Memoir

Waiting is not the same as being stuck. It is the space between what has been laid down and what has not yet been given—between the wound and the healing, the breaking and the rebuilding—where waiting becomes its own kind of work. By this time, God had already begun uncovering things hidden for years—truths that changed the way I understood everything that came before. Waiting was where I had to learn how to live with that truth… to sit with the shock of it, the weight of it, and the slow unfolding of what it had meant all along. And I began to understand that God wasn’t keeping me there to hold me back— He was keeping me. Holding me steady when I felt like I might unravel. Preserving what was fragile. Teaching me how to live in a place I didn’t choose, but wasn’t meant to rush through. And it was in that place—held, but still hurting—that the weight of what I was beginning to understand settled even deeper. During counseling, pieces of my marriage had slowly begun rearranging themselves in my mind. Moments I once dismissed or explained away no longer felt isolated. A pattern was beginning to emerge—one I had never fully seen while I was living inside it. The realization that he had always seen me as a child was devastating. But for the first time, it made sense. And that clarity didn’t bring immediate relief. It brought a deeper kind of ache. Because the hardest part wasn’t just seeing it—it was sitting with it. Reliving, in my mind, the moments I had felt dismissed… the quiet ways I had been made to feel small… the times I questioned myself without knowing why. Trying to carry the weight of that truth was overwhelming. I took it to bed with me every night and woke with it every morning. Each day, I wrestled with the knowledge that I had been married to someone I did not fully know—even though I had believed for years that I did. The man I thought I knew and the man he truly was were not the same. I slowly began to realize how much of our marriage had existed within the version of himself he chose to let me see. The realization was disorienting—grieving not only the loss of the marriage itself, but the life I thought I had been living inside. ────────── ❧ ────────── Eight years have passed since the life I knew ended—eight years of learning to stand again, of remembering how to breathe, of discovering who I am without someone else defining me. And still, there are moments that catch me off guard— a song, a memory, a quiet evening that reminds me of what once was, of what I survived, of what God carried me through. Sometimes the tears still come. Not because I am broken—but because I am human. And because pain, even when healed, remembers. I am not where I was. But I am not yet where God is taking me. I am here—still walking, still waiting, trusting Him a little deeper than yesterday. This is where I’ve learned that faith isn’t just believing God when He moves—it’s choosing Him when He seems silent. It’s where hope grows roots—slowly, unseen, but steady. It’s where God keeps me. He steadies me when I want answers. He holds me when I want resolution. He reminds me that His silence is not absence—but invitation. There are days I wonder if the truest redemption I will ever taste will be the one that greets me when I finally go Home. This world is not my home, and sometimes my soul feels its distance. When people ask how I am, I usually say, “I’m okay.” Not because I’m pretending—but because okay is honest. I’m not broken anymore—but I’m not carefree either. I’m not bubbly or bright or “over it.” I am okay. I am steady. I am grounded. I am held. I am joyful in the Lord. Content in His leading. Grateful for His provision. But happiness—the light, effortless kind—hasn’t fully returned. And now I understand why. Deep pain leaves its imprint. Trauma reshapes the way the heart and mind learn safety, joy, and rest. I am not the same woman I was before—not hardened, but changed. More careful about what I allow close to my heart. More aware of what is sincere… and what is self-serving. I have learned that it’s okay to have boundaries—to choose who has access to my heart and who does not. Some of those decisions have been difficult, but they have been necessary. Protecting my heart is not wrong. It is wisdom. And maybe that is part of why happiness feels different now. Happiness may come and go. But joy remains. Happiness rises and falls with circumstances—but joy is steadier, deeper—rooted in the quiet assurance of God’s presence. Once, I was told happiness was the goal—as if contentment could be found by chasing what feels good in the moment. But I’ve learned that kind of pursuit never satisfies.  “I have seen everything that is done under the sun, and behold, all is vanity and a striving after wind.” – Ecclesiastes 1:14 ESV Joy doesn’t demand escape. It stays. So, for now, I sit with Jesus in the quiet—in my beautiful home, in this peaceful and blessed life, in a heart that still remembers what hurt feels like. And I wait. Because this is where He keeps me. Not forgotten. Not abandoned. Just here—with Him. ────────── ❧ ────────── Years into living on my own, God still reminds me that I am seen and cared for in quiet ways. One evening after a counseling session, I stopped at the grocery store knowing I needed both food and gas—and I didn’t know how I was going to make what I had in my checking account stretch. I counted what I had, made careful choices, and trusted Him with the rest. I usually treat myself to Starbucks