The Pain I Caused, The Lesson I Learned, The Love That Changed Me

Before I found my online home with Authentic Church, I used to get sermon links from all kinds of places—friends, family, even old coworkers. Each one came with some version of, “You should listen to this. I think it’ll speak to you.”And maybe it was starting to work… because little by little, I began to lean into the idea that maybe—just maybe—God really did have my back in this thunderstorm.

One Sunday, my aunt sent me a message from a local church. I had a long drive that weekend, so I hit play. I honestly don’t remember the full sermon (though I’m sure it was great), but one verse stood out so clearly that I’ve carried it with me ever since:

“Understand this, my dear brothers and sisters: You must all be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.” — James 1:19

Let me pause there—and give you a little context on me.

I’m competitive. I don’t like being wrong (which I rarely am—right, ladies?). And I will always let you know how I’m feeling—no matter who’s in the room or how it lands. For a long time, I thought being outspoken made me strong. But what I didn’t realize was that my defensiveness—my need to be right—was keeping me from really hearing what people were trying to say… especially in the moments when they weren’t using words.

I was the definition of reactive. When something rubbed me the wrong way? I’d let that one moment hijack my whole day. I’d stew in it, vent about it, carry it like it meant something… when really, it wasn’t even worth the energy. But that energy didn’t just stay with me. I let it spill over. I let it impact everyone around me.

When you’re already ships passing in the night—barely connecting, barely speaking—why, when you finally get the chance to come home, would you want to come home to that?

And listen, it’s not like everything I said was toxic or cruel. Sometimes it was just everyday stuff:
“Oh my gosh, how are there this many cups all over the house when I didn’t use a single one?”
“You didn’t flush the toilet again.”
“You forgot to take the cardboard to the dump.”

Honestly, the kind of stuff every couple in America probably bickers about. But over time, those simple, nagging comments started to chip away at something deeper. They sent a message—whether I meant to or not—that said, You’re not responsible. You’re not capable. You’re not enough.

And I wonder now… how many times did I fail to see what was underneath?

The exhaustion from missing moments with the kids.
The heartbreak of always leaving, always being gone.
The kind of mental fog that makes you forget the small stuff because your heart is weighed down by the big stuff.

What if you rushed out of the bathroom because you overslept and were panicked about being late again?
What if you left the cups everywhere not because you were careless—but because your mind was somewhere else entirely, mourning the version of home we were slowly losing?
What if the dump run wasn’t forgotten but moved to the weekend so we could do it together—and maybe even help the rest of the family while we were at it?

I didn’t ask.
I didn’t listen.
I just reacted.

That brings me to the big stuff—the arguments that actually mattered. The ones about money, schedules, family obligations, and all the messy complications that come with real life.

Because I had spent so much time reacting instead of listening, even handling the serious stuff became harder than it had to be.

Where there should have been compassion on both sides, I felt attacked—like I wasn’t a good enough partner. I got so caught up in how I was being critiqued that I couldn’t see what was really happening: my partner didn’t need more words from me. They needed less.
They needed me to stay calm when our world wasn’t calm.
They needed me to open my ears, to really listen.
Not to fix it. Not to defend myself.
Just to listen.
They wanted to feel heard, seen, and understood—like they were allowed to struggle too, without being dismissed or blamed for trying to hold everything together.

Obviously, we’re not in a place where all that hurt can be undone—but hearing that message made me realize something hard and true: that for all the love and care I gave, one of my biggest flaws was my inability to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to get angry.

I can’t wave a magic wand and erase the times I got that wrong. But I knew they deserved to see that version of me—the version who could listen first, love better, and not let pride or reactivity take the lead. It was never my intention to be that way.

Sometimes, it takes being brought all the way down to truly look within.
There aren’t enough words to explain the guilt I feel knowing they may have carried pain I didn’t see. And no matter how much hurt I’ve experienced myself, part of me still feels like I deserved it—because I didn’t open my eyes soon enough to see theirs.

The changes I’ve made since that moment didn’t just prove that the reactive version of me wasn’t who I truly was—they’ve also transformed other areas of my life.

Where I once might’ve had a lot to say—especially when someone’s behavior rubbed me the wrong way—I’ve learned to pause and choose calm over chaos.

Now, let me be clear: I’m not saying we, as women, need to stay quiet or stop having opinions. Not at all.

What I am saying is this—most of the time, your person already knows when they’ve messed up. They don’t need your criticism to feel the weight of it. Piling on judgment rarely leads to growth… it just adds more hurt.

Where I once would’ve let a single moment ruin my day—and take everyone else down with me—I’ve started asking myself: Is this really worth carrying all day long?

More often than not, the answer is no.

During my journey, this shift in me was definitely tested. I can now tell when I’m being tested pretty clearly—but it wasn’t until one night, during a small interaction with my little person, that I realized real change was happening.

I was growing—not just for me and my person, but for the one who is my purpose. And that filled me with a kind of fulfillment I hadn’t felt before.

I had just gotten out of the shower when I saw them sitting at the coffee table, drawing. They’d found their way to the junk drawer where the permanent markers and sticky notes live. Resourceful as ever, they were using one small sticky note, carefully drawing with so much focus and detail.

Now, we all know what happens when thin paper meets permanent marker—of course, it bled straight through to the table.

The old me would’ve lost it—yelling, reacting, angry at the stain left behind on a piece of furniture. But something amazing happened… with just a split second to respond, I calmly said, “Oooo let’s not use that marker on this table.”And then I saw what they were drawing.

They looked up and said, “I’m sorry.” I told them it was okay—and gently explained that when we use this kind of marker, we just need to put one of their placemats underneath. I showed them how the ink had bled through.

On the sticky note, I saw a heart.

In a house that holds just me and them, I knew that heart was for me.

In that moment, I realized: if I had let myself react the way I used to—out of frustration or control—I would’ve missed the love they were trying to give me. Worse, my reaction could have taught them that their vulnerability wasn’t safe with me. That showing me love came with risk. And that broke my heart.

But it didn’t happen that way.
I saw it.
I paused.
I responded with compassion.

And in that moment, I knew—I’ve changed.