From Shadows to Truth: Learning to Live in the Light
In the many months of my healing journey, I’ve learned countless lessons that have inspired me to keep pushing forward—through struggle, frustration, and tears.
I usually find my way back to peace, but there’s one part of this journey that still rubs me the wrong way. No matter how many Bible verses I read, I still don’t understand:
How can people not see?
How can they not see the truth?
Why do they still choose not to believe what’s right in front of them?
At first, I told myself it must be fear, hurt, or shame—and maybe that’s still part of it. But my heart kept searching for a better explanation, something that could make sense of what felt like such deep injustice.
One day in therapy, as I poured this out, my therapist shared an incredible story with me: Plato’s Allegory of the Cave.
I can’t take credit for this—it’s a simple summary I pulled together from online sources:
Plato tells a story called The Allegory of the Cave. Imagine people chained inside a dark cave since birth. They can’t move, can’t turn their heads—only stare at a wall in front of them. Behind them, a fire burns, and when people walk by carrying objects, the prisoners only see the shadows those objects cast on the wall. To them, those shadows are reality, because it’s all they’ve ever known.
Now picture one prisoner being set free. At first, the light is blinding, even painful. But slowly, their eyes adjust, and they see the real world for the first time—colors, shapes, people, even the sun. Everything they thought was real before—the shadows—was only an illusion.
Here’s the hard part: when the freed prisoner goes back to the cave to tell the others what’s true, they don’t believe him. They cling to the shadows because stepping into the light feels too uncomfortable, too disruptive to the world they’ve always known.
Looking back from the first time I heard this story to now, its meaning hits me even deeper.
I was a prisoner in a cave, and so was my husband, believing our marriage was just something to endure. I thought the pain and confusion were my fault—that I had done something “wrong.” Like so many, I saw only the shadows on the wall and mistook them for reality.
Aren’t we supposed to go through these motions? Sacrifice ourselves? Accept this as normal?
A ring on your finger changes everything. What was once simple and free now comes with ties—“for better or worse.” But what if someone chooses to cut those ties, even in the “worse”?
I couldn’t control the future or the speed at which my new reality hit me. The only thing I could control was me: my healing, my growth, my journey back into the light.
I escaped the cave back into the light by choosing faith, forgiveness, and love. Choosing to live that way every day hasn’t been easy. But with each painful, blinding flash of reality, I began to see my growth and healing more clearly—just like the freed prisoner in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, whose eyes had to adjust to the sunlight after a lifetime of shadows.
Walking into the light for the first time, I instinctively covered my eyes, shielding myself from what was happening—but nothing could hide the truth: my marriage was ending, and there seemed to be nothing I could do about it.
Why? What went wrong?
That kind of blinding light often sparks anger, a temptation to cast blame—“It’s too bright!”—blaming the sun for its brilliance.
It shocked me into accountability. While I would never take ownership for someone else’s actions, I had to open my eyes and honestly see how I contributed to the unraveling. When the inevitable hits with no way to stop it, you really have to look inward.
After the self-pity—“I’m not loving enough, I nagged too much, I didn’t create enough intimate moments to keep them close”—I realized none of that was the whole truth.
No matter what, there were things I could have done differently, lessons I needed to learn for myself.
Stepping outside the cave, the light brought clarity:
I often heard, “I’m not happy,” and instinctively went into super-wife mode—extra intimate moments, forced positivity, holding my opinions close. These tactics worked temporarily, but only until my unmet needs began to show through.
I couldn’t express my wants or desires without being labeled ungrateful or nagging. My biggest ask—to feel prioritized, to be put first—was never met. That lack, compounded over time, built up a subtle resentment that likely seeped into every conversation, every disagreement, making them feel inadequate or not enough.
I now see that my attempts to create the “perfect marriage” were driven by my childhood. I was determined to do everything opposite of my parents’ mistakes, thinking that would guarantee success. But we weren’t them—and trying to mold us in reaction to their failures only hurt us.
I needed to stop fighting the past and start being fully present: present for myself and present for my person. They needed me to listen, to take the “I’m not happy” conversations without personal offense, and to truly invest in our relationship instead of operating on autopilot.
I never wanted more kids or marriage until I met my person. Yet the moment I said “I do,” I unknowingly set myself up for comparison to the flawed example I grew up with. What I should have done was see us for who we were, allow us to function in the ways that worked best for us—not simply as a reaction against the past.
Outside of letting my parents’ marriage heavily influence how I operated in my own, I also had to face the light of my own flaws.
We all have them, but until you’re forced into self-reflection, it’s easy to just believe the shadows—or in my case, to shrug and say, “that’s just who I am.”
I am opinionated, loving, loyal, passionate, and strong-willed—a bold personality that can be hard to live with day to day, especially in marriage. I used to believe everything was either right or wrong, black or white. I thrived on constant movement, achievement, and pushing forward, which made me cast judgment on others who didn’t keep up. To me, slower often looked like lazy.
While I was proud of my drive and determination, my judgments and criticisms often misrepresented my true heart.
The light revealed that choosing to withhold judgment, to practice forgiveness, to leave it to God, and to simply do the next right thing was how I could begin softening those sharp edges.
Over time, my heart shifted. Compassion grew in places where pride once lived. I began showing love even to those who may not have deserved it. Leading with truth, but tempered by compassion, became a source of deep healing.
Even when bad things still happen—when my heart feels strangled by a rope—I can now hold onto this: the self-awareness that I am becoming better. Not perfect, but better. And that process, that growth, makes me feel purposeful.
I’ve experienced the same struggle as the freed prisoner returning to the cave. I’ve wanted to say,
“Hey, I’m not perfect, but this life outside the cave is worth it. It’s painful, but it’s also beautiful and healing.”
Yes, people look at me like I’m crazy when I show forgiveness or loyalty to someone they would have written off. But they’re still living in the shadows. They might believe change is possible, but they’re unwilling—or too afraid—to step into it for themselves.
I find myself praying most for those who don’t believe—for the ones who can’t yet see that the light, while painful at first, brings real freedom and healing.
It makes me think of little kids learning to swim. Some are terrified to jump in the deep end, but once they do, they come up laughing, telling their friends how amazing it was. Did it sting when water went up their nose? Sure. Were they scared? Absolutely. But they also discovered the joy of knowing they can survive in the deep end.
And then there are the kids clinging to the edge, surrounded by people who love them, ready to help if they slip—but still unwilling to let go. We can’t force them. It’s a choice only they can make. All we can do is stand by with love, faith, and unshakable hope that one day they’ll trust themselves enough to release their grip.
Until each of us is willing to look at ourselves in the light, we have no right to determine how others walk their own path toward the light.
The shadows on the wall in the cave were illusions, and the blinding sunlight represented truths I couldn’t ignore any longer.
Like the freed prisoner, my journey into the light wasn’t just painful—it was necessary. It forced me to see the realities of my marriage, my choices, and my own heart.
And though the light exposed hard truths, it also revealed the path forward: a way to heal, to grow, and to live in a love that is fully present, fully honest, and fully mine.
