Healing Means Refusing To Let The Past Define You

May 14th used to feel cursed for me. It is the date that marks what would have been my 32nd wedding anniversary, the betrayal that ended that “forever,” and the strange reality that my ex later died on the same day, at the same time as our first dance. From a trailer, with my life rebuilt piece by piece, I tell the story of what that kind of loss does to your memory, your body, and your sense of self. 

We get specific about betrayal trauma: how addiction and lies can rewire your nervous system, keep you stuck in fight or flight, and leave you carrying PTSD long after the relationship ends. I talk about the uncomfortable middle, where you can love your children beyond words and still say, clearly, that you would never choose that life again. Healing is not pretty quotes or pretending you are fine. It is rebuilding identity, learning you deserve calm, and refusing to confuse chaos with passion. 

We also talk about parenting with integrity after divorce and death, including why children deserve the freedom to love both parents without guilt or manipulation. Then the tone shifts to what healing can look like day to day: boundaries that feel final, community that shows up quietly, and the surprising peace of being single. The song “My Church” becomes a mirror for relief, music as honesty, and the moment your nervous system finally goes quiet. 

If you are trying to recover from infidelity, emotional abuse, addiction in the family, grief, or the long tail of trauma, this conversation is for you. Subscribe, share this with someone who needs it, leave a review, and tell me: what does peace look like in your life right now?

Transcript

Trailer Setup And A Hard Date

SPEAKER_00 0:01

Hey everybody. This sounds a lot better. My mic's got all switched around. I'm at the trailer, so hopefully there isn't a humongous echo as we uh do this show today. If so, season two will be ending until I get into higher ground in the fall. But today I felt it was a day where I wanted to share a story. Today would have been my 32nd wedding anniversary. And it's funny how life works sometimes. The man who once stood in front of me promising forever walked out of my life in 2019. Then three years ago, on this exact day, he died. And the irony still hits me some days. His time of death would have been the exact time of our first dance at our wedding. And you can't make that shit up. For a long time, May 14th felt cursed to me. It felt like a date tied to betrayal, grief, confusion, anger, and a whole bunch of memories. I didn't know what to do with it anymore. Some people think when relationships end, especially messy ones, the grieving ends too. It doesn't. Sometimes you grieve the person, sometimes you grieve the years, sometimes you grieve the version of yourself that kept trying to save someone who didn't want saving. And then life keeps moving anyway. In the middle of all that, my parents died too. My whole world changed in what felt like one long breath I never fully hex hailed from.

Turning An Anniversary Into Survival

SPEAKER_00 1:45

There are moments when I look at my life now, living in a trailer, rebuilding financially, trying to pour my heart and soul into my magazine, trying to heal publicly through this podcast. And honestly, many nights I just ask myself, how did I get here? And that's the point of healing. Healing isn't pretty quotes online, it's not pretending you're over things, it's learning how to sit with the memories without letting them own you anymore. It's taking dates that once destroyed you and slowly removing the trigger attached to them. Not erasing the past. Just refusing to let it define every future moment. And today, instead of mourning what was, I think I want to honor the fact that I survived it. And I wasn't graceful all the time. I certainly wasn't. I was a asshole a lot of the times. But I survived it. Many would say, Oh, but you do it all over again. And I pulled and I I I I went back and forth with that thought for so many years now. And I think and go, No, absolutely not. I know I've had the two most beautiful kids in the world and a gorgeous grandson, but no, absolutely not. There was forms of abuse, sexual lying, tricks that I still ask myself, hmm. I wonder that day when his mom was having heart surgery and he was so worked up about that guy that overdosed at work, does it have anything to do with the fact that he was their boss and maybe, just maybe, there was some kind of a thing tied together. Nobody no wife should ever have to think back and wonder these deep, horrendous thoughts. And nobody should spend years building a life with someone only to spend the rest of their

Betrayal Trauma And The Body

SPEAKER_00 4:05

life trying to recover from what that relationship did to their nervous system, their confidence, their trust, and their spirit. Betrayal trauma changes people. Addiction changes family. Lies change the way you see yourself and the world around you. And the hardest part is that people expect you to move on quietly while you're still carrying PTSD from things you survived behind closed doors. I think a lot of women and men lose themselves trying to keep someone else from falling apart. They become comfortable living in survival mode because eventually dysfunction becomes normal. You stop asking for peace because you're too busy managing chaos. And then one day the relationship ends, or the person dies, or life forces a separation, and you realize you don't even know who you are without the pain anymore. And that's the part nobody talks enough about. Healing isn't just getting over someone, it's rebuilding your identity after years of disappointment, manipulation, abandonment, or emotional exhaustion. It's teaching yourself that you deserve calm, that you deserve honesty, that love was never, ever supposed to feel like fear, anxiety, or walking on eggshells. So no, I would never choose that life again. But I am choosing myself now, and maybe that's the first healthy decision I've made in a very, very long time. And I know, I know. Some people hear me say I wouldn't do it all over again and me respond to them with, but then you wouldn't have had your children. And they're right. I love my children beyond words. I would choose them every single time. But I think society expects parents, especially mothers, to erase themselves completely from the conversation. Like we're not allowed to admit the damage something caused us because somehow it takes away from the love we have for our children. And it doesn't. Two things can exist at once. That was a huge eye-opener for me when I went to therapy. I can deeply love my children and still acknowledge that betrayal trauma changed me in ways I didn't recognize for years. My kids watch their mother become someone different, someone anxious, someone constantly in fight or flight mode, someone who stopped trusting people and even them, because betrayal teaches you to question everything and everyone around you. Nobody really understands that stage until they've lived it. Your nervous system doesn't know peace anymore. You start bracing for abandonment before it even happens. And I know there were times I struggled watching them and spend time with them while I was trying to hold myself together. I think any parent, being honest, would admit there's a twinge there sometimes. Not because you want your children to stop loving the other parent, but because part of you is grieving too, grieving the family you thought you had, grieving the version of life you fought so hard to keep together. But through it all, I never stopped them from loving him. I never wanted my pain to become their burden. Was I vocal at times? Absolutely. And probably more vocal than I should have been. But one thing I'm proud of now is that I've worked hard to make my actions match my apologies. And I think that matters. Growth isn't pretending you handled everything perfectly. No. We're human. Growth is being able to look back honestly, own your mistakes, and choose to do better moving forward. And really, that's what healing looks like for me now. And it takes a pretty broken person to try to control a child's relationship with their parent. Children deserve the freedom to love both parents without guilt, manipulation, pressure, or feeling like they have to choose sides to keep the peace. That's an emotional weight kids should never have to carry. I learned over time that no matter how hurt I was, my children's relationship with their father belonged to them, not me. That was their journey, their memories, their healing and their right. Did I always handle everything perfectly?

Letting Kids Love Both Parents

SPEAKER_00 8:35

No, not at all. There are moments where my own hurt spilled over because betrayal changes you emotionally, mentally, and physically. But I also knew deep down that loving their father did not mean they loved me less. And I think that's an important distinction people miss. When someone is deeply wounded, especially after addiction, betrayal, emotional trauma, jealousy, and grief, can sometimes sit side by side. The difference is what you choose to do with those emotions. I never wanted my children to carry my anger as their inheritance. What I wanted, and I and I still want is for them to have the freedom to think for themselves, love who they love, ask questions, form their own opinions, and eventually understand that life and relationships are rarely black and white. And that's maturity. And honestly, that's that's love too. I was sitting with a friend the other day. We were at a conference and we shared a hotel room, and we were talking about relationships that we had and how her son does not talk to her since she decided to part ways with her husband. And I was telling her some of my stories, and she said to me, Sha, she goes, I'm almost certain that if my husband and I got back together, that he would absolutely talk to me again immediately. Because that's a sever certain level of control that my ex-husband will always have because he's really good at manipulating situations. And my heart goes out to her because again, your children's relationships are their choice. A parent should never guilt or pressure a child because children deserve freedom. And maybe that's the part of healing nobody really talks about enough. One day you wake up and realize peace feels better than chaos ever did. This weekend, friends are coming to help me, extend my deck at the trailer, and honestly, that feels more meaningful to me right now than chasing some relationship just for the sake of not being alone. There's something grounding about building things with your own hands, sitting outside exhausted at the end of the day, sleeping deeply because your body actually worked instead of your mind constantly spinning in anxiety. A friend for the benefits from my past is coming down too, and I already told my friends that I don't want that dynamic anymore. And surprisingly, it doesn't feel awkward or dramatic. It just feels done. I I just want clarity in my life. I think healing has made me fiercely independent in a way I never expected. For so many years, I thought love meant enduring discomfort, uncertainty, lies, anxiety, high emotions, and lows. Now, when I picture a future relationship, I know exactly what it will not look like. It will not feel toxic, it will not feel unstable, it will not feel like survival mode or fighting for a place in their life. And maybe that's why being single actually feels really kind of amazing right now. Last weekend a bunch of us got together and had a few too many drinks around the fire and playing some play nine. The next morning I was hurting really bad, and one neighbor showed up at breakfast. That evening another neighbor had me over for dinner and also made me Mother's Day breakfast the next morning, too. That kind of kinda stays with you. After years of focusing on betrayal, disappointments, and loss, I think I'm finally noticing something else. There are genuinely good people in this world. Quiet people, caring people, non-judgmental people, people who show up without wanting anything in return. And as I sit here at my trailer tonight, probably in the worst environment ever, to do a podcast, listening to the outdoors and feeling completely at peace, I honestly find myself thinking,

Choosing Peace Over Chaos

SPEAKER_00 12:50

what more could a girl really ask for? The song I chose for this episode is My Church by Marin Morris. And honestly, I don't think I understood this song when I was younger. Back then, I thought healing came from fixing relationships, keeping people together, or trying harder to be enough for someone who was already emotionally gone. I believe I saw her in 2020 at Boots and Hearts. And she really had an impact on me about what a strong, independent woman she was. But now I hear the song differently. When she sings, can I get a hallelujah? I don't hear religion. I hear relief. I hear the moment you finally sit down after years of emotional exhaustion and realize your nervous system is finally quiet. And that line feels like freedom to me now. And when she says, When Hank brings the sermon and Cash leads the choir, I think about how music became the one thing that stayed honest when people weren't. Songs never gaslit me. Songs never made me question my reality. Music carried emotions I didn't even have words for yet. There's also something beautiful about this the way this song turns ordinary moments into sacred ones, driving, breathing, singing, existing. Because after surviving betrayal, trauma, addictions, lies, grief, and loss, you start realizing peace isn't found in grand gestures. It's found in little moments where your body no longer feels under attack. And then there's a line: I find my soul revival, singing every single verse. And that line hits me hard because I think that's exactly what this stage of my life feels like now. Soul revival. Not becoming who I used to be, becoming someone softer, safer, more grounded, someone who no longer mistakes chaos for passion, someone who no longer thinks anxiety is love. Someone also that will stand up for herself and never allow someone's judgment to ever ring in my ears late at night. And honestly, if you've never spent time alone between relationships, I think you miss something really important. You miss learning who you are without someone else defining you. You miss learning how to love yourself without needing

Noticing Good People Again

SPEAKER_00 15:20

constant reassurance from another person. And nine times out of ten, if you're a broken person, you're receiving that constant reassurance from another broken person. Being alone teaches you something relationships can't. It teaches you that other people's judgment of you doesn't have to break you. Their rejection doesn't define your worth. Their inability to love you properly isn't proof that you're hard to love. Solitude has a way of stripping everything back until all that's left is you. And that can feel terrifying at first. And there's many, many hard nights, but eventually it becomes freedom. And I think that's what happened to me when I arrived at the trailer. I went through those terrifying replaying things in my head, and now I look at everything so much bigger. If I think of an example of something, I kind of had an answer for it now, where before it used to just get me angry. But now it doesn't. It makes me see the people for who they are. And most people that disrespect you or call you names have issues with themselves. It has nothing to do about you anyway. And that's the biggest thing this song represents for me now. Healing

My Church And Music As Refuge

SPEAKER_00 16:50

doesn't always arrive dramatically. Sometimes it quietly shows up in the outdoors, in hard work, in music, in laughter, in sleep that finally comes easy, and in the realization that being alone can actually feel incredibly peaceful. That's what my church means to me now. Not loneliness, not heartbreak, just freedom. As much as I sit here talking about freedom, peace, healing, and finally loving my own company, there's still a little sadness too. I don't think that ever fully leaves when someone you built a life with dies. Especially when you share children together. Because no matter what happened between us, he was still their father. And there are moments where I grieve for them more than I grieve for myself. I grieve the conversations they'll never have, the milestones he'll miss, the complicated love that existed underneath all the damage. Death has a strange way of freezing people in memory. And sometimes that makes healing even harder because you're left holding both the hurt and the humanity of someone at the exact same time. But I've also but I also have to be honest about something. If he didn't want to become part of my betrayal story, then maybe he should have treated me differently while he was alive. And that isn't bitterness, that's accountability. That's how you get through the healing is knowing what you deserve and what you did deserve. People don't get to deeply wound others and then expect silence afterward because the truth became uncomfortable. And I think that's something I've struggled with these past few years too: the judgment from people who only saw fragments of my life while quietly mocking my healing, dismissing my pain, gossiping about my reactions, walking away from relationships instead of trying to understand what betrayal trauma actually looks like to a person. Pain changes people, grief changes people, survival changes people. And sometimes people judge the response without ever acknowledging the wound that caused it. But here's what I know now.

Grief With Accountability And Truth

SPEAKER_00 19:05

I'm not sharing these stories to stay stuck. I'm sharing them because I know there are people sitting alone tonight questioning themselves, questioning their sanity, questioning why they just can't move on after betrayal, addiction, divorce, grief, abandonment, or emotional destruction. And maybe they need to hear someone say, you're not crazy. You're not weak. You're not failing because you're struggling to rebuild yourself after someone broke your trust. Healing takes time. Sometimes years, sometimes it comes in waves. Sometimes it looks ugly before it starts looking peaceful. And if one person listens to this podcast while sitting in their car crying, or lying awake at night feeling alone, or trying to understand why their nervous system feels shattered long after the relationship ended, and they feel even slightly understood, then every story I've shared has been worth it. Every uncomfortable truth, every vulnerable moment, every scar is worth it.