How Can You Love Me and Still Keep Hurting Me?

This is the part that makes addiction so confusing.

My marriage is not bad all the time.

In many ways, it is good.

We laugh.

We enjoy each other.

We can be close.

We can still be intimate.

There are moments when I look at my husband and feel the connection that made me fall in love with him in the first place.

And then there is the addiction.

It sits in the middle of everything good like a weight no one else can see.

Because while the marriage may look normal, and sometimes even feel normal, I am often carrying things quietly underneath it.

The lies.

The deception.

The manipulation.

The broken promises.

The questions I don’t always ask because I already know where the conversation may go.

The hurt I swallow because I don’t want to ruin a good day.

The things I pretend don’t bother me because I want my family to feel okay.

That is the strange part of loving someone with severe PTSD and addiction.

You can genuinely love each other and still be living with something that is slowly destroying trust.

I Don’t Think He Wants to Hurt Me

I truly don’t believe he wakes up wanting to hurt me.

I believe he loves me.

I believe he loves our family.

I believe there are moments when he is deeply sorry for the pain he has caused.

That is what makes it so difficult to understand.

Because if he loves us, why does the addiction keep winning?

Why do the lies continue?

Why does he hide things he knows will eventually be discovered?

Why does he manipulate the truth when he knows what deception has already done to me?

I think addiction has a way of shrinking a person’s world.

For someone carrying severe PTSD, escape can begin to feel like survival.

The mind becomes focused on relief.

Relief from the anxiety.

Relief from the memories.

Relief from the shame.

Relief from whatever is happening inside.

And in that moment, the addiction can become louder than the consequences.

Louder than the marriage.

Louder than the promise.

Louder than the pain waiting on the other side.

That doesn’t mean the family doesn’t matter.

It means addiction can distort priorities so badly that the person stops seeing the full destruction taking place around them.

Then the Lie Protects the Addiction

Sometimes I think the lie becomes just as important as the addiction itself.

Because telling the truth means facing consequences.

It means looking at the person you love and admitting you did the very thing you promised you wouldn’t do.

It means facing disappointment.

It means shame.

It means accountability.

So instead, the truth gets softened.

Pieces get left out.

Things get denied.

The story changes.

And suddenly I am questioning myself again.

Sometimes the hardest part isn’t even what happened.

It’s knowing I may not be getting the whole truth.

That does something to a wife.

You begin listening differently.

Watching differently.

Paying attention to tiny changes.

Wondering if something is off.

And then feeling guilty because you don’t want to become suspicious of the person you love.

I Carry More Than He Realizes

I don’t think he fully understands what I carry.

I carry the knowledge of what has happened before.

I carry the fear that it could happen again.

I carry the financial consequences.

I carry the responsibility of protecting things from falling apart.

I carry conversations in my head that I never say out loud.

I carry the hurt from things I’ve forgiven but haven’t forgotten.

And sometimes I carry all of that while sitting beside him on the couch, laughing at something on television.

That is the part people don’t see.

You can love someone.

You can have a good day.

You can be affectionate.

You can still share a bed.

You can have moments where everything feels almost completely normal.

And still have a part of you quietly hurting underneath it all.

Sometimes I think wives become very good at holding both realities at the same time.

I love him.

And:

This is hurting me.

Both are true.

Understanding Isn’t the Same as Excusing

I have spent a lot of time trying to understand PTSD and addiction.

And understanding has helped me have compassion.

But I am learning that compassion can become dangerous when I use it to explain away everything that hurts me.

PTSD may explain why he wants to escape.

Addiction may explain why his thinking becomes distorted.

Shame may explain why telling the truth is difficult.

But none of those things make deception harmless.

They don’t erase the damage.

They don’t make manipulation okay.

And they don’t magically rebuild trust.

I can understand why something happens and still say:

This is not okay.

That has been a difficult lesson for me.

Maybe He Doesn’t See the Weight Because I’m Carrying It So Well

Sometimes I wonder if part of the reason he doesn’t fully see the impact is because I have become so good at carrying it.

I keep going.

I keep working.

I keep the family functioning.

I take care of what needs to be taken care of.

I forgive.

I pray.

I smile.

I show up.

I tell people we’re okay.

And maybe from the outside, we are.

But there are parts of me that are exhausted from carrying things quietly.

Maybe I have protected everyone from seeing the weight for so long that I sometimes forget I am allowed to admit that it is heavy.

Love Doesn’t Cancel the Damage

This is what I am beginning to understand.

A person can love you and still hurt you deeply.

A marriage can have beautiful moments and still contain something destructive.

You can be emotionally and physically close to someone and still feel lonely in the places where trust has been broken.

Those realities do not cancel each other out.

I don’t have to convince myself the entire marriage is bad in order to admit that addiction is harming it.

And I don’t have to deny the good in order to tell the truth about the pain.

I can say:

My husband loves me.

Our marriage has good in it.

We still have closeness.

And also:

The addiction continues to wound me.

The lies have changed me.

The manipulation has made me question myself.

And carrying all of it quietly is exhausting.

Maybe that is the truth I need to stop hiding from myself.

Because pretending I am okay does not make me okay.

And protecting everyone else from the truth does not make the truth disappear.

I still believe God can heal addiction.

I still believe people can recover.

I still believe marriages can be restored.

But I am learning that hope does not require pretending.

I can hope for change while acknowledging the weight I am carrying right now.

And maybe healing for me begins when I stop telling myself that because there is still love, I shouldn’t be hurting.

There is still love.
And I am still hurting.
Both can be true.

And maybe on the days when carrying both feels too heavy, I need to remember that none of it is hidden from God.

“Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle: are they not in thy book?” — Psalm 56:8

There is something comforting about knowing that even when no one else fully sees the weight I am carrying, God does.

He sees the tears I wipe away before anyone notices.

He sees the conversations I replay in my mind.

He sees the hurt behind the smile.

He sees the love I still have for my husband and the pain that exists right beside it.

Nothing about my grief is hidden from Him.

Maybe that is where I need to rest when I am tired of pretending I am okay.

There is still love.
And I am still hurting.
Both can be true.
And God sees them both.

When Boundaries Aren’t Enough: Loving an Addict Who Keeps Crossing Them

But What If You’ve Already Done All of That?

This is where my story gets more complicated.

Because I have separated the finances.

Not partially.

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.

When Trust Is Broken

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.

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