Survivors' Blog

The hard and sometimes messy choices you made in response to fear or from a place of trauma do not define you, nor make you a bad person. You did the best you could with the knowledge you had. - Dr. Caroline Leaf Any ordinary life contains regrets, but betrayal generates a whole new level. I'm sure most of us could easily rattle off a lengthy list, but today I'm focusing on a specific set of regrets created by the aftermath of infidelity. Life does not stop spinning for infidelity, and I think an additional cruelty is the regrets created in the life that continued to play out while trying to wrap our heads around the betrayal. I know for me, I have many regrets regarding the quality and depth of parenting and emotional availability I could offer my kids, friends, family, and even my husband. I told my first counselor how guilty I felt for not having the energy or mental focus to attend to my kids like I normally would, and she compared the experience to someone with cancer. She asked me, “Would you judge someone with cancer who didn't have enough energy to parent her kids the way she wanted to?” And of course I would not. She explained that my mind and body were in a state of emergency, not all that different from the cancer patient. But I was unable to offer myself the same grace, piling the guilt on top of the pain I was already experiencing and feeling like a complete failure as a wife, mother and person. It would be nice, if after the revelation of infidelity in our marriage, we could press pause on life for a while, and devote ourselves to survival. As though the world would say, “Just take the time you need, and when you're ready to resume life, just press “play.” Until then you won't miss anything or screw anything up.” But unfortunately, that's not how it works. Life goes on in the midst of betrayal and recovery. It doesn’t stop for you to heal. Kids need you. Bills have to be paid. The laundry needs to be done. The lawn needs to be mowed. Birthdays and holidays will still rear their painful heads on the calendar, with no consideration of your feelings. And while all that is happening, children grow up. Jobs change. Opportunities are lost. We age. People die. Pandemics happen. And so on. With socially acceptable losses like natural disaster or death, grief is met with understanding and space to mourn. Help is offered, funerals are held, time for grieving is allotted, time off from work is normal and expected. Friends gather and offer love and understanding, and maybe even bring chocolate. But betrayal is often dealt with in secret and in isolation, as has been the case for me. Hiding in plain sight while the rest of the world keeps spinning; no one knowing the silent despair hidden behind the facade. Six months went by, then a year, maybe two, or even more. Looking back, I see those missed opportunities. Missed connections. The school events where I was nothing more than a shell, sitting on bleachers or in the auditorium seats, and using every molecule of energy in my body just to stop myself from dissolving into a puddle of tears. I didn't see his big win, or really hear his solo. I didn't feel the energy of the crowd. I don't remember the conversation on the ride home as he explained the behind the scenes of it all. I didn't ask many questions. I didn't suggest we go out for ice cream. I just wanted to go to bed. Did he notice? I don't know, but I did. And now that season is gone, and several others like it, and I missed it. I regret not being there. I was physically present, but my mind was a million miles away. I was so overwhelmed, I could not focus on anything in front of me. I could only pretend, with a fake smile plastered on my face. In my darkest moments, I wanted to die to escape the pain. It's all I could think about. And now I feel so guilty for missing those moments, and have so much regret. What kind of mother have I been? What else did they need from me that I didn't have the capacity to give? Have I damaged them? Made them feel unloved or unappreciated? Will I ever be able to make it up to them now that they are moving into adulthood? Is it too late? Because there was such a long gap in between the affair and the disclosure, I feel like I failed my kids when they were little, and then again as young adults. It feels like I didn’t do any of it right, and that I deeply regret. There are no do-overs. I missed the joy of being mentally and emotionally present with my kids, and now will never have the chance to do it again. I regret losing my old adventurous self. The mom they saw was not the person I used to be. During the affair, I was wrapped up in my fear and anxiety of what was happening to my life. I felt powerless to stop what was going on right in front of me. I can easily play Monday morning quarterback now, to see how I could have handled things differently, but I was so lost, confused, and scared that I felt helpless as I watched my life spiral out of control. Our family experienced meaningful and memorable events after D-Day, but some I barely remember as I was not fully present. And now some of those opportunities are lost and will never happen again. Kids have moved out, and those special times we were a family all under one roof will never happen again. And I missed the final moments of that. I know I have lost connections with other people, some of which I will probably never get back. A longtime friend said recently they thought they had offended me as I essentially ghosted them for a few years. They have no idea what we have been through, and only saw the lack of effort on my part in our relationship. It isn't fair that the aftermath of infidelity happens on top of the life that we had planned on living. That life gets derailed for a time, and that time can vary widely from person to person. But life doesn't stop for trauma or illness or death. It just keeps spinning, and eventually we catch up. But when we do, it can be a real gut punch to look back and see what we missed. But as my first therapist told me, it isn't fair, and it really isn't any more in our control than the person fighting cancer. I have many regrets, but I can't change that now. Now that I am in a better place, all I can do is try not to miss any more moments, forgive myself for what was beyond my control, and love the people in my life to the best of my ability. So if you have these regrets too, don't beat yourself up. You are only human and can only manage so much at one time. I tell this to myself as well, and as I heal, I am arriving at a more positive perspective on this. I did the best I could, and so did you. You became who you needed to be in order to survive. But now it's time to become who you need to be so you can thrive in life. Change is coming. It's time to embrace it. - Topher Kearby

I was having a conversation with my Affair Recovery editor recently, and we talked about the motivation behind my decision to blog about infidelity. It can be emotionally heavy, and logistically difficult amidst work, home, and family responsibilities, particularly as I continue to devote time and energy to therapy and recovery work. So what made me want to do this? Infidelity creates an isolation like nothing else. In the many years during and after my husband's affair he would not admit to anything. Just flat out denial of my legitimate suspicions, like I was just crazy for asking. I lived in limbo, knowing I did not have the truth, but also not having any foreseeable way to obtain it without his cooperation, which he was very unwilling to provide. I never looked for outside help. I never told anyone. I only asked him again and again, and he continually denied it. In turn, I tried to deny it to myself. I did not allow for any space to consider that there even was “help” for this. He had done whatever he had done with his affair partner, refused to tell me the truth about exactly what that entailed, and now this was just my life. His decisions made me feel as though I was imprisoned in this reality he had created, and I saw no way to change that. Years later, after my husband finally confessed, I started searching for help. As I've mentioned before, finding the right help while simultaneously being overwhelmed by trauma and confusion is next to impossible. I sought resources to help me understand infidelity and what I was experiencing, and most importantly, I sought hope. I felt so hopeless, so I searched intently for reassurance that there was any hope for real recovery, where I might feel like life would be worth living again someday, because it definitely did not feel that way at that time. I found I often couldn't relate to the blogs and testimonies I read. It typically felt like there were two options available. The first was from hurting people who just wanted to talk about how terrible cheaters are, which was not especially helpful or illuminating to me. The second was from the perspective of those who classified themselves as “healed” and spoke of their victory over betrayal, while seemingly glossing over the ugliness that they endured, and carefully omitting the reality of post-betrayal life. While option #2 sounded better, it seemed to portray a life “restored” and whole, with no remnants of sadness or loss, which I couldn't even wrap my head around, much less believe was real. It sounded like a sanitized version that left out the “real” in an effort to gain followers or sell a program. There was no mention of lingering sadness or reminders. There was no room for ongoing resentment and feelings of loss and disappointment. Could those people really exist? Sure, I guess. I just couldn't relate to it, so it offered me no real hope. I did not ever see myself fitting into that category, so it left me feeling more hopeless, like I was doing it all wrong or just didn't have what it took to reach the healing they described. What I needed was to know what I was feeling was normal. I wanted to know I wasn't alone. I wanted to know it was ok to hate everything right now, but that there was still hope to feel differently at some point. I wanted someone to just be real with me. After having been deceived about so much and for so long, I was unwilling and unable to ignore my skepticism and viewed these resources with great suspicion. As I read accounts from people who had tried this or that, and reported success, it just made me feel worse. I tried all of those things and the needle didn't move for me. Most talked about their amazing groups of friends or people from church. Mentor couples and a support network. I didn't have any of that. I was alone, and no one knew what had happened. My devastation was hidden from everyone in my life. So the end result was that I felt more like a failure and less hopeful that I could ever achieve any of the peace they were describing. I assumed the problem was me. It was just too far of a leap to get from where I was to where they said they were. I really wanted to hear from someone who was in the messy middle, taking the baby steps, clawing their way inch by inch. So that is the place from which I write. Maybe someday I will be one of those people, telling you how I have made it to the other side. But for now, I share my journey of the real and raw places in between, to offer validation and hope for others that are like me and are still here in the valley. So I write from the place I wish I had available to me when I first started down this path. I want to offer a balance of reality and hope, but mostly I want to offer validation and community. I know my experience may not necessarily mirror yours, as our journeys are all unique, but if I have made one person feel less alone, it is worth the effort. If, through my writings, I can put words to another person's confusing feelings, and help them to feel seen and understood, I am truly grateful. So I thank you for being here to read this. I am hopeful that you find some solace in being part of this community and joining me from time to time on my own journey. I wish you strength, peace, and hope. Behind every strong person there is a story that gave them no choice. ~ author unknown

After the revelation of infidelity, memories and milestones become a very tricky landscape. Reminiscence that used to instill joy, nostalgia, and peace, can now elicit a very different set of emotions. Reflection on the past can be truly debilitating in the face of betrayal. As a whole, anniversaries, dates, seasons, etc. now carry a sting. But there is a particularly cruel mockery that enshrouds a wedding anniversary following marital infidelity. Some experts guide a couple in recovery to consider the "old" marriage to be dead, grieve its loss, and then embark on creating a "new" marriage in truth, light, and healing. I understand the sentiment behind this, and maybe it is interpretation on my part, but I just don't like it. It doesn't work for me. Betrayal can encompass a significant period of our lives for many of us - whether it is the actual affair(s) / betrayal behavior, the duration of the deception, or a combination of both. In my case, my husband's affair and subsequent years of deception lasted a very long time. Am I supposed to just close the door on a huge chunk of my adult life and never look back? I'm not saying this is exactly what the experts are suggesting, but that is how it feels to me. My kids were little and those were very special years for me. I don't want to close the door on that. I showed up in those years. I did the best I could to reach over that divide, but he would not open the door. Could I have done things differently, in the years before, during, and after the affair? Yes, of course. I missed opportunities that I would address differently in hindsight, but I acted in good faith, based on the knowledge I had (or lack thereof) and the emotional skillset and maturity I had at that time. Now I am older and wiser (let's hope) and have learned a lot about myself and my husband so I can do things differently and with eyes wide open. So, now to my point. Since D-day, several wedding anniversaries have passed. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how I felt about the first one. I didn't even want to acknowledge the day, much less celebrate it. I ignored it and just wanted it to go away. This was about 6 months after D-day and it just felt like a sick joke. Added to the insult was the solemness my husband expressed about the importance of the day. He seemed very earnest and resolute in his expression of the day's meaning to him. I did not understand why we would ever want to celebrate it again. What was there to celebrate? Why would a person who took marriage so lightly and went to such extensive and repeated measures to destroy everything it was about, want to celebrate the anniversary of our wedding day and the vows that ultimately meant nothing? I remember thinking that now it was just insulting that this day even exists. He got me a very heartfelt card; I could not acknowledge the day at all. The painful irony is my husband found it so meaningful and important, when it truly meant the absolute least to me it possibly could. If I had been agreeable we would have done something special, but I wanted nothing to do with it. I just wanted the day to be over and behind me. Looking back, I know my husband was hurt by my reaction, but it seemed like such a farce to me, and I really couldn't muster up the empathy to care how he felt about it, since he was the one who cared so little about our marriage that it had been rendered totally meaningless. It seemed pretty cut and dried to me at that time, and I really did not think I would ever feel any differently about this. I counted our anniversary among the many things I lost in the aftermath of betrayal. To his credit, he was able to "hold" the meaning for both of us, while I began to work through it to try to move closer to where he was. I have seen many of the Affair Recovery General Forum conversations about wedding anniversaries (and rings) and most of the comments include the words "never" and "always" in terms of the betrayed spouse's feelings, with no hope or expectation for change. Obviously I understand this, as I have been right there with you. However... I continued to struggle with it, which means that I knew somewhere in my heart, I did not want to let it go. Bear with me on this, as I explain how things have shifted for me. I already told you how wedding anniversary #1 post D-day went. I pretty much ignored anniversary #2 as well, just wanting it to pass quickly, move on, and leave me alone. No card, no commemoration. By the third one, though, I felt differently. Not initially, but my frame of mind shifted following a specific conversation I had with my Harboring Hope group leader. I was facing another wedding anniversary and wanted to feel differently about it, but didn't know how, or even if I ever really could. My group leader endured her husband's numerous affairs across the span of many years of their marriage, but they had been reconciled and happy for a number of years at that point. I told her my dilemma and asked her how she felt about their wedding anniversary. This is what she said: "Since the (last) affair was over, we have anticipated the day and celebrate it for many reasons. It's the day "we" began and that is still cause for celebration. We are now celebrating not just the beginning of our marriage, but the history of our marriage. It's one that went from what seemed broken beyond repair to beautiful. We celebrate God's grace and the power of forgiveness. Our anniversary now is even sweeter than it was before infidelity. We made it! We went through the darkest nights and the hottest fires and we are still married! We love each other more deeply now than we ever thought about the day we first said those vows. One of those vows is 'for better or for worse' and the years he was cheating were definitely "worse", but it is part of us, part of our story... We reclaimed the day by renewal. When God rebuilds from broken pieces, from dust, into something whole and beautiful, I think that's a cause to celebrate! I suppose one way would be to look at our marriage as a big picture. The day we got married is part of that picture. It is how the picture began, the first mark on the canvas so to speak. We are still married. We still love each other, in fact, we love each other even more now than we did then. So the beginning is something to celebrate. Without the beginning, we wouldn't be in the present. And the present is something to cherish. Yes, promises were broken. He wasn't faithful... Our beginning is still our beginning. And I still see that as something to celebrate." She went on to say that they chose to renew their vows on their wedding anniversary as part of reclaiming. This was intentional, to not allow the affairs to take her memories of their wedding day - the day that marked their beginning. She explained that for her, both dates hold special memories and that the vow renewal didn't negate the original wedding day, but reaffirmed it. For her and her husband, they remember both events as special in their own way. I thought about what she had said and let it sit with me for a while, not knowing how to feel. I appreciated the analogy of the strokes on the canvas, and considered that in my own life. My feelings change all over the place in this recovery space, as I'd bet many of yours do too. But even then, I could see how thinking back to my wedding could be a good memory woven into the larger picture, rather than just a disappointment that needed to be dismissed and thrown away, never to be mentioned or thought about again. So as we approached our wedding anniversary last year, I actively used this analogy to filter my perspective about it. It didn't suddenly change everything, but it did allow me to consider that I might feel differently someday, which offered hope. As we approached the day, my husband allowed me to lead the way at the pace at which I was comfortable, and I asked him to take the day off from work with me. I did buy a card that year, although even that experience is like wading through a minefield; anniversary cards are generally comprised of a few standard sentiments: faithfulness, loyalty, teamwork, and protection/safety. It's complicated to intertwine sentiment with reality when you're looking through the Hallmark lens at a post-infidelity marriage. I made some plans for us that didn't pan out, partially due to circumstance and partially because I wasn't emotionally ready, but it still was a noticeable step. We ended up going out to lunch with our son, and while not a traditional "anniversary" commemoration, it was still much more than I could have tolerated or envisioned in the first two years, and it felt right. It was a small victory for me, and it offered me optimism for future anniversaries. It was, and still is, important to me that my husband understand how difficult and confusing it is for me to wrestle with the feelings about this occasion, which he does. I want to eventually be able to celebrate it and make it special, but I didn't want him to falsely assume this is easy or that I am "all good" and at peace about it. I'm not. It hurts. But I want to make it better, and it is worth the effort to me to make this special with him. Fast forward, this year held a milestone wedding anniversary for us. While I still experienced a mixture of painful and hopeful feelings about it, I also recognized it is a miracle we are still here together. There have been so many opportunities over the years for either of us to walk away, and I am amazed we didn't give up. So this year, we made reservations and went away for the night. It was... nice. And hard. And beautiful. And painful. And wonderful. And connective. And ironic. And special. And confusing. Sometimes it's hard to know how to feel about it. Isn't that weird? Trying to decide how to feel about something? I'm sure you get it, but it's so strange not to know how to feel. This year was the best wedding anniversary so far since D-Day. "Celebrate" still might not be quite the right word at this point, as it still feels like I - and our marriage - held no value to my husband for a season, but it felt right to honor the day in this season. And the most valuable part to me is that now, we are both able to share honest feelings and tears with each other, and not feel like we have to pretend. The healing process is a series of small steps. The bad times don't negate the good ones, and the good ones don't erase the bad. They are all part of our story. As for the idea of declaring the old marriage dead? I don't exactly agree that happiness in celebrating future anniversaries involves letting go of the past and moving ahead into the future. For me, I am finding it is necessary to incorporate the past to move ahead into the future. It may be semantics, but the thought of "letting go" makes me bristle, and feels inauthentic to me and how I view life. The distinction may not be clear to anyone else as I am expressing it, but it has made a difference in my ability to make shifts when I can. "Letting go" feels forced, but incorporating is more natural as I grow to understand more about what happened, why it happened, who he was, who I was, who "we" were, and what she was (and was not) to him at that time. It's still a work in progress. I don't know if that helps anyone else, but I thought I'd throw it out there. I realize with longing that I will never be able to look back in my old age and say we had a faithful marriage. The facts of the past cannot be altered, and there is such grief in knowing that will never be our story. When I talked to my husband about my struggle with our anniversary, I told him I am not trying to make him feel badly that this day is painful for me. Actually it is the opposite - I want him to see and understand how important it is that I make this special despite the pain. If it was easy, it wouldn't mean that much, so the struggle and effort is actually a positive thing, and demonstrates the value I place on our relationship. We are different people now. We know what our marriage is worth, and we both value it more than we did before. Pain is an effective teacher in that regard. I see us now as a cushion for each other, absorbing one another's failings with kindness and grace that neither of us deserve. I will end with my hope for all of us by sharing the words of my former group leader, "I hope you will someday be able to genuinely celebrate your beginning... and your new beginning."

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Shortly after our D-Day, Gary and Debbie, another couple who were decades into their recovery told us, "You are going to start to see things that other people don't see. You are going to start living at a new level and notice things in other people around you that you never saw before." I remember thinking, "Hmm... I wonder what they mean by that?" I would soon find out. I would discover that very few people would be willing to walk alongside us on that long treacherous path required towards healing. Recovery is messy. I would find that most people prefer to cling to their pretend images, pride, and comfort zones, running for cover every time a storm comes. Indeed, D-Day was just the volcano erupting, setting things in motion. It was the hurricane sweeping through, removing everything and everyone except those fiercely committed to love and transformation. During our darkest days, many of those who we thought of as strong and wise spiritual leaders showed themselves to be nothing more than resounding gongs and clanging cymbals. I'll never forget my in-laws' words: "This is too much. We can't be there for you. You're on your own. Goodbye." The hurricane was sweeping through and they were running for cover because it was too much. These were the parents we had thought were so spiritual and who we had always looked to for guidance. In denial, my husband and I thought, "We'll just attempt to please everyone and keep a nice fake little relationship with them." The problem was, as Gary and Debbie had told us, we couldn't live in that fake world anymore. We couldn't "unsee" truths. The more we tried to cling to old semblances of relationships, the more toxic it became to our marriage. We couldn't drag people down the recovery path with us who didn't want to go. I wish that I could say we learned this lesson quickly, but we kept trying to take them along with us. After struggling for a long time, I finally realized that letting go of toxicity is one of the most important things I will ever do. There was something in me whispering, "Trying to go forward while dragging around people who don't want to grow, is like plowing forward with a bag full of bricks in a pit of quicksand." As I began to observe those around me, I felt so strongly in my heart that so many people in their recovery were hurting themselves because they didn't know how to walk away, how to let go, or how to say "no." Life is a journey. We're constantly making changes, and everything is beautiful in its time. But when it is not in its time anymore, it starts to get ugly. The further forward my husband and I moved in our recovery journey, the more we learned to say "no" and the more we had to face the overwhelming fear of disappointing people who really did not have our backs anyway. It didn't matter what title or position these people had. We walked away from relationships that poisoned our marriage and our souls. One day, I saw a metaphor for what it looked like to travel this hard, narrow path. I saw a city bus continually picking people up and dropping people off. When you are on the bus of life, every place the bus stops, somebody has to get off. Where you are going they are not equipped to go, nor do they want to go. My husband tends to have an easier time letting people off of the bus than I do. I tend to want to keep everyone on the bus, even to my detriment. I've recognized that you can 100% forgive people and still let go. You can forgive and also recognize when someone has made the choice over and over again about the kind of person they will be. You can forgive and stop playing games with those who use "forgiveness" and "compassion" as excuses not to own up to their ongoing toxic behavior. As heartbreaking and awful as it was, we let them go. I think the most important thing I learned from this is that when you are committed to living a life of authenticity and vulnerability, there may be relationships that can't go with you. Letting go is not a weakness, but rather a strength. Letting people off at the next bus stop may ultimately be the blessing in disguise that moves you to embrace freedom and become your truly brave and authentic self.