Who Do I Turn To?

Who do I turn to
when he smears shame across my cheek
and calls it self-care—
a “necessary cleansing”
with grit still lodged in my eye?

Who do I turn to
when my own mother
can’t translate
the language of ache
that’s rooted in me?

When my sister means well,
but hands me clichés
when I need rescue?

Who do I turn to
when my friends are few,
and the ones who remain
are barely holding on themselves?
I hate the thought
of being a weight
on shoulders already bent.

I’m caught—
between the needle
and the haystack,
between a rock
and whatever part of me
hasn’t hardened yet.

No one to turn to.
So I fold into silence.
Bleed into pillows.
Smile like it doesn’t sting.

I wonder—
will my daughter inherit this?
This numbness that creeps in
when love feels distant,
when the one you trust most
goes quiet—not to punish,
but to escape?

I used to be certain.
But how does it feel
to realize
you may have chosen wrong?

I think I know.

I asked God for direction
and walked my own way
hand-in-hand with him.
Was that faith,
or failure in disguise?

I don’t know if I’m winning anymore.
I love him—
still—
but he’s chipped away
every corner of softness in me.
Now even my tears
stay tucked behind my eyes.

At the function,
his voice cut the air.
It wasn’t loud,
but sharp enough
to make me freeze.
I thought he was joking.
But the look on his face
said otherwise.

It stung.
Like I was a child
too unruly to be loved in public.
I didn’t know how to respond.
The shame didn’t settle
until hours later,
when I replayed it all
and realized
how small it made me feel.

I keep the peace
because I’m the wife.
Because good wives
absorb damage
and call it devotion.

But I never thought
I’d wear bruises made of words
from someone
younger than me.

Maybe it’s preparing me—
for when my kids
talk over me.
Step on my spine
without knowing.

But I don’t want that.
Not for them.
So why do I let him?

I should’ve said it—
“Is this what you want your daughter
to think love looks like?”

But I didn’t.
I just curled beside my daughter
and drowned in the silence
between us.

Later, we talked.
And in the quiet after the unraveling,
I saw it—
the stress he’s buried beneath silence,
the weight he carries in this house,
the way pressure becomes distance
even when love is still there.

I won’t leave.
Maybe it’s not fear—
maybe it’s the part of me
that still believes
we're worth the work.

Maybe God will listen.
After all,
He brought me this man—
the man I prayed for.

And maybe this was never about
being seen
so much as it was about learning
to see him again.

To forgive before I’m asked.
To stay present when it’s hard.
To choose love
even when I feel like retreating.

I asked God for help—
and maybe this is it.
A reminder that grace
begins at home.

Author’s Note

I remember the moment that brought me to these words. And honestly, I almost didn’t want to share them. Not because they aren’t true, but because they felt too raw—too close to the kind of thoughts I never wanted to admit I had. As a wife, even thinking about leaving felt shameful. I’ve always believed that when you make a vow before God, you honor it. And I chose my husband knowing the kind of man he was—respectful, kind, nurturing, and good. I believe God brought us together. I still believe that.

But we’re not perfect. Neither of us is. And on this particular day, I let my frustration speak louder than my faith. I didn’t understand what he was going through at the time—what he’d been carrying. He works hard. He provides. And he comes home to an environment that doesn’t always feel like his. That wears on a person. I see that more clearly now.

I wrote this in a moment of loneliness and misunderstanding, where I allowed old habits and familiar fears to creep in. I come from a divorced home. I’ve seen people walk away. I’ve walked away before. And sometimes that feels like the easiest option. But staying—choosing to show up in the hard moments—is where love really lives. That’s where God teaches us grace.

This was one of my husband’s harder moments. But he’s loved me through mine—more than once. And if I truly believe in the vows we made, then I believe in showing up, especially when it’s difficult. I’m learning to give him grace, and I’m learning to give it to myself too—for the thoughts I have, the feelings I wrestle with, and the way I’m still growing into the kind of wife God has called me to be.

So if you’re reading this and you’re in that space—where things feel heavy, or you feel alone in your marriage—I hope you know you’re not the only one. These moments don’t define our love. But they do shape us, and they can bring us closer to the kind of grace-filled love God intended.

That’s what I’m holding on to.