Twenty-eight years old. That’s how old I was when my entire world flipped upside down. It’s the age I was when the layers of lies I’d been living under—some I knowingly accepted, others I hadn’t even realized—finally collapsed around me. It wasn’t until I reached that breaking point that I began to feel truly whole. That was the moment I surrendered myself fully to Jesus. He tells me I was worth the wait—and so are countless other pieces of my story.
I had been dating my ex-husband for only three months when I discovered I was pregnant. I wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened; he’d told me he was sterile. Yet when I told him, his reaction was kind, supportive, and full of love. He said the right words at the right moment, and I clung to them, choosing to overlook the fact that his story didn’t add up.
I did that often with him—ignoring the red flags, dismissing instincts that whispered warnings. After all, he was sweet to me, and he was the father of my child. Everything happened so fast. What else was I supposed to do?
So, I stayed. I ignored my better judgment, as well as the concerns of my family. We married just a week shy of our first son’s first birthday. By then, the honeymoon phase had long passed. Even so, I kept ignoring what my heart knew was wrong. I had become very good at it.
For some who have experienced abuse, it’s like a switch flips overnight. That wasn’t my experience. My pain and fear crept in gradually, almost imperceptibly. He made me feel small. He yelled, screamed, and intimidated me—but always came back later to apologize, claiming he was wrong. I thought he just needed time to come around. But I lived on eggshells, never knowing what could trigger his next outburst. I lived in constant fear, anticipating the day his anger might escalate further.
Over time, I began believing the lies he told—not only about himself but about me. I wasn’t good enough, never grateful enough, incapable of finding anyone better. And while I couldn’t articulate it fully, I knew our marriage wasn’t right. But I had made vows, and so, when he suggested having another child, I said yes. In my memory, the first pregnancy had been full of sweetness, and I longed to return to that place. By our first anniversary, I was pregnant again.
But nothing improved. Slowly, almost without realizing it, he isolated me from friends and family, pulling me away from the people who might have seen the truth. Worse yet, I began lying for him. I was ashamed of the abuse, embarrassed at how poorly I had been treated, and I pretended to have a happy marriage. I lived for the rare moments when he was overwhelmingly sweet, a brief hit of love that made the fear, lies, and manipulation almost bearable. Those moments, though, became fewer and further between.
By our second anniversary, I started searching for Christian marriage counselors. God had been softening my heart for two years through new experiences—meeting a Christian business coach, finding a new church, spending more time in the Word and prayer, asking Him to grow my heart. I didn’t yet realize that He was preparing me for a turning point, surrounding me with a community who would be pivotal to my healing. By that time, I was 28, unaware that my life was about to change in ways I could never have imagined.
Before I could even suggest counseling, things took a sharp turn. He admitted to being an addict and an alcoholic. He began shutting me out—leaving the house after work, returning only in the early morning, refusing to come to bed. He said he needed space to “sort things out.” A week later, he sat me down and told me he wanted out, admitting he had married me for the wrong reasons and had never truly been happy.
The divorce was brutal—the worst year of my life. He agreed to things, then changed his mind days before hearings. He used guilt to manipulate me. I remember telling my dad how beaten down I felt, and he replied, “That’s because you have been. Maybe not physically, but emotionally.” It hit me like a lightning bolt—I had been in an abusive marriage, and I hadn’t even realized it. How is that even possible?
The next several years were dedicated to healing while raising my two young children, who were 3 and 1 when the divorce finalized. I sought counseling, immersed myself in church and Bible study, listened to podcasts, read books on abuse, and for the first time read the Bible all the way through. It was a season of restoration, and God’s faithfulness was evident in every step. His timing, in every moment, was perfect—even when it was invisible to me.
I did everything I could to shield my children from the pain, creating traditions, routines, and memories that were positive and loving. We built a new normal, and when they reflect on those years now, that is what they remember. Yet they also know it was challenging for me, as a single mother.
I dated a few men over the years, but nothing serious enough to introduce them to my boys—until I met a man from our church. He had a similar story, a recently divorced father with a daughter. From the start, I knew he was different. I had prayed for years, asking God that if a true Christian marriage was His will, He would bring it into my life. Meeting this man felt like a resounding “yes” to that prayer.
God began creating beauty from our ashes almost immediately. We quickly recognized the redemption story He was writing for us. We talked in August, started dating in November, told our kids in January, got engaged in May, and married in August—exactly one year from when we first started talking. We called it our grace marriage.
Of course, marriage isn’t perfect, and blended families are never without challenges. We had disagreements, stress, and the complexities of blending households. Within months of marriage, we discovered I was pregnant with our son—our fourth child collectively—right in the middle of a pandemic. I left my job to stay home with him, transitioned to homeschooling our older boys, and navigated court battles with my boys’ biological father. In a single year, I went from a working single mom of two to a married, homeschooling, stay-at-home mom of four. It was a whirlwind, but God carried us through.
Even now, we are a work in progress. Blending families takes time—3 to 5 years on average—and we’re still learning, growing, and adapting. But we are rooted in Christ, committed to love, respect, and honor each other as a reflection of Him. Our children feel loved, supported, and secure, and our family thrives amidst imperfection.
Blending is sanctifying, hard, and beautiful. When I reflect on where my boys and I started at the beginning of the divorce, the healing we’ve experienced, and the joy that now fills our home, my heart overflows. God continues to craft a testimony of redemption from our story, and I pray that anyone who reads this and relates finds hope and restoration in their own journey.
