There comes a point in life when you finally realize you cannot keep carrying everything.
Not because you don’t love your family enough. Not because you aren’t trying hard enough. Not because you’ve given up on the things you’ve spent so much time praying for.
But because you’ve reached the end of yourself.
That is where I found myself.
My physical health, my mental health, my marriage, my children, our home, our finances. Every area of my life seemed to be carrying a weight of its own, and I was trying so hard to hold everything together that I didn’t even realize how tightly I was holding on.
I wanted to protect my family. I wanted to protect my heart. I wanted to make sure that if everything fell apart, I would somehow be prepared to survive it.
And then we reached a moment in our marriage when the only outcome I could see was my husband packing his things and walking out the door.
I was at my breaking point.
I had spent so much time trying to hold everything together, trying to fix what was broken, trying to make things turn out the way I needed them to, that I finally reached a place where I had nothing left to give.
So I surrendered.
Not the kind of surrender where you stop caring. Not the kind where you stop praying for your marriage or stop believing that God can restore what has been broken.
I mean the kind of surrender that happens when you finally open your hands and admit that you cannot do this on your own.
I began praying over everything.
My health. My mind. My husband. My children. Our home. Our finances. Our future.
I asked God to take what I could no longer carry. I asked Him to handle the things I had been desperately trying to control.
And in the stillness that followed, in the uncertainty and the waiting, God began showing me something I hadn’t fully seen before.
He began showing me me.
When I Was So Busy Hurting That I Couldn’t See His Hurt
I wanted my husband to choose me.
I wanted him to see my pain, understand my fears, reassure my heart, and make me feel secure in the very place where I had become so afraid of losing everything.
I wanted to know that he was staying. That he loved me. That our family mattered enough for him to keep choosing us.
But somewhere along the way, my desire to be chosen became a desperate attempt to control the outcome.
I wanted reassurance, but I was reaching for it through fear.
I wanted closeness, but my reactions were creating distance.
I wanted him to hear my hurt, but I wasn’t always making room to hear his.
I was so overwhelmed by my own emotions that I couldn’t see how deeply he was hurting, too.
We had reached a place where communication had become tangled in our pain. Words were misunderstood. Intentions were questioned. Conversations that should have brought us closer seemed to leave us feeling even further apart.
We were both hurting, and we were both longing for the same thing.
To be chosen.
I thought his distance meant he was rejecting me. I thought the space between us meant he was preparing to leave me behind.
But I am beginning to understand that I wasn’t the only one who needed to feel wanted, heard, and loved.
He was hurting, too.
And while I was desperately trying to get him to choose me, I wasn’t always recognizing the ways my own fear was making it harder for him to feel chosen by me.
I can see now how easily two hurting people can end up fighting against each other when, underneath all the frustration and misunderstanding, they are both longing to be loved by the person standing right in front of them.
We weren’t always fighting because we didn’t love each other.
Sometimes we were reacting because we were afraid of losing each other.
And fear has a way of making us hurt the very people we are trying so desperately to hold on to.
The Apology I Didn’t Know I Needed to Make
One of the hardest parts of this process has been allowing God to show me the places where I have contributed to the hurt.
It is easy to focus on the things that have wounded us. It is easy to replay the moments when we felt abandoned, rejected, misunderstood, or alone.
It is much harder to sit quietly before God and ask Him to show us the ways we have wounded someone else.
I had to come to my husband and ask him to forgive me.
Not because my pain wasn’t real. Not because everything that had happened was suddenly okay. Not because I was responsible for every struggle in our marriage.
But because my hurt did not give me permission to overlook his.
I had to acknowledge the ways my reactions, my fear, and my need to control the outcome had affected him.
I had to recognize that I could be so focused on protecting myself from being hurt again that I was hurting the person I wanted to be close to.
That realization humbled me.
I am still learning that taking responsibility for my part does not mean carrying responsibility for everything. It means being willing to let God change the things in me that need changing, even when it is uncomfortable.
I cannot change my husband for him.
I cannot heal his heart for him.
I cannot make his decisions for him.
But I can take responsibility for my own heart. I can ask for forgiveness. I can learn to listen. I can choose a different response. I can allow God to work in me instead of spending all my energy trying to control what He needs to work out in someone else.
And sometimes, that is where surrender begins.
I Was Preparing for His Absence While He Was Still Here
This is something God has been revealing to me that I don’t think I fully understood until now.
I had been living as though I needed to prepare for the moment my husband might leave.
I was holding tightly to our home, our finances, and the responsibility of making sure I could manage everything if I had to do it alone.
I thought I was protecting my family.
I thought I was being responsible.
And some of that desire came from a very real fear of being left to carry everything by myself.
But somewhere along the way, preparing for his absence began affecting how I received his presence.
I was so busy trying to make sure I could survive without him that I wasn’t fully allowing myself to enjoy the moments when he was here.
I was holding on to control because I was afraid of what would happen if I let go.
And I began to see how that might have made my husband feel.
How could he feel trusted to provide if I was always preparing for the day he wouldn’t?
How could he feel welcomed as a husband if I was already bracing myself to become the person who had to do everything alone?
How could we build something together if I was always trying to protect myself from the possibility of losing it?
I had been trying to control the ending because I was terrified of being blindsided by it.
But in doing so, I was struggling to live in the middle of the story.
The part where my husband was still here.
The part where he was still making choices.
The part where there was still an opportunity for us to learn, to grow, to forgive, and to rebuild.
I cannot guarantee that tomorrow will look the way I hope it will.
But I do not want to spend today preparing for a loss that has not happened.
Today, my husband is home. Today, he wants to be here. Today, he wants to provide for our family and step into his role in our home.
And I am learning to receive that without demanding a guarantee about tomorrow.
I am learning that I can be wise and responsible without allowing fear to govern every decision I make.
I can have faith without needing to control every outcome.
I can love my husband in the present instead of constantly preparing my heart for his absence.
He Chooses Me Even in My Brokenness
There was a moment when I became triggered by something my husband did.
My response came from a place of hurt, fear, and things in my past that I am still learning to work through. For a moment, I was no longer responding to the safety of the present. I was reacting to the pain of what I had experienced before.
I pushed him away.
But he stayed at a distance and made sure I was safe.
He gave me room to ground myself, to find my way back to the present, and to come out of that overwhelmed place.
And when I was able to settle, he was still there.
That moment meant something to me.
Because sometimes the people who love us are standing in front of us, trying to reach us, while our pain makes it difficult to recognize that we are no longer in the situation that first taught us to be afraid.
I am learning that being triggered does not mean I have failed. It means there is something in me that still needs care, understanding, and healing.
And I am learning that my husband and I can approach those moments differently.
We can learn what helps me feel grounded. We can learn how to communicate when emotions become overwhelming. We can learn to recognize when fear is speaking louder than the present moment.
We do not have to get everything right to begin doing things differently.
In that moment, I saw something I needed to remember.
He chose me even when I was struggling.
He chose me even when I wasn’t at my best.
He chose me even when I was having difficulty receiving the love he was trying to show me.
And I realized that perhaps love isn’t always demonstrated in the perfect words or the perfect response.
Sometimes it looks like giving someone space while still making sure they are safe.
Sometimes it looks like waiting for the person you love to find their footing again.
Sometimes it looks like staying present without forcing a moment that the other person isn’t ready for.
We are still learning. We are still healing. But that moment reminded me that our hardest moments do not have to define our entire story.
I Cannot Make Him Choose Me
This is one of the hardest lessons I am learning.
I cannot make my husband choose me.
I cannot force him to love me in a particular way, reach a particular realization, heal on my timeline, or become the husband I hope he will be by trying harder to control the outcome.
I can ask. I can communicate. I can express my needs. I can set boundaries. I can pray for him and love him.
But I cannot make his choices for him.
And as painful as that truth can feel, there is freedom in it.
Because if I cannot control his choices, I do not have to spend every moment trying to anticipate them.
I do not have to interpret every difficult conversation as the beginning of the end.
I do not have to treat every moment of distance as proof that I am about to be abandoned.
I can stop trying to force an answer out of every uncertain moment and begin trusting God with the things I cannot see.
I can choose to love my husband without making his response the measure of my worth.
I can choose to show up for our marriage while allowing him the freedom to show up for it, too.
And I can remember that even when another person struggles to choose me the way I need to be chosen, my worth has not disappeared.
Before my husband ever chose me, God knew me.
Before I ever became a wife or a mother, I was His creation.
My identity is not determined by whether someone else understands me perfectly, loves me perfectly, or chooses me perfectly.
I am still worthy of love. I am still worthy of care. I am still a woman God is working on.
And I do not have to earn my worth by making myself impossible to leave.
I can be loved without controlling.
I can be present without constantly preparing for loss.
I can surrender without giving up hope.
When We Both Came Broken
There was a point when we both had to come to each other differently.
Not with another argument to win. Not with another list of everything the other person had done wrong. Not with the expectation that one conversation would suddenly erase all the hurt.
We had to come honestly.
We had to acknowledge that we had both been wounded, that we had both contributed to the distance between us, and that we both had things to work on.
We had to recognize that underneath the anger, the fear, the frustration, and the misunderstandings, we were two people who wanted to know that we still mattered to each other.
We both wanted to be chosen.
And there was something powerful about being able to say, in the middle of our brokenness, that we wanted to choose each other.
Not because we suddenly had everything figured out.
Not because we knew exactly how every problem would be resolved.
But because we were willing to begin again with softer hearts and a different understanding of what we had been doing to each other.
We began to understand that sometimes one of us would have to carry a little more of the emotional weight in a difficult moment while the other found their way back.
Sometimes one of us would need patience.
Sometimes one of us would need to listen instead of defend.
Sometimes love would mean remembering what we promised each other when the emotions of the moment made it difficult to remember why we were fighting for our marriage in the first place.
And sometimes we would need to say, “I am hurting, but I still choose you.”
There may be moments when one of us struggles to feel that choice. There may be days when old fears return and we have to remind ourselves of what we are trying to build.
But we are learning that we do not have to let every difficult moment become a verdict on our entire marriage.
We can pause.
We can listen.
We can take responsibility.
We can repair what we have damaged.
And we can keep learning how to love each other in ways that make room for both of us to feel safe, heard, and valued.
In the Waiting, I Am Learning to Be Grateful
I wish I could say that everything is fixed now.
I wish I could say that every fear has disappeared, every wound has healed, and every uncertainty has been replaced with peace.
But that would not be the truth.
We are still in the process of working through things. There are still areas of our lives where we need God’s provision. There are still things we need to learn, conversations we need to have, and wounds that will take time to heal.
I am still learning how to release control when fear tells me to take it back.
I am still learning how to recognize when I am reacting to my past instead of responding to the present.
I am still learning how to trust without demanding that I know exactly what tomorrow will bring.
But something has changed.
I am no longer trying to carry every outcome by myself.
I am learning to pray instead of panic.
To listen instead of immediately defend.
To pause instead of react.
To love instead of trying to control.
And when I find myself questioning my husband’s love, I am learning to pray for him instead of letting fear make decisions for me.
I can pray for his heart. I can pray for his healing. I can pray for wisdom in his role as my husband and in our family.
I can pray for our marriage without pretending that I am responsible for fixing every part of it.
I can ask God to provide for our family without trying to predict every possible financial crisis.
I can ask Him to help me care for my physical and mental health without expecting myself to be strong enough to carry everything alone.
I can place my children, my home, my husband, and my future in His hands.
And then I can breathe.
I can be grateful for what is here today, even while I am still praying for what we need tomorrow.
Because gratitude does not require a perfect life.
Faith does not require that I understand everything God is doing.
And peace does not have to wait until every circumstance changes.
Sometimes peace begins when I stop demanding that I have all the answers before I allow myself to rest.
I Am in the Waiting
There is a verse in Scripture that keeps coming to mind:
“Be still, and know that I am God.” — Psalm 46:10
Be still.
Not fix everything.
Not figure out every possible outcome.
Not make everyone understand.
Not carry every responsibility, anticipate every loss, and prepare for every disappointment.
Be still.
And know that He is God.
I am learning that surrender is not the same as doing nothing. It means doing my part while allowing God to handle what belongs to Him.
I can work on my heart.
I can apologize when I am wrong.
I can learn to communicate differently.
I can love my husband and make room for him to love me.
I can be responsible with our finances while allowing him room to contribute and provide.
I can care for my children and my home without believing that everything will fall apart if I am not controlling every detail.
I can take the next right step without needing to see the entire road ahead.
And then I can wait.
Wait for God to continue working in our hearts.
Wait for healing to take root in places that have been hurting for a long time.
Wait for wisdom and provision.
Wait for the kind of change that cannot be forced, rushed, or manufactured by my own hands.
I cannot make my husband heal on my timeline. I cannot make every part of our marriage feel secure overnight. I cannot guarantee that tomorrow will be easy.
But I can trust God with today.
I can choose to love the man who is here with me today.
I can choose to stop treating every uncertain moment as though it is already a loss.
I can choose to be present in my own life instead of living in fear of what might happen next.
And when fear rises again, as I know it sometimes will, I can return to the truth that I am not carrying this family alone.
God is here in the waiting, too.
Not just in the breakthrough.
Not just in the answered prayer.
Not just when the marriage is restored, the finances are stable, the health is better, and every piece of the puzzle finally makes sense.
He is here in the middle.
In the uncomfortable conversations.
In the apologies.
In the moments when I have to acknowledge that I was wrong.
In the quiet days when nothing seems to be changing.
In the uncertainty of not knowing what comes next.
He is here.
And for now, that is where I am choosing to rest.
I am releasing what I cannot control.
I am taking responsibility for what I can.
I am choosing to love without trying to force an outcome.
I am choosing to be grateful, even while I am still waiting.
I am choosing to trust that God can work in the middle of the mess, even when I cannot yet see what He is making of it.
I am stepping back, opening my hands, and allowing myself to rest in His care.
I do not have all the answers.
I am not at the finish line.
I am still healing. We are still learning. Our story is still being written.
But I am no longer trying to write every ending myself.
I am in the waiting.
And in the waiting, I am learning to surrender.
In the waiting, I am learning to love.
In the waiting, I am learning to trust.
And in the waiting, I am learning to be grateful.
Because even when life feels uncertain, even when everything seems to be falling apart, and even when I cannot see what God is doing, I can still place it all in His hands.
For now, I will do my part, love the people He has placed in my life, and trust Him with the rest.
I am still becoming.
And God is not finished with us yet.
-Megan
