One of the hardest things about trauma is that it doesn’t ask permission before it interrupts your life.
You can be surrounded by the people you love.
Sitting at dinner with your family.
Laughing with friends.
Worshipping at church.
Watching your child do something that should fill your heart with joy.
Everything around you says, “Be present.”
But your mind quietly slips somewhere else.
Without warning, you’re no longer fully in the room.
You’re back in the place where trust was broken.
Where disappointment lives.
Where the unanswered questions still echo.
Where your heart learned to prepare for the worst before it ever had the chance to enjoy the best.
Trauma has a way of convincing your mind that if it stays alert, it can somehow protect you from being hurt again.
So while everyone else is enjoying the moment, your thoughts begin racing.
What if something happens?
What if this doesn’t last?
What if I’m missing something?
What if the peace I feel right now disappears tomorrow?
And before you even realize what’s happening, fear has quietly stolen the very moment you were longing to enjoy.
That is what trauma does.
It doesn’t always scream.
Sometimes it whispers.
It quietly pulls your attention away from the people sitting right in front of you and redirects it toward worries that don’t even exist yet.
It steals laughter before it has the chance to become joy.
It replaces peace with vigilance.
It convinces you that if you let your guard down, you’ll somehow be caught off guard again.
Even on the days when your soul finally feels calm…
when you wake up lighter…
when you begin to believe healing is happening…
it can feel as though a wave suddenly crashes over you.
A memory.
A feeling.
A smell.
A thought.
A disappointment you didn’t see coming.
And suddenly you’re underwater again.
Not because you chose to go there.
But because trauma remembered before you did.
I’ve learned that healing isn’t the absence of those waves.
Healing is recognizing that they no longer define where I live.
They still come.
But they don’t get to stay.
The wave may crash over me, but it doesn’t get to carry me away.
Because there is One who walks on the very waters that once convinced me I was drowning.
When Peter took his eyes off Jesus, the waves became bigger than the One who had called him out of the boat.
How often do we do the same?
We become so focused on the waves of yesterday that we miss the presence of the Savior standing with us today.
Jesus never promised that the storm would disappear.
But He did promise that He would be with us in it.
Maybe today the enemy isn’t trying to steal your future.
Maybe he’s trying to steal this moment.
The laughter you’re hearing.
The hug you’re receiving.
The worship filling the room.
The smile on your child’s face.
The peace God has graciously given you today.
Don’t let yesterday’s pain rob you of today’s grace.
And when you feel your mind drifting back into places you never wanted to revisit, gently bring it back to the One who is already waiting for you there.
“Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.” — Isaiah 26:3
Perfect peace doesn’t come because our minds never wander.
It comes because every time they do, we know where to bring them back.
Back to Jesus.
Back to truth.
Back to the present.
Back to the grace that is waiting for us in this very moment.
I have taken full control of them because addiction made it necessary.
We’ve done rehab.
We’ve done therapy.
We’ve involved family.
We’ve brought other people into the situation for accountability.
We’ve had the conversations.
We’ve cried.
We’ve prayed.
We’ve made plans.
We’ve talked about consequences.
We’ve had promises made after painful discoveries.
We’ve tried things that were supposed to help.
And still…
the addiction continues.
The lies continue.
That’s the part I’m struggling to understand now.
Because eventually you run out of smaller boundaries.
There comes a point where you’ve already moved the money. You’ve already created accountability. You’ve already encouraged treatment. You’ve already stopped hiding everything from the people closest to you.
And you’re still standing there looking at the same behavior.
So what boundary comes next?
That question terrifies me.
When You’ve Done Everything Except Leave
Maybe that’s the part I haven’t wanted to say out loud.
What happens when you’ve done almost everything you know to do except physically remove yourself from the cycle?
That’s a much harder question than, “How do I set a boundary?”
Because I know how to set boundaries now.
I know how to protect the finances.
I know how to say no.
I know how to involve other people.
I know how to encourage treatment.
I know how to recognize manipulation much faster than I used to.
What I don’t always know is what to do when none of it changes the person I love.
There is a painful realization that comes with that:
Maybe the purpose of my boundaries was never to make him change.
I think somewhere inside me, I still believed they would.
If I controlled the finances, maybe the gambling would stop.
If enough people knew, maybe the accountability would stop the lying.
If he went to rehab, maybe he would finally understand.
If therapy uncovered the deeper issues, maybe everything would begin to change.
If he saw how close he came to losing his marriage, surely that would be enough.
But what happens when it isn’t?
What happens when every safeguard you put into place becomes another obstacle the addiction learns how to work around?
That is when boundaries stop feeling empowering and start feeling heartbreaking.
Because I am forced to confront something I desperately don’t want to be true:
I can make it harder for addiction to destroy our lives, but I cannot make another person choose recovery.
I Cannot Boundary Someone Into Recovery
That sentence hurts to write.
I cannot boundary someone into recovery.
I cannot monitor someone into honesty.
I cannot control the finances enough to create integrity.
I cannot make accountability work if someone is determined to hide.
I cannot love someone into telling the truth.
I cannot find the perfect therapist, rehabilitation center, consequence, Bible verse, conversation, or arrangement that will make someone choose something they are unwilling to choose for themselves.
And maybe that’s why this stage feels so different.
In the beginning, there was always another thing to try.
Another conversation.
Another boundary.
Another safeguard.
Another treatment.
Another chance.
Doing something made me feel like there was still something I could control.
But eventually you arrive at a place where the question isn’t:
“What else can I do to stop him?”
It becomes:
“What am I going to do if he doesn’t stop?”
And I don’t like that question nearly as much.
Because that question is about me.
The Apology Doesn’t Fix It Anymore
There was a time when an apology brought relief.
Maybe this time he understood.
Maybe this was rock bottom.
Maybe losing this much would finally be enough.
Maybe seeing me this broken would finally make something click.
But after enough cycles, apologies begin to feel different.
You want to believe them.
Part of you still does.
But another part of you is quietly keeping track of everything that came before.
You remember the other apologies.
The other promises.
The other “last times.”
The other moments when you thought the nightmare was finally ending.
So you’re standing there listening to someone say they’re sorry while two completely different voices are fighting inside you.
One says:
Give him grace.
People mess up.
Addiction is hard.
Marriage means fighting for each other.
God can still restore this.
And the other says:
We’ve been here before.
That second voice used to make me feel guilty.
Now I’m beginning to wonder if that voice isn’t bitterness at all.
Maybe it’s discernment.
Maybe wisdom sometimes remembers the pattern even when your heart desperately wants to believe the promise.
When Hope Starts Keeping You Stuck
This is difficult for me to admit because hope sounds like such a beautiful Christian word.
And it is.
I believe in hope.
I believe God changes people.
I believe marriages can be restored.
I believe addicts can recover.
I believe broken things can become beautiful again.
But I’m beginning to understand that hoping someone changes and living as though they already have are two very different things.
I can hope for recovery without pretending recovery is happening.
I can pray for honesty while acknowledging that I’m still being lied to.
I can believe God can restore my marriage without calling the current situation restored.
Maybe faith isn’t denying what is happening because I’m afraid of what acknowledging it might require me to do.
Maybe faith is trusting God enough to tell the truth about what is happening.
This Is Where Avoidance Gets Really Uncomfortable
Because when all the smaller boundaries have already been put into place, there aren’t many comfortable options left.
That’s when my avoidant side wants to bargain.
Maybe give it a little more time.
Maybe this apology is different.
Maybe therapy will eventually click.
Maybe I need to be more understanding.
Maybe I’m expecting too much too quickly.
Maybe I should just be thankful for the good days.
Some of those thoughts may occasionally contain truth.
Recovery isn’t perfect.
People do stumble.
Change takes time.
But there is also a difference between an imperfect recovery and an ongoing pattern of addiction, deception, and manipulation without sustained change.
I have to be careful that compassion doesn’t become the excuse I use to avoid making a decision.
Because eventually, “give it more time” can become years.
The Boundary I’m Afraid Of
Maybe this is where I am learning that the hardest boundary isn’t controlling money.
It isn’t demanding treatment.
It isn’t telling family.
It isn’t even saying, “I won’t tolerate this anymore.”
The hardest boundary may be accepting what I will have to do if nothing changes.
I don’t write that lightly.
I don’t believe marriage should be discarded because things become difficult.
I don’t believe struggling with addiction makes someone unworthy of love.
And I certainly don’t believe every wife reading this should make the same decision.
But I also no longer believe that loving someone requires me to endlessly absorb the consequences of choices I cannot control.
There is a point where I have to stop asking:
“What else can I do to make him change?”
and start asking:
“God, what are You asking me to do if he chooses not to?”
That prayer scares me.
Because I have spent so much time praying for God to change him.
Maybe now I also need the courage to ask God to show me what obedience looks like for me.
Maybe Boundaries Were Never About Saving My Marriage
I wanted boundaries to save my marriage.
I wanted treatment to save it.
I wanted accountability to save it.
I wanted controlling the finances to save it.
I wanted therapy to save it.
I wanted love, patience, forgiveness, prayer, consequences, and second chances to eventually add up to transformation.
But none of those things can substitute for another person’s willingness to change.
Maybe boundaries aren’t how I save my marriage.
Maybe boundaries are how I stop losing myself while I wait to see what the other person chooses.
And maybe that is what I am finally beginning to understand.
I can love him.
I can pray for him.
I can forgive him.
I can hope for him.
I can believe with everything inside me that God is capable of completely transforming his life.
And I can still tell the truth about what is happening right now.
The addiction continues.
The lies continue.
The boundaries haven’t produced the change I hoped they would.
And I cannot keep pretending that an apology is the same thing as recovery.
Maybe the next step isn’t another rule for him.
Maybe it’s finally asking God what He wants from me when I have done everything I know to do—and the person I love still chooses the addiction.
I don’t have a neat answer to that yet.
Maybe that’s okay.
Maybe understanding myself begins with finally being willing to ask the question.
Trust is one of the most sacred gifts exchanged within a covenant marriage. It isn’t built overnight, and it isn’t sustained by words alone. It is earned through consistency, honesty, sacrifice, and love. When a husband and wife give themselves fully to one another, they create a place of refuge—a relationship where both feel safe to be vulnerable, truly seen, deeply heard, and completely accepted.
This is God’s design.
Marriage was never meant to be a battlefield where lies, deception, manipulation, and betrayal slowly replace intimacy. It was created to be a holy covenant where two people become one, with Christ at the center. When both husband and wife continually pursue God, they naturally grow closer to each other. There is little room for the enemy to gain a foothold because every part of the marriage is surrendered to the One who holds it together.
But when deception enters, everything begins to change.
Trust, once broken, leaves a wound that cannot simply be ignored. Even when healing comes, scars often remain. Those scars don’t mean restoration is impossible, but they do remind us that something sacred was violated. What God intended to be a place of security becomes a place of uncertainty.
Repeated deception doesn’t just damage a marriage—it slowly damages the heart of the one living through it.
Over time, constant lies and manipulation begin to rot you from the inside out. You start questioning everything. You question your memories. You question your instincts. You question your worth. You wonder if you’re asking for too much or expecting too much. You replay conversations in your mind, searching for what was real and what wasn’t.
Eventually, you begin questioning your identity.
The confidence you once carried slowly fades beneath the weight of broken promises and shattered expectations. You stop recognizing the person staring back at you in the mirror because you’ve spent so long trying to survive someone else’s choices. The emotional exhaustion becomes overwhelming. You feel lonely even when you’re sitting beside the person you married. You feel unseen, unheard, unloved, and abandoned by the one who once promised to protect your heart.
That is what betrayal does.
It doesn’t just break trust—it fractures the very foundation you believed your life was built upon.
Yet even here, God meets us.
While people can shatter our trust, they cannot steal our identity unless we allow them to define it. Our value has never been determined by someone else’s faithfulness but by God’s unchanging love for us. He sees every hidden tear, every sleepless night, every moment spent wondering if things will ever be different.
Psalm 34:18 reminds us:
“The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.”
If you are living with the wounds of betrayal, know this: your pain is real, and your scars are not invisible to God. He understands the grief of broken covenant because He, too, has experienced the unfaithfulness of those He loves. Yet He is still in the business of restoring what sin has broken.
Healing may not erase the scars, but God has a beautiful way of transforming scars into testimonies of His faithfulness.
Your trust may have been shattered by a person, but it can be rebuilt through the One who has never broken a single promise.
It’s difficult not to carry bitterness after years of lies, isolation, disappointment, and neglect. Even when progress finally begins to happen—when you start to see the changes you’ve prayed for over countless sleepless nights—your trauma-fogged mind doesn’t immediately celebrate. Instead, it whispers, What if this doesn’t last? What if this all falls apart again?
Before long, those whispers become screams. Don’t trust it. Don’t believe it. You’re going to suffer again.
It’s a fight-or-flight response that every wife living alongside PTSD understands. It’s that familiar feeling of being pulled back into the darkness just when you thought you had finally found your footing. You try so hard to climb out of the hole, only to find yourself peering back over the edge, waiting for the ground to give way beneath you again.
The truth is, that kind of bitterness doesn’t simply disappear when happiness or healing begins to emerge. It lingers quietly in the background, like a shadow waiting for the perfect opportunity to remind you why you built walls around your heart in the first place. It waits for one bad day, one harsh word, one familiar pattern, hoping to convince you that nothing has really changed after all.
Because when you’ve lived in survival mode for so long, joy itself can feel unsafe.
At the end of the day, the feelings of happiness, romance, love, being wanted, being needed, and finally being seen can sometimes feel like a mask you’re simply waiting to slip off. You’re bracing yourself for the moment when the only reality you’ve ever truly known comes rushing back. The bitterness you’ve held onto wasn’t always hatred—it was protection. It was armor. It was the emergency plan you kept hidden away because some part of you refused to trust that restoration could actually be real.
Trauma leaves wounds that do not always bleed where others can see them. They remain open beneath the surface, quietly whispering that you’ll never be enough, that you’re not safe, and that hope is dangerous.
But perhaps the greatest act of faith isn’t pretending those wounds don’t exist. Perhaps it’s choosing, one day at a time, to believe that God can heal the places we’ve spent years trying to protect ourselves from feeling.
Somewhere in the longing, I discovered a new version of myself.
Not a louder version. Not a hardened version. But a healed, awakened version.
A revelation began to unfold — one that allowed me to finally grasp my worth.
Somewhere between survival mode and silent endurance, I had drifted. Days turned into weeks, weeks into years, and without even realizing it, I was functioning in the mess instead of living in freedom. When you live in constant survival, you don’t notice how much of yourself you’ve misplaced just to keep everything else standing.
And here is the truth I’ve come to know:
The further we drift from our true identity, the harder it feels to find our way back.
But harder does not mean impossible.
Even when it feels like the best version of you is unreachable… You are more than worthy of rediscovering her.
This is where refining takes place.
Refining is not rejection. It is not punishment. It is preparation.
There is a moment — just before the sun breaks over the horizon — when everything is still dark. You cannot yet see the warmth, but you know it is coming. The air shifts. The light begins to press back the night.
That is what restoration feels like.
It is rising before you feel ready. It is standing when you once collapsed. It is lifting your face toward the light after years of staring at the ground.
The fire that was meant to consume you becomes the place where you are strengthened. The ashes that represent what was lost become the soil where something new begins to grow.
God speaks restoration over what you thought was wasted:
“I will restore to you the years that the locust has eaten.” — Book of Joel 2:25
He is not intimidated by the time you believe was lost. He is not limited by the version of you that merely survived. He restores. He rebuilds. He renews.
And what He restores does not come back fragile — it comes back refined.
Redemption belongs to you. Restoration belongs to you. An overwhelming, unshakable peace belongs to you through the grace of God.
Never allow someone to steal your joy. Never lower your standards to accommodate someone else’s dysfunction. Never sacrifice your peace just to keep temporary comfort. Never surrender your safe space for fear that was never yours to carry.
And most of all — never surrender to the enemy in your weakest moments of battle.
Because weakness does not disqualify you. It positions you for strength that only comes from the Maker.
You are more than worthy of a life lived in the warmth of His light — not hidden in survival, not shrinking to survive someone else’s chaos, but standing whole, healed, and unafraid.
It may not be easy. It may cost you comfort. It may require every ounce of courage you have left.
When you have poured yourself out for everyone else… When you feel like there is nothing left to give…
God will meet you there.
He will give you strength to rise from the ashes. He will walk with you through the fire. He will remind you that fighting for your self-worth is not selfish — it is obedience.
Even when you cannot see your value clearly, He never loses sight of it.
Even when you feel unworthy, He calls you chosen.
Even when you feel forgotten, He calls you redeemed.
The sun will rise again. And when it does, you will not be the same woman who entered the fire.
You will be stronger. Clearer. Rooted.
You are not too far gone. You are not too damaged. You are not too late.
You are — and have always been — more than worthy.
Between the responsibilities, the heartbreak, the expectations, and the silent battles no one sees—you got lost. Not all at once. But slowly. Quietly. Piece by piece.
And now you look in the mirror and barely recognize her.
Here is the truth no one wants to say out loud: You will not find yourself in the noise. You will not heal by staying busy. You will not rise by pretending you’re fine.
You find yourself in the longing.
That ache deep inside that whispers, There has to be more than this.
We were never called to survive at surface level. Survival keeps you functioning—but it does not make you whole. It keeps you moving—but it does not make you free.
Freedom lives in the secret place.
Not a physical place. A sacred one. The place where only you and the Father have walked. The place you avoid because it feels too deep, too raw, too exposed.
But that is where she is.
The happy, carefree, full-of-life, Jesus-got-this kind of girl. She isn’t gone. She’s buried under fear, disappointment, and exhaustion.
Scripture says,
“He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.” — Psalm 91:1
It takes courage to sit still long enough to feel what you’ve been outrunning. Courage to face the darkest parts of your own heart. Courage to stop surviving and start seeking.
But healing does not happen on the surface.
It happens in the depths—the place where the tears fall freely and the masks come off. The place where you finally whisper the prayers you’ve been afraid to pray.
And there, in that quiet, the Father meets you.
Not with shame. Not with disappointment. But with presence.
Until you choose to rise and visit the hidden places of your soul, you will never rise from the ashes of the life you are living.
It is okay to feel. It is okay to stop. It is okay to take time for you. To be quiet. To be still. To search. To seek. To pray.
Push yourself toward what makes you healthy. Safe. Stable. Whole.
Turn down the noise. Shut the door. Go to the secret place.
And stay.
Because when you do, the pieces begin to settle. The lies lose their grip. The chaos grows quiet.
And one day you will look in the mirror again—
And recognize her.
Not the woman who barely survived. But the one who went into the depths… and came back alive.
There are wounds you can see. And then there are the ones that bleed quietly beneath the surface.
Emotional neglect creates wounds that do not bruise the skin but fracture the spirit. When instability becomes your normal — when love feels conditional, when affirmation is rare, when your value is questioned more than it is celebrated — you begin to question yourself. Your worth. Your character. Your place.
You replay conversations. You analyze your tone. You shrink to make things easier.
And still, it is not enough.
Healing in that environment feels like a revolving door. Just when you think the wound is closing, another careless word, another dismissive glance, another broken promise tears it open again. Open wounds make you lose yourself in the mess of your circumstances. They keep you focused on survival instead of restoration. They convince you that endurance is the same thing as healing.
But it is not.
There must come a moment — quiet but firm — when you realize that tending to your own soul is not selfish. It is necessary. There must come a time when you decide to put yourself first, to cut off the chains that have kept you bound to confusion, to chaos, to constant questioning. A season of healing will ask things of you. It may require letting go. It may mean surrendering what you hoped would change. It may even mean walking away from the ones you love most.
That is not weakness. That is courage.
Healing is not loud. It is not dramatic. It is often unseen. It is choosing peace when dysfunction calls your name. It is choosing truth when lies have defined you. It is choosing to believe that God did not design you to live in perpetual wounding.
Scripture reminds us:
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
Notice — He binds up their wounds. He does not shame them for having them. He does not rush them through the process. He does not dismiss the depth of the pain. He draws near and tends to what is open.
The journey of healing is one only you can walk — but you do not walk it alone. Your Maker is not intimidated by your trauma. He is not exhausted by your tears. He is not confused by your questions. Where people were inconsistent, He is steady. Where love was withdrawn, His remains.
Do not lose hope over the open wounds.
They are not proof that you are unworthy. They are proof that something hurt you.
And what hurt you does not get to define you.
Choose life. Choose healing. Choose the slow, sacred process of becoming whole again.
The wound may be open today. But it does not have to stay that way.
“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.” — Exodus 14:14
Is the most difficult part to bear in the midst of the battle, or the silent mental prison that lingers behind? Undoubtedly, it is the aftermath—the chaos, the battle, the struggle, in whatever form it arises. It’s the adrenaline in the moment, the anxiety, the blood boiling, the heavy silence that overtakes every ounce of your being as you whisper, this is not my battle… this is not my battle.
Let’s be honest—it is incredibly difficult to exercise full surrender in the hellish heat of the battle. Every part of our body is screaming to enter fight mode. We want to defend ourselves, lash out, say the harsh words we don’t mean… or maybe the ones we do. Raise our voices louder than we should, sometimes even scream in the face of the one we love most, just to cover the pain.
But it is the self-control and complete confidence we find in our glorious Maker that tames the flesh-driven spirit inside of us. Getting through these battles by allowing God to fight them—that is what makes a true overcomer. There is a quiet sense of victory that follows, a moment where we rest in His peace and hear Him whisper, well done, my child.
The Holy Spirit living within us is what keeps the fight under submission. He restrains what our flesh longs to release. Flight mode, on the other hand, can sometimes get the best of us in the moment. While retreat may feel safer and often produces less immediate damage than fight, it can still carry lasting consequences once the heat dies down. Running doesn’t heal the wound—it only delays the reckoning. Only surrender allows God to fully step in and restore what the battle tried to destroy.
Then… the aftermath comes. If you’ve been there, you know.
The overwhelming feeling of failure. The self-doubt. The belief that everything that transpired is somehow your fault. It feels like a million demons chasing you as you push through heavy brush, desperately trying to make it to the feet of the Father. The thoughts. The emotions. Or maybe the absence of emotion—which can be an even darker place to sit.
This season feels endless, like a million days rolled into one. We bathe in it, suffer in it, and somehow—only by the grace of God—we function in it. Every single day in this lonely place, we put on a smile and face the world with strength that comes only from our Maker.
Through my belief in the power of Jesus, I have seen time and time again that this place is only a season. Resting in the truth that He will work even this for our good is what carries us through. That belief clears the path through the heavy brush, makes the demons flee, and opens the way to the feet of the Almighty.
That is where we should always strive to be—at the feet of Jesus.
Keeping faith and holding tightly to God’s promises is what brings us through the battles. It carries us through the moments when we feel like our worst selves, reminding us that through Him, we can become the best version of ourselves—regardless of the circumstances. When we listen to that quiet whisper, this is not my battle, we invite God onto the scene to fight for us, and we allow ourselves to rest in His arms through the silent mental war that always follows the storm.
Prayer
Father God, In the heat of the battle and in the silence that follows, remind us that this is not ours to carry alone. When every part of our body is screaming to fight or run, help us to be still and trust You to move. Quiet our minds, guard our words, and tame the storm inside us with Your Spirit. When the aftermath feels heavy, and the mental weight tries to pull us under, lead us back to Your feet. Fill our lungs with breath, our hearts with peace, and our souls with the assurance that You are fighting for us. Teach us to surrender—not out of weakness, but out of trust. We lay it all down and rest in You. Amen.
“He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds.” — Psalm 147:3
Grief is not always suffered from the loss of someone you love dearly or hold close to your heart. Often, grief simply comes from the loss of something you once had. Memories are all around us and are brought to mind through simple things — a song once shared, a familiar smell that can never be forgotten, or even a single word that brings back a moment in time you hold dear.
For me, the deepest pain comes from living in the midst of what is grieved the most — the small, intimate moments, the touch, the security, the simplicity of being fully present in a moment where nothing else existed except the memory being created. Over the years, those memories intertwine with pain and trauma, with doubt and sorrow, until you begin to lose yourself in the scramble of what was and what is.
Those sweet memories are swallowed up by this thing we call life — or perhaps, the sins of the world. It steals the minds of those we hold close, whispers lies of defeat, and slowly turns memories into grief — a slow, painful grief that feels like an open wound that never heals. Every scab is a small glimpse of hope for what once was, knowing deep down it may never be again.
The silent suffering… every PTSD wife has felt this grief — longing for moments of the past and hoping for their return in the future. The despair cries out for even one more moment as it was, one more memory of what it should be. The quiet nights awake in silence turn into utter loneliness that leaves you clinging to God for that last bit of hope — the hope that brings comfort and peace.
When we grieve, we grieve not for a life that was lost, but for the love that once was.
As we grieve the memories of what once was, let us cling to God for what is to come. He has a love that surpasses all understanding. This worldly love we so desire to mend can become an overwhelming, perfect love in His presence. Fix your mind upon God in the loneliness of life. Allow Him to heal the wound that feels as if it can never heal. Pray for the love you once had to return — for God can move in mighty, unthinkable ways when we surrender our silent suffering and allow Him to fight our battles.
Life As A PTSD Wife 