The Secret Place

Somewhere in the mess… you disappeared.

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

Dwelling requires staying.
Staying requires courage.

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.

Her Silence

Silence isn’t harsh.

It isn’t cold.
It isn’t punishment.
It isn’t manipulation.

It is exhaustion.
It is grief.
It is quiet defeat after fighting battles no one else saw.

When her voice has been dismissed long enough…
When her emotions have been minimized…
When her needs have gone unmet…

Silence does not arrive loudly.

It creeps in.

Slowly.

She does not wake up one morning deciding to withdraw. She arrives there after trying. After explaining. After crying. After praying. After hoping.

And when nothing shifts… something inside of her does.

Silence becomes protection.

Not because she wants distance — but because she can no longer survive exposure.

Survivor mode is never a place she longs to be.

No woman dreams of becoming guarded. No wife desires to grow quiet. No heart hopes to become cautious with the very person it once felt safest with.

And yet, survivor mode often finds her.

It finds her when she realizes she must fight not just for the marriage — but for herself.

There is a particular kind of desperation in silence. It is the moment she realizes that if she does not guard her heart, she may lose herself entirely in the longing for what used to be.

But here is the sacred turning point:

If she finds the strength and courage not to disappear inside the silence… she will discover something unexpected there.

She will find herself.

Not the version shaped by disappointment.
Not the version shrinking to be understood.
Not the version constantly over-explaining her pain.

But a woman rebuilding.

A woman expecting.

Expecting growth in the quiet.
Expecting clarity in the stillness.
Expecting healing in the hidden places.
Expecting peace that does not depend on another person’s consistency.

There is hope in her silence.

Because silence is not the end — it is the reset.

Psalm 46:10 says,
“Be still, and know that I am God.”

Be still.

Not because the pain isn’t real.
Not because the marriage doesn’t matter.
Not because the hurt disappears.

But because in the stillness, God begins to restore what chaos tried to steal.

In the silence, He reminds her:

She is not invisible.
She is not irrational.
She is not too much.
She is not alone.

He meets her there — not in the shouting, not in the proving, not in the defending — but in the quiet surrender.

And slowly, what once felt like defeat becomes rebuilding.

She finds peace in the silence.
Growth in the silence.
Joy in the silence.
Hope in the silence.
Laughter in the silence.
A new breath of life in the silence.

The silence that once felt like loss becomes the place she rediscovers her strength.

And when she rises again, she will not rise hardened.

She will rise healed.

And that kind of woman?
She no longer fights to be heard.

She walks in peace — knowing the One who sees her never stopped listening.

Loneliness

Loneliness is not something we choose. It is not something we crave. It is a dark and tender place we sometimes find ourselves in at the most unexpected moments of life. A place that feels cold. Heavy. Quiet in ways that echo too loudly.

It can feel impossible to carry the burdens we bear when there is no one beside us to help hold them.

In those moments, what we long for is simple—conversation. Connection. The kind of emotional safety that allows us to exhale. The kind of bonding that lets us be fully ourselves without fear of judgment. There is something sacred about genuine conversation. It reaches into the deepest parts of our loneliness. It reminds us we are seen. It can bring light to the worst of days and lift our spirits just enough to keep going.

Sometimes it’s the smallest things—a shared laugh, a thoughtful message, a few minutes of feeling understood. Little bursts of sunshine. Brief reminders that we are alive and that someone notices.

But when that connection fades… when the conversation stops… when what felt like your last lifeline slips away, the grief can take you by surprise.

You find yourself staring into the stillness of the day. Sitting in the car longer than necessary, gathering the strength to step back into normal life. Lying awake at night, alone with thoughts that replay what once was. And in those quiet hours, you feel grief—not only for the person or connection you lost, but for who you were in that season… and for what you hoped it might become.

It is grief for what was.
Grief for what could have been.
Grief for the version of you that felt less alone.

And yet, even there—in the quiet car, in the sleepless night, in the ache you can’t quite name—Scripture whispers something steady and true:

“The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” — Psalm 34:18

Close. Not distant.
Near. Not absent.

When loneliness convinces you that you are unseen, God draws nearer still. When your spirit feels crushed under the weight of loss, He does not turn away from your grief—He moves toward it.

And in those desperate, fragile moments, a question rises in the silence:

How far are you willing to go for connection?
How much of yourself are you willing to trade just to not feel alone?

Loneliness can tempt us to reach for anything that promises relief. But not every connection is healthy. Not every conversation is safe. Not every lifeline leads to life.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do in our loneliness is pause. To remember that our longing for connection was placed in us by God—not to drive us toward desperation, but toward healthy, life-giving relationships. Toward Him first. Toward people who reflect His heart.

You are not weak for feeling lonely.
You are human.

And even in the quiet, unseen places, you are not abandoned. He is close.

Beyond the Cupboard Doors

“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”
— Matthew 11:28 (NIV)

Loneliness brings with it a longing—for conversation, for connection, for someone who will simply listen. Often, we can be surrounded by people and yet feel completely isolated in the room. It’s in those moments that our thoughts tend to take over. A million things swirl through our minds—things we long to say out loud, hoping someone might care enough to hear them.

And so, we begin to ramble to ourselves.

Washing dishes. Sweeping the floor. Folding socks.
The simplest tasks of life become the closest thing to conversation we have. I found myself there—stuffing blankets into the cupboard, talking out loud, letting random thoughts spill into the air, fully aware that no one was listening. My mind jumped from one thought to the next until I suddenly stood still, suspended in a moment that felt detached from reality.

And then, I imagined walking into the fairytale land of Narnia.

Disappearing into the cupboard that stood before me—its presence faint, almost inviting. We often find ourselves dreaming of a place beyond reality, a place that offers escape from everything we carry inside. A world of redemption waiting just beyond the applewood doors. A life untouched by pain, fear, or disappointment.

If only it were that easy.

The weight of real life presses so heavily on our souls that we begin to create a delusion—believing there must be something better, something lighter, somewhere else. Yet, as we journey through this uncharted land of fantasy, we quickly discover that even it is plagued by an eternal winter. Betrayal comes from those closest to us. Innocence is stripped away by deeper magic. And the escape we longed for becomes nothing more than a reflection of our own broken reality.

And then—we see Aslan.

The creator. The redeemer.
The one who transforms this place of escape into a mirror of truth. Suddenly, it becomes clear: the sinner is desperate—for forgiveness, for redemption, for salvation. Desperate for a Savior willing to lay Himself down, taking on every sin of humanity.

I close the applewood doors.
I snap back to reality.

And in that moment, I realize my burdens were never meant to be carried into another world—they were meant to be laid at the altar. His grace is sufficient for me. Always. Every single day of my life.

Lord,
You see the quiet moments—the cupboards, the silence, the words spoken into empty rooms. You see the longing, the exhaustion, the places we wish we could escape from and the places we wish would save us. Help us to remember that true redemption is not found beyond imaginary doors, but at Your feet. Teach us to lay down what is heavy, to stop carrying what was never ours to hold, and to trust that Your grace is enough—right here, in this life, on this day. Amen.

Longing for Home

As I sit here in the chaos of life… love… and marriage, my mind drifts back to the past. I lived a life of deep fulfillment as a child—truly the best life. A life any child would long for. I was raised by the most loving Christian parents, in a small town, living a country life on a farm at the end of a long gravel drive.

I lived carefree, spending my days outdoors—swimming in the pond, walking through the woods to the waterfall that became my place of serenity. Winters were warm and comforting, centered around a massive fireplace. I would nestle under a blanket my mom had warmed by the fire, hot cocoa in hand after long days of sledding, snowball fights, ice skating on the pond, and hours of fort building. While some people dreaded the cold, dreary winters, they held some of the happiest days of my life.

Home cooking, gardening, and sitting on the porch swing breaking beans and shucking corn with my mom, grandma, and older sister brought such joy to my heart. And the clubhouses in the barn lofts—oh, the hours spent outdoors making memories that truly last a lifetime. When I think of happiness, I think of home. Home is where my heart is. It’s not just a place—it’s a feeling. A deep sense of belonging. A love so secure it felt like the safest place on earth.

Marriage should feel like home. It should be the one place where you feel safe, secure, loved, seen, and heard. Home has no boundaries—it welcomes you back no matter the distance traveled or the mistakes made along the way. But often, relationships are built on fragile foundations or endure so much trauma and heartache that “home” begins to feel unreachable.

This is the quiet reality many PTSD wives live with—long years of suffering alongside the one who once was your home. We find ourselves longing for home again, yearning for that place where we feel secure, loved, connected, seen, and safe. Do you ever feel that ache? That deep longing for a conversation, intimacy, or simply the warmth of being wrapped in a blanket by that childhood fireplace?

You are not alone. This is a place many PTSD wives find themselves—a lonely place that, in our most desperate moments, can only be filled by our Heavenly Father. In those moments, let God be your dwelling place—your “home.” When the earthly home you long for feels distant or broken, He remains constant, steady, and near. His presence becomes the refuge where your heart can rest, where you are seen, known, and held, even when everything else feels uncertain.

My desire is to help bridge the gap between your loneliness and home. To be an ear that listens and a voice of encouragement when it is needed most.

How do you navigate the longing for “home”? Do you wish you had a support group of wives walking the same road to help ease the silent suffering? Share in the comments—what do you struggle with most?

“Lord, You have been our dwelling place throughout all generations.”
— Psalm 90:1