Category: Marriage

When I Didn’t Hold Firm

· 1 Comment ·

Yesterday morning, I didn’t hold firm to one of my boundaries. I felt myself becoming very triggered, and instead of walking away, I stayed in the conversation. I knew I was becoming overwhelmed, but I kept talking and trying to work through something when I was already too flooded to work through it well. I let myself spiral into an emotional place I haven’t been in almost a year, and honestly, it is a place I never want to see again.

When I finally started to come back to normal, I felt ashamed. I had failed to keep a promise I made to myself. I don’t like saying that I failed, but that is what happened. I had hoped that after everything I have learned and all the work I have done, I would respond differently. I wanted to recognize what was happening, pause, hold my boundary, and walk away before I fell that far. But I didn’t, and I was disappointed in myself.

I think part of what hurt so much afterward was knowing that I had let myself down. These boundaries are important to me. I didn’t make them casually. I put them in place because I know what happens to me when a difficult conversation goes too far and I become overwhelmed. I know how quickly fear and hurt can take over, and I know how difficult it can be to climb back out of that emotional pit once I am there. I had made a promise to myself that I would step away before I reached that place again, and this time I didn’t keep that promise.

So I went back and read my boundary statement. I needed to remind myself why I had written it in the first place. I am a child of God. I am beloved and valuable. I am free and responsible to choose what I will participate in. My boundaries help me live in that truth.

Proverbs 4:23 says, “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” I don’t think that means I should build walls around myself or avoid anything difficult, but I do think there is wisdom in recognizing that I have a responsibility to guard what I continue participating in. For me, sometimes guarding my heart means recognizing when a conversation is no longer productive and stepping away.

Holding my boundaries is part of being good to myself. They are not about punishing my husband or controlling his behavior. They are about recognizing what is mine to choose. I can decide when a conversation is no longer healthy for me. I can decide when I need to stop talking and walk away. I can choose not to keep participating in something that is pulling me farther and farther away from being grounded in truth.

I wish I had done that. I wish I had recognized sooner how overwhelmed I was becoming and stepped away. I wish I had kept the promise I made to myself. I don’t want to brush past that or tell myself it didn’t matter, because it did. There is something here for me to learn. I need to recognize the warning signs sooner. I need to listen when I know I am becoming flooded. And when I know I need to step away, I need to actually step away.

But I also don’t want to take this failure and turn it into shame. I can be disappointed in the choice I made without condemning myself for making it. Romans 8:1 says, “There is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” That doesn’t mean I pretend I did everything right. It doesn’t mean there aren’t things I need to own or do differently. It means my failure does not change who I am in Christ.

Hebrews 4:16 tells me that I can approach God’s throne of grace with confidence so that I can receive mercy and find grace when I need it. And I needed it yesterday morning.

I am so thankful that God is near to me even when I mess up. I don’t have to come to God only when I have responded perfectly. I can come to Him when I am disappointed in myself, when I wish I had done better, and when I know I need His help to make a different choice next time. His grace doesn’t excuse what happened. His grace gives me somewhere to go with it.

I am reminded about something I say to my two-and-a-half-year-old grandson when he is learning something new. Sometimes he gets frustrated when he can’t do something the first time. I look at him and say in an encouraging voice, “Try again.”

I don’t say it because it doesn’t matter that he didn’t get it right. I say it because I know he is learning. I know that not getting something the first time doesn’t mean he can’t learn how to do it. He may need another attempt. Maybe several more attempts. So I encourage him to try again.

I think I need to give myself some of that same grace.

I failed to hold my boundary. I don’t like that, and I want to learn from it. But I get to try again.

And I’m sure there will be a next time. There will probably be another difficult conversation, another trigger, another moment when fear or hurt starts rising inside of me. I cannot promise myself that I will never feel that way again. What I can do is keep learning to recognize it sooner and make a different choice when it happens.

Maybe next time I will recognize what is happening a little sooner. Maybe next time I will stop the conversation before I am completely overwhelmed. Maybe next time I will keep the promise I made to myself.

Lamentations 3:22–23 says that because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, His compassions never fail, and His mercies are new every morning. Those verses have always been especially meaningful to me because Great Is Thy Faithfulness is my favorite hymn. I have loved that hymn for years, but today the truth behind it feels a little more personal.

God’s faithfulness is not dependent on mine.

I failed to keep a promise I made to myself, but God did not fail me. His mercy was still there when I finally climbed out of that emotional pit. His grace was still there when I was disappointed in myself. His faithfulness did not change because I had a bad morning.

Maybe that is part of what “try again” means for me. It isn’t me promising that I will get everything right next time. It is knowing that because God is faithful, I can get back up and keep growing.

I want to be good to myself by keeping the boundaries I have set and I never want to see that emotional pit again. I know how dark it feels down there, and I don’t want to willingly keep walking toward a place that I know is harmful to me.

One bad morning doesn’t erase the progress I have made, but I also don’t want to waste what happened by refusing to learn from it. I failed to hold my boundary. I let myself down, and I don’t like that. But God was still near. His grace was still available. His faithfulness never changed.

Tomorrow His mercies will be new again. And when the next opportunity comes, I can remember what I so often tell my grandson.

Try again.

Control, Boundaries, and the Freedom to Let God Be God

· 1 Comment ·

I’ve been working through the last few verses of 1 John, and John’s final warning has stayed with me: “Dear children, keep yourselves from idols” (1 John 5:21). The timing caught my attention because the leader of my support group recently shared a prayer that included this line: “Forgive us for making their recovery an idol that dictates our daily peace, our joy, and our sanity.” I’m not bowing down to a statue, but there have been times when I looked to my husband’s recovery for a sense of security and peace that I can only find in God.

That made me think about how much I wanted to manage my husband’s recovery. I was afraid that if I stopped watching, reminding, questioning, and trying to keep things moving, he might stop doing the work. I wanted him to go to meetings, work his steps, talk to his sponsor, and understand what needed to change. I wanted him to see what I could see.

I understand why I felt that way. After betrayal, I wanted to know what was happening. I wanted to feel safe. I wanted to believe that if I stayed alert and kept asking the right questions, I could prevent more hurt. I needed to ask and talk about honesty and safety. But I was also carrying the fear that if I didn’t keep his recovery going, it might not go at all.

That was a heavy burden to carry. I couldn’t make him recover by trying harder. I couldn’t make him repent, or create lasting change by reminding him what to do. His recovery is his responsibility.

I’m learning that boundaries and control are not the same thing. I can ask for honesty and transparency. I can speak up when something doesn’t feel safe. I can step away from a conversation that becomes hurtful. I can decide what I’m willing to participate in. Those choices belong to me. But I can’t make my husband choose recovery. I can’t make his choices for him.

That still brings up fear. What happens if I stop managing it and he doesn’t keep choosing recovery? What if our future doesn’t look the way I hope it will? I don’t have answers to those questions. I still care deeply about my marriage. I still hope for a healthier future. Letting go of control doesn’t make those hopes disappear. It means I’m learning that I can’t guarantee that future by carrying responsibility that belongs to my husband.

On Sunday, we sang a song at church that brought this back to mind. One line says, “I won’t bow to idols.” The verse also talks about standing firm in worship, even in the fire, and not letting feelings shape what is true. It made me think about how easily my husband’s recovery became an idol for me. It also brought up my fear that my relationship with him may never be what I want it to be. I want God to heal the damage in my marriage, and I want my husband to keep choosing recovery. But I don’t want fear about the future to shape my faith or decide where I turn for peace. I want to keep turning to God, even when I don’t know what happens next.

John also writes about the confidence we can have when we bring our requests to God according to His will (1 John 5:14–15). I can ask God for wisdom, truth, courage, and help to take the next step. I can pray for my husband and for our marriage. I’m still learning what it means to trust God with the future when I don’t know exactly what it will look like. I know I can bring Him my hopes, but I can’t treat prayer like a way to make sure the ending turns out the way I want.

As I’ve started releasing the responsibility of managing my husband’s recovery, I’ve experienced peace. The circumstances aren’t all resolved. I still need honesty. I still need to pay attention to what is true and keep the boundaries that matter. But I’m not trying to hold everything together by myself anymore. I have left my husband’s choices with him and asked God to lead me in mine.

I want other wives on this unwanted journey to experience some of that same freedom. I know how easy it is to feel responsible for keeping everything on track. I can’t tell another woman what God is asking her to do in her own circumstances. I can only share what God is teaching me: I am responsible for my choices. My husband is responsible for his. And I can trust God with what I can’t control.

Surrender doesn’t mean the outcome no longer matters to me. It means the outcome is no longer mine to control. I still hope. I still pray. I still take the next step in front of me. And I’m learning to let God be God.

More Than Words

· Leave a comment ·

In the early 90s, it seemed like every guy who could get his hands on a guitar learned how to play More Than Words by Extreme to impress a girl. My husband was one of those guys. We were early in our dating relationship when he picked up his guitar and played and sang it to me. I was young and in love, and of course I thought it was romantic. I mean, what girl wouldn’t want the guy she was falling in love with to pick up a guitar and sing a love song to her?

I’ve thought about that song several times lately, and the irony of it isn’t lost on me now. Because I have been waiting for for a long time for more than words.

Words do matter to me. I want to hear “I love you.” I want an apology when someone hurts me. I want someone to tell me they understand. I want to hear that things are going to be different. And for a long time, I think words gave me hope. Maybe sometimes they gave me enough hope that I didn’t look very closely at what came after them. I heard a lot of “I’m sorry.” I heard a lot of “I won’t do it again” I heard promises that things were going to change. I wanted to believe those words and sometimes I did. But eventually words that aren’t followed by change start to lose their meaning.

I didn’t understand that when I was a young woman listening to him play his guitar. I probably thought love was something you proved with big romantic gestures. Flowers. Love songs. Saying the right things. Maybe that is part of love. Those things can be meaningful. But thirty-plus years of marriage have taught me that love is usually proven in much less romantic ways.

It is keeping your word when nobody is reminding you. It is paying attention when someone tells you they are hurting. It is changing behavior when you realize what you are doing is causing harm. It is keeping commitments. It is telling the truth when the truth is uncomfortable. It is respecting a boundary even when you don’t like it. It is doing the work you said you were going to do without someone having to ask whether you did it. It is consistency.

Maybe that’s what I mean when I say I need more than words. I don’t need more promises. I don’t need to hear that this time is going to be different. I don’t need another apology followed by another explanation of why the same thing happened again. I don’t need to be convinced that he means it this time. I don’t expect perfection. I expect learning and learning should eventually show changed behavior.

I know this is a season where there are going to be mistakes. Learning a different way of living and responding after years of doing things one way isn’t going to happen overnight. Grace leaves room for mistakes. But grace doesn’t mean pretending that repeated patterns are growth. If something happens and he recognizes that it hurt me, I need him to learn from it. If he understands something today that he didn’t understand yesterday, eventually that understanding should change the way he responds tomorrow. If he apologizes for a behavior, eventually I should see less of that behavior. Not because I reminded him. Not because I explained it one more time. Not because I managed his recovery well enough to get him there. Because he learned.

And learning should eventually produce fruit. John the Baptist said, “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance” (Matthew 3:8). I keep coming back to that. Repentance isn’t just saying words about what happened. It isn’t feeling terrible about it. It isn’t promising not to do it again. Those things may be part of repentance, but eventually repentance becomes visible. There should be fruit.

Maybe right now some of that fruit is still small. Maybe it looks like catching an old behavior sooner. Taking responsibility without being asked. Respecting a boundary the first time. Following through on something he said he would do. Choosing honesty when hiding would be easier. Recognizing my pain without immediately defending himself against it. I don’t need promises that fruit is coming. I need time to watch what grows.

Because after more than thirty years of words, they don’t make me feel safe anymore. Words can’t rebuild trust by themselves. Words can’t convince me that something has changed. Only the fruit that follows them can do that.

It is strange to think about that young woman sitting there listening to the man she loved play More Than Words on his guitar. She couldn’t possibly have known what the next thirty years would hold. She didn’t know how much those words would eventually mean to her, although not the way the writer of the song intended.

I don’t need someone to sing me a love song anymore. I need a love that becomes visible in ordinary, consistent faithfulness. Maybe that is what I have been asking for all along.

–Aimee
September 1, 2026

How Bright Is the Room?

· Leave a comment ·

Yesterday, I attended a webinar called Sobriety, Safety, and Healing After Betrayal with Dr. Jake Porter. There was so much good information shared, but one idea really stayed with me.

Dr. Porter compared sobriety to a light switch. It’s either on or off. But safety is more like a dimmer switch. The light switch can be on, but if the dimmer is all the way down at zero, there still isn’t any light. This explains how my husband can be sober but I can still be searching for emotional safety.

That made me think about how I communicate what I’m feeling. It is okay to say, “I don’t feel safe,” but it may be more helpful to say, “I feel less safe than I did yesterday,” or, “I feel safer than I did last week.”

When I think about safety on a scale from zero to ten, I can see how the number can move up and down during the healing process, and probably throughout the rest of life. Something my husband does may move me toward feeling safer, while something else may move me back down again. Feeling safer doesn’t mean trust has been completely restored, and feeling less safe doesn’t mean every bit of progress has been lost.

I’ve also been thinking about how a marriage is a lot like a house. A house has different rooms, and in this house every room has its own light switch and dimmer. In the same way, there are different rooms within a marriage. I may feel a seven in one room and only a two in another. I may feel fairly safe with my husband in one area while still feeling very unsafe with him in another. I want to be very clear that I am not speaking about physical safety. That should always be at a 10.

Looking at safety this way is also helping me understand where I need boundaries. If the safety in one room is at a seven, I may not need as many boundaries there. But if another room is at a two, then I need to look carefully at what boundaries I need in that area.

When my husband and I were talking about this, he pointed out that the boundary scale almost works in the opposite direction from the safety scale. If my safety is at a two, I may need a level eight boundary. If my safety is at a nine, I may need only a level one boundary. The less safe I feel in a particular room, the stronger my boundaries may need to be there.

Those boundaries are not meant to punish my husband or control him. They help protect me in the places where safety and trust have not yet been rebuilt. As safety grows through rigorous honesty, transparency, vulnerability, humility, and changed behavior, some of those boundaries may be able to change too.

Communicating where I am in each room can give my husband a more honest picture of how his choices are affecting my sense of safety. I’m not responsible for managing how he feels about the number, and I don’t have to tell him how to fix it. I am giving him an honest picture of where the light is growing brighter and where the room is still dark.

There was a lot of good information in the webinar, but the part about the dimmer switch really stuck with me. It helped me see that safety is not something I either have or don’t have. It can move up and down a little at a time. Maybe it is because I’m an electrician’s wife, but thinking about safety this way gives me a clearer way to understand and express what I am feeling, both to myself and to my husband.

-Aimee
September 17, 2026

Choosing Light … Again

· Leave a comment ·

There are some entries that are easy to write because I can clearly see what God has been teaching me. Then there are entries like this one. The ones where I almost don’t want to write because I wish the story had gone differently.

This weekend I hit a breaking point. Not the kind where everything falls apart all at once. It was quieter than that. It was disappointment on top of disappointment until I didn’t want to carry it anymore. One of the deepest lies God has been exposing in my heart over the last several months is the lie that I’m not enough. Not enough to be chosen. Not enough to be pursued. Not enough to stop having to prove my worth. This weekend I realized another lie had been quietly growing right beside it: I’m optional.

I don’t want to be someone’s option. I want to be someone’s choice. I want to know what it feels like to be chosen over and over again.

Saturday felt like little sparks of connection that kept going out before they ever became a fire. Every time I thought we were connecting, it disappeared just as quickly. By the end of the day, my heart was exhausted. Instead of taking that pain to Jesus like I’ve been learning to do, I reached for something that would numb it.

For a little while, I drifted.

I let go of the anchor that had been holding me steady and reached for something else to quiet the pain.

I’m not proud of that. But I want to be honest about my own journey. Healing isn’t a straight line. Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s incredibly messy… and this weekend was messy.

What surprised me is what God did in the middle of that mess.

Somewhere in the middle of all of it, walls came down. Conversations became more honest than they’ve been in a long time. I finally found words for the ache I’ve been carrying. The ache of feeling unseen. The ache of wondering if I will ever truly be chosen. For the first time in a long time, I think my husband didn’t just hear my words. I think he heard my heart.

There wasn’t one big dramatic moment. Instead, it was soft and slow. We missed church because we overslept, then spent the afternoon building our new chicken coop together. At one point I was kneeling on the ground stapling chicken wire while he stood above me fastening the sides. I reached up and flirted with him in a way I haven’t in a long time. He looked down and asked if he was in my way. I smiled and said, “No.” He smiled back, and we went back to work.

Later that evening we made a frozen pizza and sat on our bed having a little picnic while we talked. There wasn’t anything extraordinary about those moments, and maybe that’s exactly what made them so meaningful. They felt normal. They felt like friendship again. They felt like the kind of connection I’ve been missing. I felt seen, and maybe for the first time in a long time, he understood why this journey has been so painful.

Today I find myself holding two things at the same time: hope and caution. Part of me wonders if this was just another flicker that will fade away. Another part of me wonders if this is the small spark that God will gently breathe into a steady fire. The truth is, I don’t know, and I don’t have to know today. Real change isn’t measured by one conversation or one good day. Real change produces fruit over time.

So instead of trying to predict the future, I’m choosing something else.

I’m choosing light.

Again.

I’m choosing to bring my failures into the light instead of hiding them. I’m choosing to thank God for the good moments without demanding they become guarantees. I’m choosing to anchor my hope in Jesus instead of another person’s ability to love me perfectly.

One of the reasons I started Rooted & Anchored was because I didn’t want to pretend that following Jesus means having everything together. It doesn’t. Sometimes following Jesus means admitting that I let go of the anchor. It means admitting that I drifted and tried to quiet my pain in a way that could never truly heal it.

But letting go of the anchor does not mean I can’t reach for it again. The good news is that Jesus never lets go of me. He is still inviting me back. Still reminding me who I am. Still replacing lies with truth. Still teaching me that my identity isn’t found in whether someone else chooses me. It is found in the One who already has.

So today, that’s what I’m doing. I’m reaching for the anchor again. I’m choosing light again. And tomorrow, if I need to, I’ll choose it again.

– Aimee
July 20, 2026

Perfect Peace, Even Here

· Leave a comment ·

I used to think emotional regulation meant learning how to not feel so much. I thought healing would mean I would not be as emotional or as easily affected by things. Maybe if I could learn to control my reactions better, I would finally feel stronger and more secure.

But I am realizing that is not what God is asking me to do. He is not asking me to pretend I am fine when I am not. He is not asking me to push down grief, anger, fear, or disappointment. He is not asking me to become numb. He is teaching me to bring those emotions to Him before I let them take over.

There are still moments when something that may seem small can send my mind racing. It can be a change in someone’s tone, a facial expression, a delayed answer, or a conversation that does not feel finished. My mind immediately starts trying to figure out what happened. I replay the conversation. I wonder what was really meant. I question what is true, what is safe, and what I might have missed.

Betrayal taught me that what I thought was true might not have been the whole truth. It taught me that there could be another reality happening that I did not know about. Because of that, my mind still looks for what I might be missing. Sometimes my body reacts before I have even figured out what I am feeling. My heart beats faster, my chest feels tight, and I feel like I need answers right away.

For a long time, I thought the goal was to stop having those reactions. Now I think the goal is to learn what to do when they come. I am learning to pause, breathe, pray, and pay attention to what is happening inside of me before I react. I am learning that a feeling can be real without being allowed to lead me.

My feelings are not wrong, but they do not always tell me the whole story. Fear can make something feel urgent. Anger can make me feel like I need to act immediately. Grief can make it seem like the pain will never end. I am learning to bring all of that to God and let Him help me sort through what is true.

Isaiah 26:3 says, “You will keep in perfect peace those whose minds are steadfast, because they trust in you.”

I have always liked the words perfect peace, but I think I used to picture them differently. I thought perfect peace would come when my life felt peaceful. I thought it would happen when my relationships felt secure, when I had answers, and when nothing unexpected was happening around me.

But that is not what this verse says. It does not say God will keep everything around me peaceful. It says He will keep me in peace when my mind stays fixed on Him and I trust Him.

That means perfect peace can exist even here. It can exist in the middle of uncertainty. It can exist while I am still healing. It can exist when I do not have all the answers and when someone else’s choices are completely outside of my control.

Peace does not mean nothing is wrong. It means I know where to turn when something is wrong. It means I can remind myself that God is still God. He is still with me. He is not confused or caught off guard. He sees what I cannot see, knows what I do not know, and understands what I cannot make sense of.

God is not asking me to figure everything out before I can rest. He is asking me to trust Him.

Sometimes that means turning my mind back to Him over and over again. Peace is not always one big spiritual moment. Sometimes it is a lot of small choices throughout the day. It is choosing not to keep replaying a conversation. It is telling God what I am afraid of. It is waiting until I am calm before I respond. It is choosing what I know is true instead of following where fear is trying to take me.

If you are healing from betrayal, emotional regulation is not about excusing what happened or pretending you are okay. It is not about becoming quieter, less emotional, or easier for everyone else to be around. It is about slowing down enough to let God meet you in what you are feeling.

For me, being rooted and anchored in Jesus means learning to pause before I react. It means telling God the truth about how I feel and asking Him to help me choose the next right thing. And God can handle the truth. He can handle my anger, my questions, my fear, and the moments when I do not feel peaceful at all.

Psalm 62:8 says, “Pour out your hearts to him, for God is our refuge.” I love that verse because it reminds me that I do not have to hide any of this from God. I do not have to clean up my emotions before I come to Him. I can pour everything out and trust that He will meet me there.

I have not mastered this. Not even close. There are still times when I react too quickly. There are still moments when fear becomes louder than truth. There are still days when my mind feels anything but steadfast.

But I can see God gently rebuilding the places in me that have lived in survival mode for a long time. He is teaching me that peace is not found in controlling every outcome. It is not found in knowing everything or making sure I am never hurt again. Peace is found in Him.

Maybe perfect peace does not mean I am never shaken. Maybe it means I know where to return when I am.

Between His Shoulders

· Leave a comment ·

There are certain Bible verses that stay with you through different seasons of your life. For me, one of those verses is Deuteronomy 33:12: “The one the Lord loves rests between His shoulders.” I first held onto that verse after my daughter Melanie died when she was just 18 years old, waiting for a double lung transplant that wasn’t meant to be. I pictured myself riding piggyback on God’s back. My arms were around Him, my head was resting on His upper back between His shoulders, and He was carrying me because I did not have the strength to keep walking on my own.

That picture brought me so much comfort. I was not trying to be strong. I was not trying to figure everything out. I was just being carried.

That image has stayed with me through so many hard things since then. Through losing my daughter Rosie 22 months after her double lung transplant. Through learning about my husband’s addiction. Through learning about his infidelity. Through the night before our Full Therapeutic Disclosure, when I knew I might hear things that would hurt me deeply and change the way I remembered parts of my life. That night, this verse came back to me again.

I did not know what I was going to hear the next day, but I knew I needed to hear the truth. I also knew that the same God who carried me when Melanie and Rosie died would carry me through this too. I do not understand why my life has included so much loss. I do not understand why I had to bury two daughters and then walk through betrayal trauma. Maybe I will understand someday. Maybe when I get to Heaven, I will not even need the answers anymore.

But I do know that God has never asked me to carry any of it by myself. He has carried me when I could not walk. He has held me when I felt like I was falling apart. He has stayed close when I did not know what to pray or even what to think.

When I think about everything I want to write here, this is where it begins. Not with betrayal. Not with grief. Not even with healing. It begins with God carrying me.

This blog is about what God has done in my life through the hardest things I have ever walked through. It is about learning to trust Him when I do not understand. It is about becoming rooted and anchored in Him when everything around me feels uncertain. And it is about resting between His shoulders when I do not have the strength to take another step.

-Aimee