The night I found out the truth about my marriage is one I’ll never forget. Our new living room was cluttered with moving boxes and packing paper. I had just come from the pool with my daughters, and the cool water hadn’t been enough to clear the fog I felt. Revelations had been trickling forth for days. My husband and I had planned to talk after the girls went to sleep. Deep within, I knew something big was coming as the truth was uncovered.

Each summer, as the anniversary of that night nears, I reflect on what life was like before and all that has transpired since. This past year was year six. Coincidentally, we were traveling to a city he had visited with his affair partner, and old memories stirred. I began to think about what I needed to hear back then—what might have carried me through those first painful steps.

If I could go back to that summer night and speak to the woman whose heart split wide open, I’d whisper these six truths I’ve come to believe in the six years since.

His choices weren’t a reflection of me.
After D-Day, I first blamed my husband, which was warranted and natural. But soon, that blame turned inward.

"This wouldn't have happened if I were enough. If I were smarter. Younger. More desirable. Had my life together. If only..."

This thinking blurred the lines of responsibility. My body felt betrayal trauma full force, and my mind spiraled, replaying old conversations and studying myself like a crime scene. I picked apart flaws, convinced they were the cause of it all.

But the truth was simple: My imperfections didn’t cause his betrayal. His choices were about him, not me.

Betrayal is a different kind of grief.
This grief felt unlike any I had known. Four years before D-Day, I lost a loved one. When that happened, an army of friends showed up, offering space to talk. Death produces a grief most people understand.

But betrayal grief is different.

It’s disenfranchised, and the kind society doesn’t fully acknowledge. There are no rituals, no casseroles from a neighbor in black, no bereavement leave. I had people in my corner, but those who hadn’t experienced this kind of grief could only offer so much. It was messy, tangled with shame and blame, and often left others unsure how to respond.

It lived differently in my body, too. It didn't sit heavy on my chest like death grief. It simmered beneath my skin, surfacing without warning. I kept trying to grieve it the same way—through talking and tears—but it wouldn't move.

Only when I accepted that betrayal grief required its own terrain could I begin to move forward. Until then, it felt like an invisible choke collar.

Taking care of myself was worth it.
Before the rupture, I was well-versed in caring for others: my kids, my husband, family, and friends. But caring for myself felt foreign. I was used to placing my own needs behind everyone else's.

Betrayal jolted me awake. I could no longer ignore how overextending myself—back-bending and contorting to keep others comfortable—was depleting my energy, well-being, and sanity.

At first, tending to myself felt selfish. I had so deeply identified as a caregiver that I didn't know where to begin. But slowly, I learned what my spirit and body needed. It began with small, non-negotiable acts: resting for 15 minutes, nourishing myself with foods that love me back, walking outdoors. I also sought communities that valued honest conversation.

Learning to care for myself became a cornerstone of my recovery.

Expect healing to be nonlinear.
Every book, article, and podcast I turned to echoed the same truth: healing is a long and non-linear journey.

For someone who prefers a clear path through discomfort, this was disorienting news. I wanted steps, markers, and a timeline—assurance that with each passing day, the pain would lessen.

But I also knew something about myself that’s been true since childhood: I’ve always been drawn to overcomers. Some days, I felt sure I’d be one of them. Then, two hours later, I’d be curled in a corner, sobbing, wondering how my life included infidelity.

The emotional whiplash was real. The pendulum of hope and despair left me exhausted. I often questioned whether I was actually healing or just circling the same drain.

But once I stopped rushing the process and accepted that healing comes in waves–not straight lines—I began to meet myself with more grace and compassion.

The words of Robert Frost proved true: “The only way out is through.”

I have agency in my recovery.
In my Harboring Hope group, we talked about how recovery was a full-time job—and that we had agency in how we chose to pursue it. When so much felt out of my hands, I clung to this truth.

Even as my husband made his own recovery choices, I began choosing what was best for me. An older friend reminded me: when I change, everyone around me changes. As my responses shifted, so did his.

I began to see the value of my own healing. My growth and resilience weren’t tied to his timeline. The most important change was within me. And I realized I had a choice: this experience could either diminish me or slowly become a catalyst for growth.

Owning my recovery gave me back my footing. I could reclaim my sense of self, move forward, and keep healing—regardless of what he chose to do.

I can hold joy and sorrow at the same time.

I once heard it’s essential to surround ourselves with as much beauty as possible during trauma recovery. I found myself craving it—the way trees bend with the wind, the warmth of sun on my skin, sunrises sprawling across the sky, and the sound of my daughters' laughter. These small moments offered calm and grounding.

Therapist and author Deb Dana calls them glimmers—small moments of safety that help bring the nervous system into balance. As I began to notice and chase these glimmers, I discovered something surprising: I could hold both joy and sorrow at once.

Beauty didn’t erase the grief I carried, but it widened my view. There was more to my life than the pain of betrayal. Learning this didn’t mean the sorrow vanished. It meant I no longer let it define my story.

Six years later, these truths are no longer distant lessons. They’ve become companions, guiding me in ways both subtle and profound. And if you’re standing where I once stood, heartbroken and uncertain, know that healing may not come as quickly or clearly as you’d like, but it does come. One truth at a time.