Survivors' Blog

I’ll never forget the look on my wife’s face the day she discovered my infidelity. The betrayal, the disbelief, the agony...as everything she thought was true in the world and everything she thought was good in her life was jerked out from under her. The look in her eyes haunts me, and always will. In six years at Affair Recovery and after leading nearly two dozen Hope for Healing groups, I have found the above statement (or words to that effect) to be virtually universal among the unfaithful men I have accompanied on the first steps of their journey to recovery. It is true for me as well—but on more levels than for many in my situation. My wife and I had been married for eight years and had a six-year-old child when I started an online affair (it was the early days of the internet), which became a physical one with a younger woman. I had left my computer open when I went to work, and my wife saw all my conversations—explicit conversations that would later become known as “sexting”—with my affair partner. When I pulled into the driveway that day, she was sitting on the front stoop, crying. I had no idea what could be wrong. I rushed forward to comfort her. When she looked up at me and I saw the pain in her eyes, I immediately knew what had happened. But I was caught up in the limerence. I was convinced I was madly in love with this young woman I barely knew and could not give her up. I announced I was going off to start a new life with her and left our home to meet with her, thinking I would never come back. Within a couple of days, I realized what a mistake I had made, and I called my wife and begged her to let me come home. She did, and I never saw the affair partner again. The day I came home into my wife’s arms was one of the happiest moments of my life, and I was so incredibly grateful to be there. I swore I would never do anything like that again, and I meant it. I felt like we had a new start. But as we all know, it’s not that easy. We attended couples counseling. As betrayers tend to do, I spent most of the sessions deflecting, justifying, and shifting blame. If only she had met my needs better. If only this, if only that. She grew ever more distant. Within a year or so, I suspected—accurately, as it turned out—that she was having an affair herself. I caught her the way she had caught me. I had never known such pain. I cried bitterly; I screamed and keened like a wounded animal. When my throat was too raw to scream anymore, I kept screaming on the inside for what felt like forever. We reconciled—or tried to—but we began a long, spiraling dance, cheating on each other over and over for the next six years. Finally, she found someone she wanted to start over with and left for good. Despite all the ways we had hurt each other, I was devastated. I knew it was me who had started the chain reaction and that I deserved what I was feeling far more than she did. I swore I would never cause such pain to someone I loved ever again. And I meant it. Three years later, I remarried, and we were incredibly happy together. Seven years into our marriage, I reconnected with an old girlfriend online. We spent a lot of time reminiscing about the year we had dated (after my first marriage) and the abrupt way things had broken off (with her cheating). We met for coffee, and the spark was still there. Soon we were texting back and forth all day long, every day, sharing every thought and each day’s mundane events. She was also with someone now—but before long, we were talking about how much we loved each other and always would. And then we were talking in detail about the things we used to do sexually and the things we’d still like to do. Neither of us, though, wanted to leave our partner—we had grown codependent and had become one another’s fantasy escape release valve. We occasionally met in person, usually in public places. I deluded myself into thinking that because it was only words and not physical actions, I wasn’t cheating. About a year after my emotional affair began, I started to suspect my wife was being unfaithful. By this time, I knew all the signs inside and out, from both sides. I managed to get access to her iPad and learned that she had been meeting other men on an “adultery” website. Once again, I was devastated—far more so, in fact, than in my first marriage. I would never have believed my current wife capable of betrayal. She was the one woman I had trusted completely (just as I was the one man she had trusted). I recognized the irony of that, considering my own ongoing secret relationship. She was racked with guilt when discovered, and I realized how much I loved her and wanted to be with her forever. But I didn’t end my emotional affair. If anything, I doubled down on it, using my wife’s infidelity as justification for trying to have my cake and eat it, too. Until two years later, that is—when I was discovered. Shortly after that, my wife and I found Affair Recovery and EMS Online, and later Harboring Hope and Hope for Healing (when I relapsed a year after D-Day). I have been married twice, and in both marriages, I was both the betrayer and the betrayed. It is a depth of experience no one would wish for, but knowing so intimately what it feels like to be betrayed has helped me in my efforts to bring empathy for both roles into my discussions with the groups I lead. It also provides an object lesson. At the end of my first marriage, I was crushed by the pain I had caused and sincere in my commitment never to do it again—but I did not address the core issues that had led me down the path of betrayal in the first place, thus virtually guaranteeing that I would do it again. “It’s your best efforts that got you here.” What I have learned in the years since—through Affair Recovery and my own therapy—is that many of us carry a black hole inside us. It sucks everything in. We’ve usually carried it since childhood, and we spend our lives trying to fill it—through other people, through addictions, or through both. But no one person can make you happy. No one human being can fill that emptiness. We have to face the black hole, figure out how it started, and learn to fill it ourselves. Only then can we find balance or peace. But you know what? No one can do it for you, but those of us who have been there can help you learn to do it for yourself and walk you through the first steps of the journey until you can stand on your own. And that can make all the difference.

“The unfaithful betrays themselves long before they betray their partner.” – Rick Reynolds This statement took me far too long to fully understand. How could I betray myself when I didn’t even know who “myself” was? Growing up, I lived in a house where love was granted or denied based on how well I could read my mother. If I could anticipate her every need, thought, and wish—and fulfill them—I had her love. When I couldn't figure it out, I was met with anger, stonewalling, and silence. I learned quickly how to read people and morph into whichever version was most acceptable to those around me. I also learned to hide the parts of myself I thought wouldn't be accepted. Throughout my entire childhood and young adulthood, I played out this same pattern. I was perfect for everyone—exactly who they wanted me to be—until things started falling apart and I began to slip up. Then, I would rebel, abandoning that image of perfection for the exact opposite. When I got married, I—like most unfaithful spouses—thought I could leave all that behind, even though I couldn’t have articulated what I was leaving behind. I’d already had a few "secret rebellion" moments during our engagement, but I assumed I was just getting it out of my system before fully committing to being the ideal wife and mother. In hindsight, that urge never went away. I flirted. I searched for "better." I was never fully in, and I had no idea. Instead, I blamed my husband and his own struggles, never allowing myself to look deeper. As life progressed and the stress of family life and maintaining "perfection" started breaking me, I snapped. My husband was away working to provide a better life for us, leaving me in charge of everything at home. In my overwhelm, I ran—from my husband, my family, and my "perfect" self. I abandoned not only my husband and kids, but also everything I had ever wanted to be. I put my children in situations that hurt them because I was too busy rebelling. I turned my anger and resentment toward my husband, making him the fall guy for everything. I was spiteful, completely unaware that I was rebelling against expectations I had placed on myself—not ones he had ever put on me. After he discovered one affair and I confessed to the rest, I was completely appalled by the person I had become. I finally began to look deeper at who I was and the choices I had made. Still, I didn't recognize the pattern yet. I dove straight into "recovery perfection." I hated who I had become and couldn't trust myself. In those early months, instead of working toward becoming the person I wanted to be, I became the person I thought my husband needed me to be. Granted, this time I actually asked him what he needed instead of assuming with zero accuracy, but it still wasn't me. I still didn't know who "me" was—I just knew I couldn't trust her. I was terrified that the broken, rotten shell of a human hiding behind a porcelain mask was who I truly was. I was just really good at switching masks. In early recovery, I threw myself back into my roles: wife, mother, recovering addict, Christian. I took my cues from my husband and never wanted to be far from him. I trusted his vision of who I should be far more than my own sense of self. I am so grateful for his grace during that time. He could have said or done anything, and I would have gone along with it. He could have been abusive, and I would have felt I deserved it. He could have told me I was a waste of space, and I would have believed him. He was in so much pain—pain I caused—yet instead of taking it out on me, he worked on himself. He took steps to ensure he was healed enough to walk alongside me so we could build a safe space together. He built me up as authentically as he could. During this time—as I began working on myself through Hope for Healing, EMS Online, and infidelity-specific individual and couples therapy—I started seeing the pattern. It would take years before I could fully articulate it, but I was beginning to learn who and what I wanted to be. Heck, I was even learning that I actually had wants and needs of my own. It was another adjustment for both of us as I stepped out of his shadow, figured myself out, and gave my inner self a voice—one that had been silenced for far too long. Bit by bit, I realized my true inner self could be trusted. I learned how to distinguish between God, myself, and the enemy. I learned to identify my motivations and share them. Most importantly, I learned who I was so I could finally share that true self with my husband. I don’t have it all figured out. There are still times I want to run—times I forget that I don’t have to be perfect or have it all together. Times when the choices of others affect me, my marriage, and my kids in ways I can’t control. Stress, finances, parenting, addiction, and LIFE—they all still happen, and I still fail. I drop the balls I'm juggling. I open my closet of masks and try to hide. But I am blessed: blessed with a husband who loves me for the woman he only recently got to know, and blessed with a support system of friends whom I trust to call me out when I start to hide or run. I trust them to help me keep learning who I am and to speak to me authentically and honestly. It is a long road. Recovery doesn’t have an end date; it’s a lifelong journey of continued growth and learning. But I can honestly say that today, I know who I am, who I want to be, and I am fully here for it.

When I was a kid, my family took a summer road trip from our home in Houston to Colorado. We left around 8 p.m., when we knew the traffic had mostly calmed down, and drove through the night toward New Mexico, our first stop along the way. This was before cell phones, GPS, and Siri could tell us which roads were closed or offer an alternative route when we missed a turn. Before we left, I watched my dad unfold a large paper map across the kitchen table. He and my mom leaned over it, studying the route while my dad traced the highway lines we would take. There are plenty of moments I remember about that trip—the cassette tapes my parents kept on repeat (thank you, Dad, for introducing me to The Eagles at a young age), their irritated voices when one of them misread the map, and the questionable roadside restrooms. But what I remember most is the darkness. I sat in the back seat of our Chrysler minivan with my face pressed against the window, staring out into the night. My eyes strained to trace the objects in the distance, trying to make sense of what my brain couldn’t quite compute against the speed of the vehicle and the absence of light. I wasn’t exactly afraid of the dark. I was afraid of how the darkness made me feel. I didn’t have language for it back then, but I know now that my body braced against the uncertainty of what I couldn’t see. Where are we? What's around us? Where are we going? How much longer will this last? Are we safe? Finally, after hours of traveling this way, a faint haze of light appeared on the horizon. As we inched closer, more lights emerged against the dark backdrop, and a part of me sighed with relief. The road hadn’t changed. But now I could see where we were. In some ways, I still respond this way to darkness. Even now, as a 45-year-old woman, I clamor for the window seat on a nighttime flight so I can search the darkness below for lights. Maybe this is part of why the early days of recovering from intimate betrayal felt so disorienting to me. I couldn’t find the light. Suddenly, I was forced to ask myself many of the same questions I’d asked from that backseat decades earlier: Where am I? How long will this last? Am I safe? Only now, the road I couldn’t see was my own life. And there was no paper map spread across the kitchen table showing me how to get from where I was to where I needed to go. So, I looked to people who were a few steps ahead of me. I desperately wanted some evidence that the darkness I stood in wasn’t all there was. I needed companions who understood the particular grief caused by relational rupture—who knew firsthand the disorientation of a life divided into "before" and "after." I wanted people who could walk through the dark and stay beside me on the long stretch. Companions who could give me enough light to see where to put my feet next. Their presence seemed to say: Keep going. Take one more step. I'm holding the light for you until you can see it again. Over the years, these companions have shown up in many forms. Therapists and experts gave me language for experiences I didn’t yet know how to name. I still remember the relief of hearing one explain how betrayal can affect the immune system—that what my body was doing was real. Books and therapeutic practices helped, too. So did groups of women navigating their own stories of betrayal—these partners who were willing to tell the truth about both their pain and their healing. Hope Rising became one of the places I found companions like these. Yes, experts were there, but many of them knew the impact of intimate betrayal from personal experience. I felt reassured as I heard from others who really understood and had traveled the same terrain. A single word, a phrase, or someone saying in her own way, "I know something about this road, too," became a glimmer of light. And that was enough for me to take the next step. And the next. If you feel like you’re standing in the dark and straining to find light, I invite you to explore Hope Rising. You might benefit from Hope Rising. if: You’re in the early days of discovery and need to hear from people who can see farther down the road than you can right now. You’re months or years into recovery but need encouragement, perspective, or renewed hope. You feel isolated in your experience and long to hear someone put words to something you haven’t known how to explain. You want to better understand some of the emotional, physical, relational, and spiritual effects of betrayal. You’re rebuilding your marriage, rebuilding yourself, or still trying to figure out what rebuilding looks like for you. You want the flexibility to listen and return to certain talks when you need them. Hope Rising 2026. opens October 1. You’ll have lifetime access and be able to watch privately and at your own pace. Early Bird access is $39 through October 15 (regularly $65). And because every purchase funds the Affair Recovery Scholarship Program, your own step forward helps someone else afford theirs. You may not be able to see the whole path ahead of you today. Maybe all you see is darkness. But maybe one of the voices in this collection can hold a little light for you until you can see again.

Most people do everything they can to avoid rock bottom. But sometimes, it takes a violent collision between our pride and our reality to finally wake us up. In Hope for Healing, we frame brokenness not as destruction, but as a turning point—the moment you stop pretending you have everything under control, step out of the self-centered box, and open yourself to true empathy. The guys in the group are asked to reflect on the best example of brokenness they can think of in their own journey of healing. I always share mine with them, because it is literal as well as metaphorical, and is therefore a powerful way to demonstrate the point. I started Hope for Healing in late July, 2020, when I had relapsed eighteen months after D-Day. We got to the brokenness chapter in early September. One Thursday night in the first week of that month, I had to do a sleep study. If you’ve never had one, they put you in a surreal room—part hospital, part hotel—and hook you up to a web of wires and monitors. I barely slept. They released me at 7:00 AM, giving me just enough time to run home, shower, and head to work. When I got home, I found my wife already flooding. A female French-Canadian acquaintance of mine had responded to something I said on Facebook, and had called me "mon ami" (“my friend”). This is very different from “mon amour,” which could be a romantic term. Exhausted, rushed, and stressed, I instantly became frustrated. At that point in my journey, I hadn't yet learned how to handle that level of pressure. My default response to overwhelming frustration was self-harm—beating my head against the wall or pounding my temples with my fists, a reaction that terrified my wife and always escalated the situation. Trying to escape the pressure, I half-ran to the bathroom. Once out of sight, I started punching myself in the head. Disoriented and moving too fast, I lost my balance, and the bathroom rug slipped out from under my feet. I fell backwards, hard. Without thinking, I stuck my left arm out to break my fall—and it snapped, right at the shoulder. Broke clean through. My whole arm was hanging from my shoulder by the flesh alone. I screamed bloody murder, and my wife came to help me up. I remember her handing me my arm and driving me to the ER. Unfortunately, rural hospitals often have staffing problems, and this was the Friday before Labor Day weekend. There was no one there who could set my arm, and would not be until the following Tuesday. They sent me home with pain killers, but I had to sit motionless for four days (because the slightest movement was agonizing). My wife had to wait on me hand and foot and help me to the bathroom and back. When I did get to see an orthopedist, I was admitted to the hospital for surgery to install a steel rod in my arm. I handed my wife my phone as they were wheeling me away, leaving her alone to wait. She went through my phone, which is natural in our circumstances. I had given her all my passwords. What I had not anticipated was her reading through my texts with the accountability partner she had recommended to me, and which we had agreed would be confidential. She did look at them, and as a betrayed spouse, I may well have done the same, and was flooded by the discussions she read. When I came out of anesthesia, I was greeted by a traumatized wife who now had to act as sole caretaker for the next few weeks for the person who had deeply betrayed her. And that was the exact week we discussed the brokenness chapter in group. It got my attention in a way it might not have had it come a few weeks earlier. I was literally broken. Literally helpless. And completely reliant on the person I had betrayed. But I also realized something else. I’d had a steel rod nailed to my arm, holding it together. It was painful to heal from, agonizing sometimes, and I knew it would leave deep scars. But, once that healing happened, that arm would be much stronger than ever before, and be able to endure much more pressure. I think that was a turning point for me. I’d agreed to do Hope for Healing to make my wife happy, and to show her I was taking some steps in the right direction, but I had not been taking it as seriously as I should have. I was still deflecting, minimizing, and justifying, thinking this stuff doesn’t really apply to me because, deep inside, I was still telling myself what I had done wasn’t really that bad. But my accident, coming when it did, humbled me. I took my journey very seriously after that. I still had a very long way to go, but it was a start. How about you? Have you been broken? It is no fun, especially when you caused it yourself. You may not have as literal an example as mine, but I bet everyone reading this can think of a time when they were at that place. The question is, what do you take from it? When I was young I had a friend and religious mentor who had an affair that became public. He lost his position and was ostracized. I worried about him, but I was also a little hopeful. This man had always had a tendency to be self-righteous and judgmental. I hoped that this experience would humble him and make him have more empathy for others. It had the opposite effect. When allowed to return, he was more judgmental than ever because he was trying to prove he deserved to be back, and that he really was better than those other sinners. He missed an opportunity to grow, and to truly heal. Don’t be that guy. If you were unfaithful, pride played a role. Let this horrible, painful fall lead you to a healing that makes you humbler, more loving, and more empathetic. And stronger.

“I DO NOT Deserve This!” Does this resonate with any of you? Of course it does. Finding out that your spouse has had an affair—or still is—rocks your world and may ultimately leave you asking the question: “What did I do to deserve this?!” And you know the answer… You DON’T deserve this. Now, come on, I know I’m not perfect; you know you’re not perfect. But damn it! Haven’t you tried to be a good wife? I know I sure did. Have a clean house when he gets home, (mostly) well-behaved kids who are attentive to dad. My body is certainly not what it was before five kids, but I take care of myself. Sure, I have days where my hair is in a sloppy bun from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed. But generally speaking… I keep up with myself. Most days, I put in the effort to not look like a bedraggled stay-at-home mom, but a loving, beautiful wife. After I found out about the affair, the constant message running through my mind—and that I found myself asking him again and again—was: “Damn it again! I love you! How?! Why would you do this to me?! My love has been fierce, passionate, devoted. Love—with a passion to see your best interest. Love—that wants to grow old together, to see our children grow up and move into their own lives. Love—that is willing to lay down my own life for yours. Love—that longs to be loved and cared for by you, and you alone. I was a good wife. For 17 years. I have fully supported you—in all your endeavors, even the ones that I thought were not your true calling. I have loved you unconditionally. I have accepted your shortcomings, your flat-out failures. I have extended grace for your addictions; offered solutions; patiently and passionately prayed.” And beyond all this, “God, what the heck? You see me—how as a Christian woman I have done all the ‘right things.’” And so, anger at God? Yes. Absolutely. I felt like I was justified in my “righteous anger” because I did not deserve to be treated this way. While this is true—none of us do—despite our own missteps and failings, we don’t deserve to be treated this way. My personal mistakes do not justify his behavior. But here’s the thing—I need to come to terms with this idea of being angry at God. Because has God actually done anything wrong? Has He caused my husband to act out in this way? No, resoundingly. It is 100% understandable to be angry with God. I sure was. It wasn’t until my husband’s second affair that the target of my anger transferred. You see, God is for you. For your good. AND this world is a place inhabited by a bunch of self-centric men and women. If we are honest about it, we all have those moments where we act entirely in only our own best interest. And most of the time, others are not severely impacted by that moment of selfishness. My first encouragement to you is that while you may want to blame God for this pain and disaster your life has become, it’s not His fault. Your husband is responsible for his own actions. And while you may have been doing all the “right things,” God doesn’t owe you anything. I know that sounds harsh, and truly, I am not trying to be mean. I understand you have enough going on in your life, and for me to be throwing difficult truths at you that you don’t want to hear—I get it; it may just be too much right now. But perhaps later… when all is quiet, and the house has settled, perhaps then you can consider this. This does not mean that God wants to see you in pain, or your marriage fall apart. He is a God of hope. A God of healing. A God of restoration. He is your safe place to run to in this storm. He understands what it means to be betrayed. He really does. Wasn’t Jesus betrayed by Judas? He understands what it means to be left alone in agonizing pain. Wasn’t He left alone on the cross to bear the weight of others' sin? Your husband’s sin, your sin, and my sin as well. He didn’t deserve it. So please—don’t allow this truth to keep you from the One who can actually give you comfort, direction, and hope. God can handle your anger. Let Him have it. And then, please, dear sister, allow God to bring the hope that you so desperately need right now. Let Him come and sit with you in your pain. Find your peace in Him. He is our Hope. He is our peace. Surrender your heart to Him, with all its overwhelming emotions, and let Him calm the storm of your hurting heart.

Welcome to Affair Recovery's Harboring Hope Monthly Drawing. We want to know you. We want to serve you. This means we want to hear from you! The first step is telling us what we can do for you. Please tell us why you’d like to take Harboring Hope. If you made a comment prior to a previous registration period, that comment is still good for your entry. Remember, submit a comment of 500 words or less about why you'd like to take the Harboring Hope course. Remember, it's a random drawing so your entry won't be based on merit or on your situation. Comments will be moderated by AR staff. Drawings will be held monthly. If you'd like more information, you can also read our official rules. The winner for September 2026 was "jmu" with the entry "Like so many couples, my…" Congrats, jmu! The winner for July 2026 was "SheG." with the entry "I have been through multiple...." Congrats, SheG! The winner for June 2026 was "Christy G." with the entry "I have been married for...." Congrats, Christy G.! The winner for May 2026 was "Sonia" with the entry "Beginning Hope" Congrats, Sonia! The winner for April 2026 was "Katie001" with the entry "9 month on it's still so painful" Congrats, Katie! The winner for March 20026 was "SweatyYetiNZ" with the entry "Help from a world away". Congrats, SweatyYetiNZ! The winner for Feb. 2026 was "JudyAnn9" with the entry "I see no hope..." Congrats, JudyAnn9! The winner for January 2026 was "SFKP" with the entry "While Again". Congrats, SFKP! The winner for December 2025 was "Ken15" with the entry "Just passed 1 year mark". Congrats, Ken!

Healing from infidelity often leaves us questioning our fundamental worth and identity. Recently, I was meeting with a group of believers as we discussed our most recent book study. One of the members was talking about being “made in the image of God” and even though I have heard that phrase 500,000 times in my life, this time was different. While sitting in my office chair on a video call, my inner self was whisked away to that place deep in my soul where big concepts begin. In that quiet place, the phrase 'made in His image' reverberated like a gong. Words began pinging against invisible walls: Wonderfully made. His character. Through me. For such a time as this. All the bits and pieces of concepts and ideas and thoughts, and acquired knowledge from my entire lifetime and from a source outside myself were clanging and vibrating and moving until with a flash like lightning they all came together into the image of a new concept. One I actually had words for. I “came to” in the meeting, totally lost as to what had been said, but buzzing with a brand new, life-altering concept. I waited for the words to finish forming, and for a space to speak, then shaking with nerves, I shared what I had learned. We are created in the image of God. God is bigger and more infinite than any one human could ever fathom or be. There has never been a copy of any human in the entire history of the Earth. I am literally the only “me” that has ever existed or will ever exist. God made me. I am fearfully and wonderfully made. He created every part of me. Not only my physical appearance but also my character, my personality, everything about me. I am made in His image. SO…I am intentionally and specifically made in the image of specific and intentional characteristics and traits of God. I walk around with my own personal piece of Jesus living in my soul and I am the only person in all of history that can present it in the very “me” way. What an incredible gift. God has created each and every person in the history of all time past, present and future, to be a particular example of Him, if we will only recognize it and let Him show through. This also means that every person we come into contact with, also has a specific piece of Jesus living in them, even if they don’t know it yet, or choose not to show it, or have let the enemy cast a shadow over it. It is there. In every person. What if that is part of what it is to love like Jesus? To look at a person and see the piece of Him that exists within them? To look for the characteristics and traits of God that only they can portray to the world in the way He created them to. What if we looked for that in others? In the wake of infidelity, looking at our spouse and trying to see the image of God in them can feel impossible. But what if we looked for the characteristics of God that they can portray, beneath the brokenness and the betrayal? I will pray for help in getting there, not only with others, but with myself. As someone whose story has been deeply impacted by an addiction to validation, the approval of others, and an unhealthy need to be liked and wanted, this concept completely changes my perception of my recovery. God gave me everything; God made me who I am. People don’t approve of the real “me”—they approve of the reflection of God that He placed in me. The character He gave me, the personality He placed there. No one can validate that except for Him. When the enemy whispers and tries to skew my worth—tempting me to seek validation in the world, or in the attention of others—I realize that it is just the world in them being drawn to the world in me. I don’t want that anymore. My desperate need for outside attention and validation is exactly what Brennan Manning so aptly named “the imposter.” Because any part of me that craves those worldly things isn’t the real me at all. The real me is fearfully, wonderfully, and uniquely made in His image—and that is enough."

I am a Christian. It wasn’t until my husband discovered my infidelity that I started to truly understand what that means. “Christian” was a persona I would take on Sunday mornings and around certain people then shove back in the "Christian" closet in my soul the rest of the time. At one time, depending on who you were and what I thought you expected of me, you would have thought I was the most amazing Christian woman. Generous, kind, pious, thoughtful. I had morals of gold. I was still human, but willing to admit my failures and bring them to God. The kicker is, around you, I would have thought the same thing. When living out of my “Christian” closet, that is who I was. When my husband discovered that I had been unfaithful, the ticking time bomb in one of my closets, marked “Do Not Enter”, went off and blew debris of the hidden me all over my inner hallway. As I panicked and tried to sweep the rubble into a dark corner, I noticed the cracks and missing doors of my other closets. I didn’t know where things belonged, or where they came from. I didn’t know which closet was me. Who was I? That question was answered for me in a song. I was—and always will be—a Child of God. I knew I had to empty out my closets. I fought God hard on this one, but He won. Two months after my husband's discovery, I ripped the door off more “Do Not Enter” closets. As I unpacked them, I started to share bits and pieces of their contents with him. I was afraid to share it all. What would happen then? With every new box, he realized more and more that I wasn’t the only one who didn’t know who I was. He had no idea who he had married. After some time, and prayer, he decided that he would stay to see who that person might be. So we began a long journey of figuring that out. The more closets I opened and pulled into the hallway, the better, and more confused, I felt. I was ashamed of all the stage make-up, costumes, and masks I was surrounded by. What was I supposed to do with all of it? What would be left when all the closets were empty and demolished? I needed help. I prayed, I went to counseling, then my husband found a video on YouTube. We watched video after video, talking, unpacking, devouring videos and the glimmer of hope we felt contained within them. We signed up for classes. I had one, he had one, and we had one together. I finally had an answer. Those groups were like a troop of the most amazing angels, coming in and helping me clean and sort through the rubble. The content helped me decide what got tossed and what could stay. All the work and the support also helped me find one last closet. The groups couldn’t help me with this one though. The content couldn’t either. What they were able to do was point me to a therapist who could. We found infidelity specific therapists. I saw someone, my husband saw someone, and we saw someone together. We didn’t have the money for any of it, but God provided in a way I had never given Him the chance to before. This last closet was opened slowly, lock by lock, until, finally, we were able to open the door and find…me. Me at 6 holding a box with my eyes closed and back turned hoping no one saw me. Me at 8 holding tight to a box that I was trying so hard to pretend was supposed to be there. Me at 13 hiding in a corner as far away from my box as I could get, crying and wishing I was anyone else. Me at 16 standing in front of a mirror holding too many boxes with tears streaming down my face. All the pieces of me that I had locked in that room. This was why I didn’t know who I was. I didn’t want to know. I had spent my whole life adding parts of myself to that closet and adding locks to the door. After all my groups, all my work, all my lessons, I knew it was time to let them out. I had to. Not only did my husband need it, and my relationship need it, but I needed it. It took me a week. I pulled each girl out, one by one, and together, in that hallway, with God holding us, we unpacked the boxes together and I wrote down what was inside. After all of the girls were out and all their boxes lying empty, we turned toward what had been in the other closets and took inventory of all that was there as well. Then came the hardest part. On my journey, I had been taught, “you can’t be fully loved, unless you are fully known”. God had helped me know myself, and start to love myself as He loves me. Now it was my husband's turn. I gave him the pages of inventory from my closets. Then, I sat quietly, arm-in-arm, with every piece of me that I had forced into hiding, as we let the most important person in our life see us for the first time. We hugged as he cried. We stood together in peace in the face of his understandable anger. Then, we took a polygraph so he would be able to believe us when we told him there was no more. We all sat silently in the parking lot after passing—me and every one of those girls I’d hidden away—and waited for his reaction. This was it. He leaned in, hugged me, and asked me where we were going for our date day. As we drove to our destination, each one of me smiled and entered my heart all together in the light of acceptance. I finally knew who I was, and so did he, and he embraced me. I am a Child of God. Crafted lovingly by the Creator of the Universe and, like all priceless works of art, I am flawed; but as any art collector will tell you, the flaws, the unique aspects, the bumps and imperfections, are exactly what makes it valuable and wanted.