace of my life, the peace I battled long and hard for at the feet of Jesus, is my justice served. The day I took my last anti-anxiety pill. The day I moved 500 miles away from all that I had known to begin a life that would become far greater than I could have ever imagined. I serve a God of justice. And God is consistently faithful to my healing, as I seek him daily.

Nothing of this world can compete with the joy of God’s redemption.

This, dear partner, is my justice served.

The Day I Reclaimed What Was Taken

We had an intimate family celebration for my parents 40-year wedding anniversary that weekend. Pictures of their special day, when they were all but children, scattered across tablecloths and cake stands with their wedding song softly playing in the background. My littlest nieces were decked out in their favorite ensembles for the occasion and enthralled with the flashback photos; their sweet, innocent connections that the adults in their life were once young. My mom brought her wedding dress out, still in the same box that held memories of 40 years past. It was then that it hit me, the latest grief stage. Sudden waves of emotion followed by a pulsating, throb of sorrow. I would never have a 40-year wedding anniversary. 

I had just begun the intense grieving over the loss of my marriage.  Grieving the loss of life and the survival of all that had happened to me in those nearly two decades. As I drove home to my apartment that evening, reminiscing the sweet yet internally somber day, I asked God, what can I do about this? What can I do with the memories of a wedding day where vows were exchanged laced in lies, and years as a committed wife were simply taken from me? What can I do with this, God?

My own wedding anniversary was on the horizon, and it dawned on me that in one week I would be heading back to my marital home to pick up the remainder of my things, including my own wedding dress.  I imagined touching the blush-colored garment bag; the custom-hangar with my married name in script font across the top. I could feel the layered tulle beneath the bustle; the soft, satin finish. I could feel the raw emotion I would have in this moment.

And God, in all His glory, began to reveal a tender and intimate image to me as the sun was setting through my rearview mirror on my drive home that evening. I pictured myself in my wedding dress, on a beach, walking confidently in who I was and who I would become from survival and healing. I imagined vows, written to myself. A promise to take myself back, to love and honor who I was as a wife, and all that I would become. These images inspired a shift. In the middle of the grieving, I hired a professional photographer. I exposed my heart and mind to seeing and touching my wedding dress again, and planned what I would eventually call a “Reclaim” photoshoot that took place four days shy of my 8-year wedding anniversary. And it was the best gift I could have given myself in that phase of my healing. 

On that humid, summer evening, much like my wedding day, I walked onto a beach barefoot in my wedding dress. I was still a wife at this time.  Legally, speaking. But on this day, I was so much more. The photographer captured a woman, a daughter, a sister, an aunt, and a friend. She captured a woman who may not have a 40-year wedding anniversary, but had and will have, a lifetime of love. I felt peace and confidence in those moments that I had not experienced in many years. And as I stood on that beach with the sunset rippling across the bay, I felt God with every ounce of my being say, it’s going to be amazing. 

The album I created holds the photos I want to celebrate.  The photos I want to show my sweet nieces when they grow up and ask me about my time as a wife.  The album holds a story I want to remember.

Dear partner. Our healing is a choice. I pray that you make it your own. I pray you ask God for guidance as new obstacles surmount, and in the choosing of how you want to heal. Here are the vows I made to myself. My commitment to the healing.    

I, Take Thee

I Take you Back.

Not lost, but Found.

Not broken, but Redeemed.

I Reclaim what was taken.

I Celebrate all that you have been, all that you are, and all that you will become.

Faithful.

Daughter.  Sister.  Aunt.  Friend.

From this day Forward,

The very worst, has made you the very Best.

Go, Live in Peace.

I Take you Back.

Grey Rock

I knew leaving the marriage would be daunting. Navigating financially impactful decisions and property allocation with someone who has utilized a cyclic presentation of manipulation and love-bombing for their best interest and the entirety of your marriage, would be daunting. I had been cautioned by my therapy team in the days leading up to my then husband finding out that I wanted a divorce, to expect the worst, and perhaps far worse than I had ever seen, in his behaviors. Expect the worst and pray for the best. I did both and sought credible resources to prepare for everything in between.

I was sitting in my car, working through breathwork patterns with a podcast playing in the background before I walked into the salon for a hair appointment. I had been listening to a series on divorce when the host explained a communication technique that saved my sanity and kept my divorce moving forward.

Grey Rock is a technique that involves stripping all of the emotion out of communication, and relaying fact-based, necessary information only. Lifeless, dull, and otherwise insanely boring communication.

Picture a grey rock on the edge of a picnic table. I had one once. At girl scout camp we picked “pet rocks” from the woods to decorate with paint and other fun accessories. My rock, was in fact, grey. It had smooth edges and I remember the calming sensations of holding this rock in my hand. I didn’t need paint. Grey was fine for me. A narcissist, however, requires the paint. They need the vibrant strokes of color and all of the accessories to supply their brain. Grey will not do. Grey is boring. And this dear partner, is exactly what we want to be if we must have, remain in, or end all communication with a partner who demonstrates narcissistic behaviors. We can become the grey rock.

I received a few texts and emails leading up to my divorce that required grey rock responses. Messages that ranged from intense self loathing from the loss he was experiencing, to telling me I couldn’t get my things from our marital home because he was painting doors in the house, to simply ignoring requests altogether and instead entertaining other, irrelevant topics. All messages equally triggering. All requiring the external support of my trusted inner circle, legal, and therapy teams before I could reply. All candidates for grey rock communication.

After receiving the rest of my things from my marital home, I committed to communication via email only. This provided ample time to write, re-write, read out loud, and strip all of the emotion from my communication. Replies that were once paragraphs of my feeding his supply with compassion, were now one sentence. And eventually, the replies were only one word. Nothing more, nothing less. When we no longer give our narcissistic partners (or ex-partners) their supply, dear partner, the idea and goal is that they move on. There is no bait or vulnerability for them to latch onto. There is no one to argue with in battles that never end constructively. I was oddly blessed during the final days of my grey rock communication, that my then husband had already circled back to an affair partner to begin his new life and supply. His continued choices, and the art of grey rock communication, allowed me to begin mine.

One year after my divorce, his name popped up in my inbox. A short, cryptic, message reminiscing the loss of our marriage. My therapy tool box opened, and a screen shot of his message went to my accountability partner to remain grounded in reality. My tool box closed. No reply was sent. And I stepped out into the sunshine, that which is my freedom and life, with coffee in hand.

But When Did You Know?

My then husband had been out of the inpatient program for a few weeks when we had our last phone call as husband and wife.  I did not know it at the time, as I answered his call that evening driving in rush hour traffic as the rain wished-washed across my windshield. I can still hear the wipers, stubbornly gliding in between heavy and light spurts as if telling me, it’s coming; just hang in there, the end is coming. I did not know it at the time, but God had diligently been preparing my heart, and more importantly, my brain to receive this call in the capacity I did. Truthfully, my then husband spoke words and with a tone I had experienced dozens of times in the last few years. The direct reminder that we both ruined our marriage. The voicing that a lot of things would need to change for him to commit to reconciliation. The stoic response, I am not comfortable with that, when I indicated I would want a formal disclosure with our therapy teams and routine polygraphs. My own brain pausing, shocked and not shocked all at the same time, at the ease of his fresh-out-of-inpatient responses. My own brain pausing, as I spoke my needs out loud. Did I want this? Did I want a life the therapists told me to expect in year one of recovery? Lie detectors with an added layer for eye movement? A life he had already lied through for a year of intensive therapy and separation? As these questions circled the now stifling, humid atmosphere of my car, and eventually dispersed up to the clouds that hovered over my drive, my then husband continued on. I eventually interjected. Muttered, really. Something about meeting later that week for dinner.

What my then husband heard on that last call was my expected agreeing with his perspectives, so I could peacefully end the call. What he did not hear, or rather, chose not to hear, were that my needs for reconciliation in the last few weeks since inpatient had transitioned from open for discussion, to non-negotiable. And when I hung up the phone, I knew.

As God planned it, I was driving to my second bible study that evening with a new church group. It was a trauma recovery group.  I had shared my story the week before and debated even returning. Among the stories of death, childhood abuse, and adult care giving, my 8-year marital saga of deception left the entire group speechless. I was not even sure where to go from there in week two. But before we started on our lessons and the group was filling in, a new face entered the room. She was beautiful, a powerhouse all five feet of her. And then she blew me away with her testimony of domestic violence, survival, recovery, and what my soul needed most that night, surviving legal battles. Two hours later, I would leave the group with a name and number for one of the best female divorce attorneys in my area.

When I say God lined everything up, God, lined everything up. I did not plan fearless, and I did not plan confidently. But I did plan when it was calm (as calm as controlled chaos can be), white knuckling and teeth grinding over the next few weeks, as I planned for the legal ending of my marriage. 

I knew. 

I had asked a few women before me on similar journeys, “But when did you know?” Their answers and scenarios were all different and yet all the same. This would be my ending. 

I had played dozens of scenarios and rehearsed conversations in my head, detailing what the end would finally be. What would it finally take for me to save myself and stop trying to save him? I had my APSAT coach, my trusted inner support circle, my list of non-negotiable needs for reconciliation, my positive affirmations, and the list goes on for what I compiled for justification to save myself. And what was ultimately required, what finally took place for me to know, was a complete surrender to God who was just waiting in the wings to take my hand and say, come.  Follow me.

The World Was Quiet

It was a Wednesday evening when we had our last call before he checked in to the inpatient program. My phone rang as I walked in to a worship service at church. When I saw his number, blood raced to my cheeks and my heart rate escalated. I expected his phone to not be accessible by this point, with limited and monitored phone calls for the next several days. It was one last “checking-in” call while he was enroute to the facility. My patience was non-existent by this point. I was less than 24 hours from the previous check-in call, when he informed me he chose to continue relations with an affair partner in the weeks leading up to inpatient. One last trauma-bomb for the road. I was ready for several days of silence.

For fourteen years, up to and including our separation, my then husband routinely and frequently checked in. I used to think it was sweet. As the years went on, these check-ins became more flat. Regardless of what I replied, where I was, who I was with, or how my day was actually going, it was as if he was somewhere else, and the check-in was simply a formality. If I did not respond to a check-in, however, the tides turned. Immediately. Disinterested became hypervigilant. There was an evident and imperative need for a response. This became acutely obvious when I would leave our marital home, and he would call to ask where I was going, and wanting to know when I returned home, regardless if he was gone the entire day or traveling for business. This became acutely obvious, when I was 50 miles away for a therapeutic separation, and he wanted to know what my plans were, and when I went to bed at night. There was a time I believed this was an act of love; a geninuine concern for my well-being. I didn’t awaken to what was actually happening to my mind and body with these frequent check-ins, until the world was quiet.

I had planned a trip that just happened to fall at the beginning of the inpatient stay. I traveled to a cozy southern town that had been on my bucket list for years. I grabbed the rental car and drove immediately to a state park. I parked and had my shoes off before the gritty concrete met the soft, February-cool, sand. I was instantly relieved to be escaping winter for the warm, southern sun. The view in front of me was beach for miles and only a few, likely locals, out on a week day stroll. I paused before I made my way onto the beach, tilted my head up to the sun, and took the deepest inhale exhale in days. A woman casually grazed my right arm as she walked by with her beach chair and said, “felt like we were never going to get here!” I smiled, as a single tear traversed my cheek. She was gone before she could hear my spoken reply, “You have no idea…”

I went to the local grocery store and strolled up and down every aisle, picking out my favorite snacks. And the world was quiet. I unpacked and made dinner reservations, and put on a beautiful new dress. And the world was quiet. I sat solo among a Saturday night restaurant crowd and ordered every appetizer on the menu. And the world was quiet. I strolled into quaint shops and ate pie in a rocking chair that faced the water. And the world was quiet. I journaled, I prayed, I slept in a queen size bed without my phone nestled beside my head on the adjacent pillow. And the world was quiet.

It became curiously, then abundantly clear to me during those several days, that my world had been anything but quiet. I had been living in a world where my eyes would dart to my phone every few minutes to not miss any calls. Calls that held so much control and no healthy significance. A world where my heart leaps into summersaults when I see an unknown number, wondering if it is the next woman trying to find me.

I wrapped up this trip and the days of silence with awakenings.

I desperately did not want to return to the chaos.

And I was terrified of what getting out of the chaos would require.