The Bitterness We Keep for Protection

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.

Anxiety is a Thief

Anxiety is a thief.

It doesn’t always come crashing through the front door. It creeps in quietly… watching… waiting… like a lion stalking its prey. And then, in a split second—it pounces.

One moment you feel steady… the next, your heart is racing, your thoughts are spiraling, and the peace you thought you had is gone. It goes from zero to one hundred without warning, stealing your joy, shaking your clarity, and making you question your own sanity. Even something as simple as breathing—in… and out—can suddenly feel overwhelming.

The more you try to trace the root of the anxiety, the deeper you spiral. Thoughts begin to stack on top of each other: I should have done this differently… Why didn’t I see this sooner… What if I’m still not doing enough… And just like that, guilt creeps in, shame follows, and the weight becomes almost unbearable. The bitterness you thought you had released returns. The resentment you prayed through resurfaces. And it all reminds you of the mess you’re still standing in.

This is the place few people understand… unless they’ve lived it.

There is a place anxiety tries to take you—a place of complete overwhelm, where your thoughts turn against you. A place that whispers, “You can’t do this… You’re too far gone… You’ll never get out of this.” That place is where self-destruction begins. Not always outwardly… but internally.

For me, that breaking point is often the very place God meets me. Not when everything is together. Not when I have the answers. But in the middle of the spiral, in the middle of the fear, in the middle of the mess. It is only by His grace that I am able to pick myself up, shake off what tried to take me down, and face life again—not because everything is fixed, but because He is sustaining me.

“God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” — Psalms 46:1

He is not distant in your anxiety. He is present in it.

Anxiety wants to make you prey. It wants you to stay in the valley—to sit in the fear, replay the thoughts, and believe the lies. Because if it can keep you there, it can keep you stuck. But you don’t have to live there. You may walk through the valley, but you were never meant to build a home in it.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…” — Psalms 23:4

If you are the woman fighting anxiety that comes out of nowhere, carrying the weight of trauma or PTSD, trying to hold everything together while silently unraveling—hear this:

You are not crazy. You are not weak. And you are not alone.

Anxiety may come like a thief, but it does not get to take everything. Because even in your lowest moment, even in your most overwhelming spiral, God is still there—steady, present, and unshaken. And when everything else feels like it’s slipping… He will be the One who holds you together.

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.

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.

The Mug

I sat back in my chair, staring at my favorite coffee mug for what felt like an eternity. It was a moment of complete disassociation—lost in silence, resting in a place of nothingness—as the words Stay ROOTED stared back at me.

So many days I’ve looked at that mug and read those words. Some mornings it brought encouragement; other mornings, it brought tears. Yet never had those words pierced me the way they did in that moment of solitude.

It was a moment of revelation. A moment of awe. One that made me feel the weight of my testimony.

A testimony that declares my circumstances have not swayed my faith, my hope, or my love—because they are firmly anchored in Jesus Christ.

As PTSD wives, we tend to question our lives, our thoughts, our faith… and sometimes even our character. When the battles begin to rage, or when we find ourselves lost in a lonely place, everything can feel shaken. Our spiritual stability, trust, faith, and hope—things we often look to our spouse to provide—are the very things we were meant to seek from the Father all along.

That coffee mug is a constant reminder to shift my focus—from my circumstances to God’s unfailing mercies. Staying rooted has drawn me closer to the One who never changes. It reminds me that even when everything around me feels uncertain, He remains steady.

Scripture puts it beautifully:

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,
whose confidence is in him.
They will be like a tree planted by the water
that sends out its roots by the stream.
It does not fear when heat comes;
its leaves are always green.
It has no worries in a year of drought
and never fails to bear fruit.”
— Jeremiah 17:7–8 (NIV)

Staying rooted doesn’t mean the storms stop coming. It means we are anchored deep enough to withstand them. Like a tree planted by the water, drawing life from a source far greater than the heat, the drought, or the chaos around it.

And sometimes, God uses something as simple as a coffee mug to remind us exactly where our roots belong.

Father,
Help us stay rooted in You when life feels uncertain and heavy.
When the storms come and our hearts feel weary, remind us where our strength comes from.
Teach us to draw from Your living water instead of our circumstances.
Anchor our faith deep in You—steady, unshaken, and secure.
And in the quiet moments, when we feel alone or overwhelmed, gently remind us that You are near, faithful, and unchanging.
Amen.

“A quiet moment, a favorite mug, and a powerful reminder: stay rooted in Him. 🌿 Even in the storms, His mercies never fail. #StayRooted #FaithOverFear #AnchoredInChrist”

Fight Like David

“But I trust in your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in your salvation.
I will sing the Lord’s praise,
for he has been good to me.” – Psalm 3:5–6 (NIV)

As I sit here enjoying a hot cup of coffee on what might be the largest snowstorm of my lifetime, I find myself thinking about King David. In all of his greatness, he still reached places of abandonment, fear, and deep vulnerability in the eyes of his enemies.

Oh, how I relate to this—knowing the Almighty God walks with me through life, yet often feeling as David did: alone, doubtful, abandoned, and vulnerable to the enemy.

I keep returning to the words David poured out to his God:

“How long, Lord? Will you forget me forever?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts
and day after day have sorrow in my heart?” – Psalm 13:1-2 (NIV)

I feel David’s cry deep within my soul—that longing to know how long the suffering will last, how long the wrestling within the mind must continue. Sorrow slowly drains joy and opens the door just enough for the enemy to creep in. In those moments, I feel David’s vulnerability at the deepest levels of my being.

Although David was facing a literal army, I am fighting a spiritual warfare far fiercer than we can imagine. Spiritual battles knock at our doors every single day. And it is often in moments of weakness or complete abandonment that I’m reminded David still drew his strength from the Lord. His hope came from the Lord.

It is easy to offer hope and God’s grace to others through my own experiences, yet often nearly impossible to accept that same hope for myself. When my hope runs thin, I write from the trenches—allowing God to use my words to shine light into the lives of others.

But what about me?

I am humbled to realize that it is okay to feel.
To question.
To doubt.
To make mistakes.

It is okay to say:
“I am carrying too much alone.”
“I don’t want to be the strong one today.”
“I don’t want to fight another battle quietly.”
“I don’t want to be the one who always understands.”

I am allowed to feel.
Allowed to be weak.
Allowed to cry out to God, just as David did, in my despair.

And you have permission to do the same.

God longs for us to want Him, need Him, cry out to Him. He doesn’t expect perfection—He expects trust, faith, and vulnerability.

Be a David. Let your true feelings be heard. Speak them out loud to the Father and trust His perfect plan and timing.

Leanna Crawford’s song “Honest” feels especially fitting when entering a posture of worship in the pit of despair—when fear surrounds us and darkness feels heavy. It captures the raw tension of witnessing God’s power, faithfulness, and miracles in others’ lives while still holding onto the promise of our own victory.

Don’t give up.
Be a David.
Remain steadfast, persistent, faithful, honest—
and wake up every day expecting.

Father,
You see the battles we fight out loud and the ones we carry quietly.
You know the weariness, the doubt, the questions we’re afraid to say.
Meet us here—in our honesty, in our weakness, in our longing.
Give us the courage to cry out like David,
and the faith to trust You even when answers feel far away.
Teach us to rest in Your unfailing love
and to believe You are still good, even here.
Amen.

When the Battle Is Over but the War Lingers

“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.

Depths of the Sea

If I make my bed in the depths, You are there.”
— Psalm 139:8 (NIV)

That feeling. That thought. That deep emotion that instantly takes you to your secret place.

The place you go to escape — to not exist, to not feel. The place you only visit in desperate moments, when reality feels heavy, hopeless, breathless. A place that somehow feels both lifeless and powerful as you control each breath, taking in the oxygen your body so desperately craves.

It’s like sitting at the bottom of a vast body of water, drowning out everything in existence except the steady rhythm of your own breathing. Time freezes. The noise you’re escaping slowly fades into the distance while you soak in the silence, the darkness, the serenity of nothingness.

As the oxygen begins to dissipate, everything in you longs to stay there — alone, silent, suspended, lifeless.

Then, in a single moment, comes the gasp. Fresh air floods your lungs. Life rushes back in. Reality hits like a brick.

And it’s in that moment you realize something powerful: you were still in control of your chaos.

That brief glimpse of nothingness — the stillness you longed for — was given for only a moment. And as your lungs refill, you’re reminded of the gift of life… the miracle of breath.

It is in moments like this that I truly appreciate life. The awareness that tomorrow is never promised. The understanding that my time here on earth rests fully in the hands of my Master.

These moments bring clarity — a deep appreciation for breath, for choice, for life itself. Even in the darkest places, God’s mercy and grace never fail. They sustain me. They call me to choose Him. To choose life in the chaos.

And even when it feels like there is no way forward — only the deep darkness of a silent sea — He walks with me through every weary step of my journey. Even in the deepest, darkest waters.

One of my go-to encouragement songs says:

“And I’ll testify of the battles You’ve won,
How You were my portion when there wasn’t enough.
And I’ll testify of the seas that we’ve crossed,
The waters You parted, the waves that I’ve walked.”

In my deepest moments of desperation — at the bottom of what feels like an endless sea — God parts the waters. He gives breath to my lungs and strength to walk the waves once again.

It is only through complete surrender that I release control and hand my battles over to Him.

You will face battles. You will suffer moments of desperation. You may even feel as though your time on this earth should end.

Let this be your reminder: breathe. Just breathe.

There is a God who sees you, hears you, and fights for you. A God who parts waters, restores breath, and gives strength to rise again. Even when you feel buried in the depths of the sea, He fills your lungs and leads you back to the surface.

Put your faith in Him.
Allow Him to be your breath.

You Are Worthy of One More Day

Lamentations 3:22–23 (NIV)
“Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.”

You are worthy of new mercies.
You are worthy of fresh starts.
You are worthy of hope.
And you are worthy of a God who sustains you through even the heaviest nights.

One thing that keeps me going is the start of a brand-new day.
Every night, when I lay my head down and the noise in my mind refuses to quiet, I hold on to this truth: morning is coming, and with it, a fresh start.

Each early morning, when my eyes open to the never-ending sound of the alarm clock and my feet hit the cold hardwood floor, I’m reminded that God saw me worthy enough to give me one more day. One more day to breathe. One more day to try again.

One more day to enjoy a hot cup of coffee as I feel its warmth run through my veins. One more day to love my beautiful children. One more day to love my veteran to the very best of my ability—even when it’s hard. One more day to forgive. And most of all, one more day to worship a Savior who calls me worthy of the life I’ve been given.

If you have a moment today, I encourage you to listen to the song “One More Day” by Sons of Sunday. Let the words settle into your heart as a reminder that every morning is a gift, and every breath is grace.

Do you often wake up feeling like tomorrow will just be another dreaded day? Do you ever count yourself as unworthy or incapable of handling the life you’ve been given? I know that feeling well.

Try to start today as a new day—a day of praise, a day of life, and a day to love, even through the struggle. Tomorrow is never promised, so thank God for giving you one more day today.

What is one small thing you could change to make this day a little more positive?

Some nights are loud. Some days feel heavy. But every morning is mercy—quietly reminding us that we are still here, deeply loved, and that God is not finished with us yet.

Together we take on one more day…

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