A Change of Heart: Learning to Love Those Who Hurt Me

When relationships fall apart, there are always two sides—and the responsibility usually falls on both people. I fully acknowledge that. But when my life turned upside down, it was hard not to focus on the very obvious pain I was feeling, especially when certain actions were being made public.

That’s not to say I didn’t have a role in the challenges we faced as a couple. I did. But in those first few months, when everything was raw and unraveling, I felt angry. Resentful. Bitter—not just at my person, but at the others who suddenly seemed so involved.

I won’t pretend I was innocent. As an external processor, I shared what was happening with more people than I probably should have. But when you’ve googled how to kill yourself, and it feels like someone else is stealing your person before they’ve even packed their things from your shared home—
It’s hard not to explain.
It’s hard not to defend yourself.
It’s hard not to want people to understand what’s being done to you.

I was in such a dark place that every morning, I’d rehearse conversations in my head.
What I’d say to Them.
What I wanted Them to know.
That they had no idea how blindsided I was by all of it—
by the silence, by the timing, by how quickly everything shifted.

Did they know that just a week earlier, I was being praised for my strength as a wife?
That I had been holding down the fort during one of the most challenging seasons of their career?
That they told me failure wasn’t an option?
That I would never be a single mother?

And yet—this was now my reality.

Those words haunted me. They fueled the fire inside me, the anger that kept building. I wanted them to know my story. I believed that if they just understood the full picture, they would see how wrong it all was.

The bitterness I started to feel—toward my person, and toward someone who didn’t even know me—became all-consuming. I grew obsessed with how they misunderstood the truth. How they stepped into a version of our story without ever hearing mine.

I knew that even though I felt angry—and even though the people involved seemed blind to the harm they were causing—acting on the words I had rehearsed in my head would only create more pain. Not just for my already broken and lost person, but for my family... and for me. I knew it would poison my heart if I let it take over.

Every time a new, shocking challenge appeared, it was hard to swallow. It took everything in me not to react—because I didn’t want my response to overshadow the wrong that had already been done. I wanted to keep my integrity intact.

So I kept turning to the one thing that never failed me:
my over-consuming love for doing the next right thing—especially for my little one. That love guided every step I took. I refused to lash out, just like I’d learned. I believed there was a purpose in this pain, that I was being guided to walk through it with love.

One night, after being hit with yet another situation where I could have called out bad behavior, I was at a breaking point. I felt targeted. I was angry, and I wanted to show it. But I opened my Bible and searched under the word “anger.”

That’s when I found Jonah 4:3–4:

“Just kill me now, Lord! I’d rather be dead than alive if what I predicted will not happen.”
The Lord replied,
“Is it right for you to be angry about this?”

At first, I yelled inside—Yes! Yes, I have every right to be angry!
I was being lied to, betrayed, and hurt.

But then I read the letter beside that passage from the Thrive Devotional Bible for Women:

Beloved Daughter,
I will help you calm your emotions. You are allowed to feel every emotion—even anger. And I am never mad at you for struggling with anger. There is much in the world to be mad about, and you will not understand why things are this way until we are together for all eternity. As your Father, I want you to come to Me when you feel out of control emotionally so I can help you with your heart. I am like a gardener who pulls the weeds in your heart—weeds that will keep you from growing in faith. Don’t be afraid to come to Me. I know your heart better than you do, and I will perform spiritual heart surgery so your heart can be free to love.

Love,
Your Heavenly Father

Sitting at my kitchen table, I felt peace wash over me. A calm I hadn’t felt in weeks.
Yes, I was angry. But what would my actions accomplish?
Would they make the people hurting me stop?
Would they suddenly say, “Oops, you’re right. We’re wrong”?

No.

That moment shifted something in me. I knew I had to choose a different path. “Kill them with kindness” had always been my fallback, but let’s be honest—that’s still rooted in spite. What I wanted wasn’t revenge. I wanted to truly love in a way that heals.

Loving them—really loving them—meant I was in control.
It meant I could look past their behavior and still see a human being, flawed and hurting, and hope that one day they would be guided to see their own mistakes.

So no matter what came my way, I responded with love.
And no, it didn’t always sound like “I love you.”
Sometimes it looked like silence.
Sometimes it looked like setting boundaries.
Sometimes it looked like clear communication without being baited.

But all of it?
It looked like control.

I was in control of how I let their actions affect me.
And yes—privately, I still cried. On the way to work. In the shower, out of my child’s sight.
But publicly, I chose peace.
I chose love.

I didn’t realize just how deeply God’s “spiritual heart surgery” had been working until one night, I was faced with something I never could have imagined.

We’ve all secretly wished that someone who hurt us would get what they deserved. That karma would finally come around. I thought I’d feel that same satisfaction—
but when it actually happened, I didn’t.

The people who had been hurting me were confronted—publicly—by a family member of mine. They lashed out at them with angry, cutting words in a very public setting. The worst part? This was someone I had specifically asked not to act on my behalf. I had begged them not to betray my wish to lead with love.

But that moment wasn’t about me. It was about their own need to express pain from their past. And now, they had projected it onto my situation—turning it into a scene that no one had been paying attention to until then.

My person called me, furious.
They knew I had no part in what happened. But I was still given all the details—every word, every pointed finger. And I felt nothing but humiliation.

I was embarrassed to be associated with behavior like that.
And while some might read this and think,
"Well, that’s karma."
"They had it coming."
"Finally, some payback."
—shockingly, that wasn’t my first reaction.

What came out of my mouth surprised even me.

“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Can you please tell Them I’m truly sorry?”

No one deserves to be humiliated like that.
Not even Them.

And as I said those words, tears ran down my face.

“Wow… that’s really kind of you,” my person said shockingly. “That says a lot.”

Months ago, I might’ve dreamed of a moment like that—of someone finally calling them out, giving them what they “deserved.”
But not anymore.
Not with this heart.

In that moment, I didn’t feel victorious.
I felt heartbroken—for the pain inflicted on someone else, even someone who had hurt me.

In the weeks that followed, my changed heart continued to be affirmed—especially when I came across another letter in my Bible. It reminded me that when others are overcome by sin, we have the opportunity to lead by godly example. The words that stayed with me read:

“I want you to have the courage to confront them in love; however, I want you to remember that you are not to judge them in such a way that would keep them from an encounter with My grace. I want you to help them find their way back to Me. I don’t expect you to be their god—that is My position. But I want you to show them My mercy by gently helping to restore to them a right relationship with Me. You will be blessed for it.”

Reading those words filled me with gratitude for the shift that had happened in my heart. It didn’t erase the pain or make the gut-wrenching details of what happened any easier to sit with—but it revealed something deeper: I am capable of loving those who hurt me.

Loving our enemies doesn’t mean forgetting or excusing what’s been done—it means surrendering judgment and trusting that God will do what needs to be done in His time. We don’t always know what others are carrying, but we do know we’re not here to punish them. We’re here to love, even when it’s hard.

To do the next right thing.