Owning My Part in the Hurt

Do you ever notice how often we, as a society, compare things—our successes, our possessions, even our pain?

Think about the last time you were in a conversation with friends, swapping stories about being hurt. Everyone jumps in with their own version of pain, and before we know it, we’re comparing wounds—each of us quietly deciding whose hurt is “worse.”

I’ve shared my own hurts and betrayals before. I know the weight of guilt, shame, and pain my person carries for their actions, and I honestly wish they didn’t have to live with that burden every day.

Over the past year, I’ve spent a lot of time processing my pain and learning how powerful forgiveness can be—especially when it’s offered where most wouldn’t.

But lately, I’ve felt a pull to humble my own growth. To remind myself—and anyone reading—that I’m not perfect. Healing isn’t a straight path. Some days I stumble. Some days I fall.

And in that reflection, I want to take accountability—not to excuse the actions that hurt me, but to recognize the part I’ve played in the pain my person has felt during our time apart.

While writing these blogs and openly professing my love for my person, I also made a choice that might surprise some people—I decided to try out a few dating apps as the last three months of my “year and a day” approached.

It was a strange, almost surreal experience. I hadn’t dated in thirteen years, and apparently, dating apps are now the way people meet. I quickly learned that women today are far bolder than they were “in my day.”

At the time, I was setting up hard boundaries with my person, who seemed to be in some sort of relationship with someone else. So I told myself I was confronting my fears—putting myself out there, trying to feel that spark of being pursued again, maybe finding comfort in simple conversation to fill the void that came with less communication from him because of those “caution tape” boundaries I’d set.

And yes—it felt good.
To flirt. To be chased. To be noticed.

But none of them were him.

Even the most promising connection—the one who communicated with patience and depth that many women would dream of—wasn’t my person. Sometimes one would flirt in ways that reminded me of him, and I’d feel that familiar pull.

But at the end of the day, I still loved only him.
So yes, I flirted. I went on two dates. But nothing changed. My heart never moved.

Then came what felt like a miracle—my person wanted to reconcile. We both agreed to be honest about everything, no matter how painful.

And that’s exactly what we did.

I told him about the dating apps.
He told me about her attending some family events I didn’t know about.

Of course, it hurt. If you’ve followed my journey, you might be thinking, how could she forgive that again?

But here’s the truth that most don’t see: my person was also hurting.

From his perspective, he had crossed a line with someone he’d been getting close to—but what I did felt, to him, like betrayal. The outgoing, flirty version of me that took years to surface during our marriage was now showing up for strangers. That crushed him.

And I understand that pain—because I’ve lived it.
I’ve seen things I can’t unsee.

So I had to ask myself:
Should I have lied?
Would a new beginning have had a chance if I’d hidden the truth?

No. Absolutely not.

The difference is, I’ve had practice processing betrayal. He hasn’t.
This past year, I’ve been forced to face my pain, to forgive the unforgivable, and to build strength from what broke me.
He hasn’t had that same experience.

In a way, he finally got a glimpse of what my pain felt like—his biggest fear came true just as he was ready to commit again.
And as strange as it sounds, that’s part of his journey now: learning what it means to forgive.

He once told me “failure isn’t an option,” and yet here we are—two people learning that failure is part of how we grow.

My person needs space to heal, to forgive, to remember that he was the one who told me to date.
And I did. I tried. I learned that no one could ever make me feel the way he does, even when I entertained the flattery.

When you’ve been rejected or replaced—when you’ve watched someone you love choose someone else—you look for small distractions to dull the ache.

He told me he wasn’t coming back.
So what was I supposed to do?
Sit at home, untouched by the world, waiting forever?

Of course not.
I needed to remember what it felt like to be wanted again.

And maybe part of his anger isn’t just at me.
Maybe it’s at himself—for letting things get so far that I even needed to feel that way.

Still, I recognize his pain. His hurt. His sense of betrayal.
And I carry my own accountability too.

I want to ask for forgiveness—not just for those two dates, but for the ways I fell short in our marriage.

I could’ve been stronger in managing our finances.
I could’ve seen sooner how the long hours he worked were taking a toll.
And most of all, I could’ve shown him, then, the kind of desire and appreciation I’ve learned to express now.

I can’t undo what’s been done—on either side.
But I can keep choosing love, honesty, and growth, even when it’s uncomfortable.
That’s what healing is.

Healing isn’t one-sided.
It’s not about who hurt who more, or who forgave first—it’s about recognizing that both hearts were broken in different ways and both deserve the chance to heal.

I’ve learned that love doesn’t always look like holding on tightly; sometimes it looks like standing still, letting space do its work, and trusting that God can rebuild what fear and pride have torn apart.

I will keep choosing forgiveness, not because it’s easy, but because peace can’t grow in resentment.

I hope that as my person continues their own journey, they’ll see that forgiveness doesn’t erase the past—it redeems it.

And maybe one day, we’ll both be able to look back and see that even through the pain, God was preparing us to love better, deeper, and truer than we ever knew how before.