Does He Know?
Partners hurt each other throughout relationships—it’s inevitable. Every couple faces it, because no relationship is perfect.
The love we hold for one another is often what helps us endure, heal, and, if we’re willing, grow stronger together so the relationship can remain intact.
Before I step into some very heavy feelings, I want to pause and acknowledge something important: I know without a doubt that my person loves me and is in love with me. That truth anchors me. But sometimes the hurt we cause others is difficult to face. Sometimes the lies we tell are easier to bury than to admit. And sometimes guilt or shame feels safer to ignore than to confront. I know all of these things are true for my person. So here I am, in my own shell, protecting myself by living in truth, leading with faith, and choosing forgiveness for what has been done to me—while also being cautious about what I allow to continue to hurt me.
Doing the next right thing doesn’t erase the involuntary way my mind still drifts back to places of trauma. I often find myself moving through the day with a quiet undercurrent of fear. And while I’m on this incredible journey of self-growth and healing, I also recognize that my person doesn’t fully understand the moment-by-moment struggle it takes for me to push through each trigger, doubt, or insecurity.
I'm sure all of us have experienced things that have hurt us and often set up ways to make sure that we do not get hurt the same way again. Think about it, we have touched a hot pan and shouted profanities but then next time we usually remember to grab pot holders to protect ourselves from the 'trauma' we encountered before. That inner dialogue of how to handle those experiences can sometimes be unbearably intrusive, and I wanted to offer what it feels like to wrestle with (or endure) that dialogue every moment, every step, and every day as I keep moving forward.
I’ve shared before that the first few seconds of my day are filled with innocent oblivion—the quiet before my reality crashes in. I load the car to head to the gym, which feels like the most normal part of my day because it’s something I’ve always done, even before this storm. I was used to waking up with the other side of the bed empty—ships passing in the night.
But it hits me on the drive, in the dark, early morning hours. I glance at my phone, wondering if they texted me (us) after we fell asleep. At the gym, while I try to focus on my routine, I can’t resist checking my phone to see if a notification popped up. I know they’re awake. I know what time they need to be at work. And yet, my mind swirls with questions: Did they miss us last night? Am I the first thing they think of? Is our little person the first thing on their mind? Does their heart ache like mine, just waiting to read the words: “Good morning. Miss you. How’s our little person?” Or are they wondering if we’ll text first? I set my phone aside and start my “hardest thing I do every day,” pushing those thoughts down.
After the workout high, I cautiously check again—looking for signs that I still matter, that we still matter. Whatever’s on that screen sets the tone for how strong I’ll need to be for the rest of the day. Most mornings, there’s a message asking about our night or morning. I hesitate. Is it genuine? Or just obligatory?
The morning routine has always been mine to handle, and I lean into it so I don’t feel alone. But then comes the sting: a rejected request for a phone call to daddy, or my attempt to send a picture before drop-off dismissed with a grumpy tone. My little person usually melts into hugs and kisses, softening the sting—but he doesn’t realize his refusal denies my person, who’s already broken, and also denies me an excuse to just hear their voice. As I watch him walk confidently into school, my eyes fill with tears. This is my time—sometimes the only time I have to release the pain I’ve been holding in. Some mornings it’s silence, others a song, but the 45-minute drive in traffic becomes a stream of painful reflection: What did I do so wrong? I miss him so much. He loves me… he loves me not.
I try to drown it out—scrolling Instagram, browsing Amazon, even clearing spam emails while driving (I know, I know). Anything to keep my mind from wandering back to the same place: What is he doing? Who is he texting? Is it me, or someone else?
When I finally make it to work, I’m grateful for the distraction. The busier the day, the better. But some days aren’t so kind.
On those days, I’m like the character in He’s Just Not That Into You, staring at her phone, desperate for a message. With boundaries now in place, shouldn’t I be past this? Shouldn’t silence mean respect? Maybe. But my heart still aches every minute of every day to be chosen.
The times they’re vulnerable—when they open up with words of regret, love, and desire—are my kryptonite. I know it, and yet I still give in. I tell myself it’s grace, that I’m supporting their process, but part of me knows it’s also at the cost of my own heart.
And then there are the “normal” days: few texts, maybe a call, sometimes conversations I choose not to engage in because of my boundaries. But inside, I’m wrestling. Thoughts swirl: Are they busy? Bored? Distracted with someone else? It’s like the characters in Inside Out are all running around in my head, arguing at once. How do I process all of that while onboarding a new customer or leading a meeting? How can I function on the outside while on the inside I’m asking, Why am I not enough to fight for?
I try to ground myself in note-taking for blogs, reading inspirational quotes, whispering daily prayers. These moments quiet the noise, but the ache always lingers in the background.
The drive home is another test. My work family fuels me with encouragement, and I’ll turn on a podcast or a show to enjoy some “me” time. But then the messages start. Sometimes it’s casual check-ins, sometimes requests for me to encourage our little person to call. I always say I’ll try. But beneath that, I’m bracing—because I know even well-meaning calls can trigger my exhausted mind.
After-care pick-up is bittersweet. I put on a smile, bracing myself to give my little person the best version of me, even when my chest feels tight. His hugs and excitement carry me, but the drive home is laced with anxiety. I pass the grocery store where I’ve been told they’ve been spotted with someone else. I force my eyes forward like I’m driving past a wreck on the interstate. Then the five-way intersection—every day, I wonder if it’s safe to take this route. Living a mile apart, I’ve already seen things I can’t unsee. Avoiding their street, I hold my breath, scanning for the dog-walking distraction my little person once called “daddy’s friend.” Relief only comes when I pull into my driveway—safe, but not whole. His things aren’t here. He isn’t here.
Inside, I bury myself in the routines: homework, dinner, lunches for tomorrow. In those motherly moments, I can finally set the phone down, stop obsessively checking, and focus on what matters most—my purpose.
But still, there are the FaceTime requests, the calls at inconvenient times, the attempts at casual conversation. I cringe writing this, but every call gets filtered through an imaginary microscope: Where are they? Who’s nearby? Why now? They may think they’re respecting my boundaries—and maybe they are—but they don’t see the exhaustion of a mind that’s been fighting itself all day.
Even at night, when we FaceTime before bed, I hold back. Not to be cruel, but because my person—my lost, hurt person—isn’t safe for me. Not yet. And yet, when I see they’re calling from outside, my heart can’t help but wonder: Is someone inside? When they say they’re going for a run, it cuts deep. I spent 13 years longing for a running partner, and now I wonder—did they finally find one, with someone else?
My heart still secretly longs for those late-night messages—the ones that admit how hard this is for them, how much they love me, how much they miss me. They don’t always come, but I hold onto the belief that those feelings remain. I trust that God is working on their heart just as He worked on mine—pulling the weeds, revealing the truths, and teaching them how to love in the way He designed: the right way, the godly way.
When I finally lay my head down, trying to close my eyes, the tears inevitably come. They carry all the feelings my mind has spent the day protecting me from. I’m grateful for the days without triggers, but I also feel the weight of how exhausting it is to spend my energy on protections. That energy could be poured into showing my person just how deeply I love them—if they choose healing, if they choose growth, if they choose true love. Not a perfect love, but a love that is honest, flawed, and real.
As I drift off to sleep, I know that tomorrow I’ll wake up and begin this protective process all over again—still reflecting, still healing, little by little each day. And maybe, one day, I won’t have to think twice about what grocery store I walk into, what street I drive down, or how I feel when the phone rings—because they’ll already be home. Our home.
I hope my person gains a deeper understanding of why I set my boundaries, why I’m emotional and cautious. I don’t offer this to punish, but to invite grace and comprehension—that every step I take is scary and painful, even with the amazing self-growth I’ve experienced over these last months.
