HOPE AFTER HURT

Hurting Deeply. Healing Loudly. Rising Stronger.

Category: Uncategorized

  • A 2am Letter to my Husband

    Dear husband,

    I don’t even know where to begin.

    There are so many things I want to say to you, and somehow, after everything, I still don’t know how to put them into words.

    Because how do you explain to the person you love most that they broke something inside you?

    How do you tell the man who used to feel like home that, for a while, home didn’t feel safe anymore?

    You were supposed to be my safe place, my person. The one I could trust with the parts of me that I didn’t show anyone else.

    And I trusted you. God, I trusted you. I trusted you with my heart, with our family, with our life.

    With every version of myself I’ve been throughout the years. The girl who fell in love with you. The wife who stood beside you.
    The mother who built a family with you.
    I trusted you with all of her.

    And then I found out.

    And suddenly I was left trying to understand how the person I trusted most could be the person who hurt me most.

    I wish you could have seen me in those first days.
    Really seen me.
    Not just the tears.
    Not just the anger.
    But the absolute devastation underneath it.

    I would lie awake beside you and wonder how many nights I had slept next to you while you were carrying a secret I knew nothing about.

    I would look at our child and wonder how the life I thought I knew could have been happening alongside something I was completely unaware of.

    I questioned everything.
    Our memories.
    Our conversations.
    Our intimacy.
    Our entire relationship.

    I questioned myself most of all.
    Was I not enough?
    Was I too tired?
    Did I stop being beautiful?
    Did I stop being interesting?
    Was there something she had that I didn’t?

    I know now that your choices were never a measurement of my worth. But knowing that doesn’t mean I didn’t spend countless nights feeling like I wasn’t enough. And that’s one of the things I wish you could understand.

    You didn’t just hurt my heart. You changed the way I looked at myself. There are parts of me that I am still trying to find again. And maybe that’s why healing has taken so long.

    Because I haven’t just been trying to heal our marriage.
    I’ve been trying to heal me.
    The woman who disappeared underneath the pain.
    The woman who became consumed by questions.
    The woman who could look in the mirror and see every flaw before she could see anything beautiful.
    The woman who wondered whether she would ever feel carefree again.

    And yet…

    Somehow…

    I still loved you.

    That’s the part that has confused me the most.
    Because I was angry with you.
    I hated what you had done.
    I hated the choices you made.
    I hated the person I became because of what happened.
    And still, I loved you.

    I loved you while I was furious.
    I loved you while I was broken.
    I loved you when I didn’t know whether I wanted to hold you or push you away.
    I loved you even when loving you hurt.

    And maybe that’s why this has been so complicated.
    Because walking away would have been easier if I didn’t love you.
    If our entire history didn’t exist.
    If we hadn’t built a family.
    If I didn’t still see glimpses of the man I fell in love with.
    If there wasn’t still something inside me whispering,
    Maybe this doesn’t have to be the end.
    So I stayed.

    But I need you to know—
    I didn’t stay because it was easy.
    I didn’t stay because I’m weak.
    I didn’t stay because what happened wasn’t that bad.
    And I didn’t stay because I was afraid to be alone.

    I stayed because I wanted to know whether something broken could be rebuilt.
    I stayed because I wanted to see if the man who hurt me could become the man who helped me heal.
    And I stayed because, despite everything, there was still love here.

    But love alone isn’t enough anymore.
    I don’t need promises. I need actions.
    I don’t need you to tell me that you love me. I need to feel safe enough to believe it.
    I need honesty when the truth is uncomfortable.
    I need transparency when it would be easier to hide.
    I need patience when I’m triggered.
    I need you to understand that healing doesn’t happen just because you’re ready for the past to be over.

    Sometimes I’ll have a bad day.
    Sometimes something completely insignificant will take me right back to the moment everything changed.
    Sometimes I’ll need reassurance about something you wish I could simply forget.
    And I need you to remember that I didn’t choose this wound.
    But I am choosing, every single day, to heal from it.

    I don’t want to spend the rest of my life punishing you for what happened.
    But I also refuse to spend the rest of my life pretending it didn’t.
    Because it mattered. I mattered. What happened to me mattered. And the woman I became afterward matters too.

    I don’t want our marriage to go back to what it was. Because the woman I was before this doesn’t exist anymore.
    I want something better.
    Something deeper.
    Something honest.

    I want a marriage where we don’t just love each other.
    I want a marriage where we know each other.
    Where we can tell each other the ugly truths.
    Where we don’t hide the hard things.
    Where we choose each other even when nobody is watching.
    Where we never again become strangers living parallel lives beneath the same roof.

    I want to grow old with you.
    But I don’t want to grow old with the version of you who hurt me.
    I want to grow old with the man who came after.
    The man who understands what he almost lost.
    The man who knows that trust isn’t owed—it is earned.
    The man who understands that every day is another opportunity to show me that our marriage is safe in his hands.

    And maybe one day, years from now, I’ll look back at this chapter and realise it wasn’t the end of our story.
    Maybe it was the chapter where we finally stopped taking each other for granted.
    Maybe it was where we learned that love isn’t just the beautiful, easy parts.

    Maybe love is also sitting in the wreckage and deciding whether you’re willing to pick up the pieces.
    I’m still picking them up.
    Some days with both hands.
    Some days with shaking fingers.
    Some days I can only manage one tiny piece.

    But I’m still here.
    And I hope you understand what that means.
    Because I could have left.
    A part of me wanted to.
    There were days when I thought I should.

    But I am still here.
    Not because I have forgotten.
    Not because it doesn’t hurt.
    But because somewhere beneath all of the anger, grief and fear,
    I still believe in us

    I still believe in the family we’ve created.
    And, perhaps most importantly, I still believe that the story of our marriage doesn’t have to end where the betrayal began.

    So this is my promise to you:
    I will keep doing my part.
    I will keep healing.
    I will keep learning how to trust again.
    I will keep choosing honesty.
    I will keep choosing us— as long as you keep choosing us too.

    Because I don’t want the old version of our marriage back.
    I want something new.
    Something stronger.
    Something real.
    And if we ever make it to the other side of this…
    I hope you look at me one day and understand just how much it took for me to stay.

    Not because I was weak.
    But because I loved you enough to believe that there could still be something beautiful waiting for us after the hurt.

    Your betrayal changed our story.

    But it doesn’t get to write the ending.

    We do.

    Love,
    Your wife

  • Forgiveness Was Never About Him

    I used to think that forgiveness meant letting him off the hook. That saying what happened was okay. I used to think it meant forgetting, trusting again, no longer being angry and simply moving on.

    I soon realised that none of those things are necessary for forgiveness, and none of them are what forgiveness means to me.

    I didn’t forget. I don’t forget. And I’ll probably never forget.

    The day I found out will be forever etched in my mind. I remember where I was in the caravan when I saw the text. I remember exactly where I was when I took the life-altering call that confirmed everything. I remember the look on a random woman’s face as I broke down on the phone to one of my closest friends.

    I haven’t forgotten the feeling of having my heart ripped from my chest. The panic attack that followed. The racing thoughts of, “What the fuck do I do now?”

    I remember the voice of my friend in my ear telling me to pack everything, get in the car and drive to her.

    I remember the cry of my son as I took him out of his dad’s arms and the meltdown that followed as I tried to place him in the car.

    I remember exactly where I was standing when I said to him, “It’s time to stop lying.”

    I remember the look on his face when I confirmed that I knew everything. The terror in his eyes as I threatened to break our family apart.

    These memories aren’t going anywhere.

    There was a version of me that existed before all of this, and although that version no longer exists physically, she still exists in my mind.

    The incredibly carefree 20-something-year-old who thought she had the most perfect relationship. The trust I gave so freely. The nonexistent boundaries I never felt I needed to have in place. The woman who gave her all to a man who would eventually get lost and break her heart.

    I remember the devastation it brought upon my life, my soul and the piece of my heart that will probably always be shattered.

    I will never be that person again.

    She’s gone.

    But out of all that devastation grew the fiercest version of myself I’ve ever known.

    I no longer sacrifice myself and my needs for others. I no longer abandon myself to keep someone else happy. I know my worth in a way I never did before.

    And I love the woman who grew from the darkness.

    Remembering these things doesn’t mean I’m choosing to live within them.

    For a long time, I thought forgiveness was something I had to give to him. Something he needed from me before we could truly move forward.

    But slowly, I started to realise that forgiveness wasn’t really about him at all.

    It was about me.

    It was about releasing myself from the weight of something I never chose. From constantly replaying the details, asking myself what I could have done differently, wondering why I wasn’t enough and comparing myself to someone else.

    It was about accepting that I could never change what happened, no matter how many times I went over it in my head.

    And perhaps the hardest person I’ve had to forgive has been myself.

    I’ve had to forgive myself for not seeing it sooner. For trusting so completely. For the times I questioned my own intuition. For the anger, the resentment, the questions, the checking, the spiralling and the days when I didn’t recognise the woman I had become.

    I’ve had to forgive myself for healing slowly.

    For having good days and then falling apart again.

    For not knowing what I know now.

    For staying.

    For being human.

    None of those things made me weak.

    They made me human.

    I didn’t cause his choices.

    I couldn’t have loved him enough to prevent them. I couldn’t have been prettier enough, happier enough, more available enough or somehow been a better version of myself to guarantee that he wouldn’t betray me.

    His choices were his own.

    And I think that’s where forgiveness began for me.

    Not with excusing what happened. Not with forgetting it. Not with pretending that it didn’t change me.

    But with finally understanding that I didn’t need to keep punishing myself for something I didn’t do.

    Maybe forgiveness isn’t about setting someone else free.

    Maybe sometimes, it’s about finally setting yourself free.

    I didn’t forgive because what happened wasn’t important.

    I forgave because I didn’t want what happened to have the rest of my life.

    And I’m learning that forgiveness isn’t the finish line.

    It doesn’t mean the triggers disappear. It doesn’t mean there aren’t hard days. It doesn’t mean trust is automatically restored or that the wounds no longer hurt.

    You can forgive and still remember.

    You can forgive and still have boundaries.

    You can forgive and still have moments of anger.

    You can forgive and still be changed by what happened.

    Because forgiveness doesn’t erase the wound.

    It simply means you’re no longer allowing the wound to dictate where you go next.

    Forgiveness means I’m no longer allowing someone else’s choices to have permanent ownership over my peace.

    And maybe that is what forgiveness really means to me.

    Not forgetting.

    Not excusing.

    Not letting him off the hook.

    Just refusing to let something someone else did determine the woman I become.

  • The Confusing Reality of Intimacy After Betrayal

    I want to preface this post by saying that I am not an expert. Everything I’m sharing is based on my lived experience, along with the work, counselling, and research I’ve done since my husband’s betrayal.

    This is an incredibly vulnerable post for me. I’m a real person. This is my real life, and talking about physical intimacy online can feel really confronting. But when I started this blog, I promised myself I would share the parts of this journey that might help someone else feel less alone. Intimacy after betrayal is one of the topics I’m asked about the most, so… here we go.

    I think people often assume that if someone physically cheats, it must mean there wasn’t any intimacy in the relationship. For us, that wasn’t true. Yes, things had naturally changed during pregnancy and postpartum, but our physical relationship wasn’t non-existent.

    After my husband’s infidelity, intimacy looked very different—and honestly, it wasn’t what I expected.

    In the beginning, I experienced something called hysterical bonding (also known as hyper-bonding). That was followed by a period of withdrawal, then a phase where my emotions constantly fluctuated and intrusive thoughts became overwhelming.

    It’s important to remember that infidelity can be an incredibly traumatic experience for the betrayed partner, and everyone responds to trauma differently. Not everyone experiences hysterical bonding after betrayal, and if you don’t, that’s completely normal too. There is no right or wrong way to heal.

    What is hysterical bonding?

    Hysterical bonding is a trauma response where someone experiences an intense, almost obsessive desire for physical and emotional closeness immediately after a significant relationship betrayal.

    I’d never even heard the term until I stumbled across a podcast discussing infidelity and intimacy. As I listened, I realised they were describing exactly what I had been experiencing.

    For me, it started almost immediately—within about 12 hours of discovering the affair.

    It was confusing.

    It was overwhelming.

    And, if I’m being honest, I felt ashamed.

    When I first confronted my husband, my thoughts certainly weren’t, “I want to have sex with this man.” They were much closer to, “I want to rip your balls off and feed them to a shark.”

    But after hours of crying, talking, asking questions, and trying to process what had happened, something shifted.

    During that first month, we were physically intimate multiple times a day. After that, it gradually slowed to once a day or every couple of days, but the need for closeness on my part was unlike anything I’d ever experienced before.

    Why does it happen?

    Hysterical bonding can happen for many reasons.

    For some people, it’s driven by the fear of losing their partner. The shock of the affair can trigger separation anxiety, creating an overwhelming urge to reconnect physically in an attempt to “fix” the relationship as quickly as possible.

    For others, especially those with childhood trauma or experiences of abandonment, physical closeness provides a sense of safety and security during an incredibly distressing time.

    There’s also the confusing reality that your partner is usually the person you instinctively turn to for comfort during life’s hardest moments. When they’re also the person who caused the pain, those instincts don’t simply disappear overnight.

    On a biological level, physical intimacy releases dopamine and other feel-good chemicals that can temporarily reduce anxiety, making it understandable why some betrayed partners crave that closeness.

    Some people also begin blaming themselves for the affair. They convince themselves they weren’t enough, weren’t attractive enough, or weren’t attentive enough. That can create a desperate desire to “prove” they can be more—or somehow be better than the affair partner.

    If I’m honest, I related to almost every one of those reasons.

    Part of me wanted to rebuild our connection.

    Part of me wanted reassurance that I was still wanted.

    And another part—one I’m almost embarrassed to admit—wanted to prove that it doesn’t get better than this.

    My self-esteem had been shattered. Somewhere deep down, I felt like I had to overcompensate.

    My competitive side kicked in, and I found myself thinking, I’ll show him.

    It’s strange to admit now, but that’s where my head was.

    For the past year, I’ve often felt like I’ve been faking confidence until I believed it myself.

    And somehow… it’s actually been working.

    So, how do you rebuild intimacy after betrayal?

    The short answer?

    I don’t know if I completely have the answer.

    The longer answer is this: give it time.

    Be patient with yourself.

    Your partner needs to be patient with you, too.

    Keep communicating, even when it’s uncomfortable.

    Your wants and needs will probably change from one week to the next, sometimes even from one day to the next. That’s normal.

    Intrusive thoughts are brutal. They might happen constantly, or they might only appear every now and then. Whenever they come up, and if they leave you feeling distressed or disconnected, talk about them.

    Your partner might feel frustrated hearing about the affair again. They may think you’re “bringing it up” unnecessarily. But if talking through those thoughts helps you process them and gives you reassurance, then they need to be willing to have those conversations.

    Healing isn’t linear.

    Neither is rebuilding intimacy.

    And this probably goes without saying, but I’m going to say it anyway:

    Never feel pressured into physical intimacy before you’re ready.

    If you’re not ready, that’s okay.

    You should never be made to feel guilty for struggling with something that someone else chose to do to you.

    One final thought

    Some of the biggest improvements in our intimate relationship actually happened outside the bedroom.

    Go to the couples counselling.

    Have the difficult conversations.

    Go on dates.

    Laugh together again.

    Spend quality time together without any expectation of physical intimacy.

    Don’t be afraid to ask for reassurance when you need it. If you have questions that still need answers, ask them.

    The stronger your emotional connection becomes, the stronger your physical connection has the opportunity to become as well.

    Healing intimacy after betrayal isn’t about pretending the hurt never happened.

    It’s about slowly creating a relationship where safety, honesty, and connection can exist again.

    And if you’re reading this while wondering whether what you’re feeling is “normal,” I hope this reminds you that you’re not alone.

    Let’s rise together,
    Sarah xx

  • Building a Bright Life After a Dark Storm

    My early postnatal period has been just as beautiful as it has been triggering.

    For the first time, I feel like I truly got my newborn bubble. No postnatal depression and only a tiny bit of anxiety—which I’m sure is normal for most mums. Being medicated this time around has definitely helped.

    Our little boy is perfect. He’s a great feeder, a great sleeper, and honestly just an angel. Big brother is absolutely obsessed with him, and we are thriving as a family of four. My husband and I are working as a team, tackling the hard moments together.

    But that doesn’t mean my mind hasn’t had some dark moments.

    One of the hardest parts of motherhood and breastfeeding is the amount of time you spend alone with your thoughts. Especially during those long night feeds. You can be lying in a bed surrounded by the people you love most—your husband, your toddler, your newborn—and still feel incredibly isolated.

    It’s during those quiet hours of the night that I tend to struggle the most.

    The dark thoughts creep in. The memories come flooding back. My mind starts playing tricks on me. I find myself wondering how my husband could have betrayed me in such a painful way while I was caring for his newborn baby. The hurt runs so deep, and although I wholeheartedly believe we can move forward from this, part of my heart will always carry the scars. Healing doesn’t erase what happened. It simply teaches you how to carry it.

    I’ve found myself slipping back into old habits. Wanting to check his phone. Checking his location. Looking for reassurance in places where reassurance can never truly be found.

    The truth is, there’s really no point checking his phone. Even if he were cheating again, he wouldn’t leave evidence lying around this time. People often tell me how sad that statement is. Maybe it is. But I’ve realised that I can’t build my life around “what ifs.” I have to live in the reality that’s in front of me. I have to choose happiness in the present moment and trust myself to cope if life ever falls apart again.

    I don’t believe he will cheat again. But I also don’t think I’ll ever trust the way I once did. There will probably always be a small part of me that thinks, “Maybe.” But I’d rather take that risk and build a happy, fulfilling life with the father of my children than spend my life running from the possibility of being hurt. The truth is, I would likely carry these trust issues into any future relationship anyway.

    I hate the part of him that did this to me. But I still love him. And I love the man he has worked hard to become over the last year.

    A lot of mums talk about postpartum rage—the anger that can come with exhaustion, hormones, and the huge adjustment of welcoming a new baby. I’ve experienced less of it this time around, but I’ve noticed something interesting. The anger isn’t directed at my husband anymore. It’s directed at his affair partner. The complete disrespect of knowingly doing that to another woman—particularly a mother during one of the most vulnerable periods of her life—is something I still struggle to comprehend.

    It makes my blood boil.

    Maybe that’s because it’s so far removed from who I am as a person. People always say, “Never say never,” but after living through this experience, I can say with confidence that I could never knowingly participate in causing this kind of pain to another woman. Especially another mother.

    Despite the triggers, this postpartum experience has been incredible.

    I feel overwhelmingly grateful. Grateful for my two beautiful boys. Grateful for the family we’ve built. Grateful for the strength we’ve found in the middle of something that could have destroyed us. Every day, I fall a little more in love with my husband as I watch him show up for our family. As I watch him be present. As I watch him become the father our boys deserve.

    I never imagined something so beautiful could grow from something so painful. But somehow, we’ve built a bright life from a very dark storm.

  • From Betrayal to Birth

    He’s here.

    Our little boy was born almost two months ago, and he is the perfect addition to our family.

    I wish I could say that the pregnancy, birth, and early postpartum period were without challenges or triggers, but they weren’t.

    The end of pregnancy became really hard for me, both physically and mentally. My first pregnancy was a dream, and although this pregnancy was also straightforward medically, it was much more difficult physically. I struggled with issues in my hips and pelvis, along with the worst coccyx pain. I had an incredible alternative medicine team who provided relief, but I still experienced flare-ups.

    Mentally, I was declining. In many ways, I was mentally stronger than I had ever been, but the closer I got to giving birth, the more I felt myself slipping, and that scared me. I was aiming for a VBAC (vaginal birth after caesarean), and I knew that in order to achieve it, I needed to be mentally strong. Labour and birth are such a mental game. Pain has never really been the issue for me—I have always coped well with labour pain—but I knew my mind needed to be strong, and I was struggling.

    I was becoming triggered by the smallest things: my husband going to the gym, not answering his phone, or not wanting to take time off work to come to appointments. I knew we were stronger than ever. I knew he wasn’t having an affair. But my brain couldn’t stop revisiting the past.

    Towards the end of my previous pregnancy was when he was talking to another woman and finding comfort in someone else. As my due date approached, I found myself constantly calling him, needing reassurance, and wanting to be with him. I was no longer content spending time by myself or even just with my son.

    Eventually, my husband finished work two weeks before the birth because I simply wasn’t coping. Having him with me and soaking up those final weeks as a family of three brought me so much comfort. He never complained. He simply took care of me and supported me through it.

    To the average family, this probably sounds strange, but one of the biggest sources of reassurance for me over the past year has been my husband wanting to spend time together as a family. I know that sounds like such a normal thing, but during our son’s first year of life, it wasn’t something we did often. My husband was distant, and even when we spent time together, it rarely felt like quality time.

    People often say that in order to rebuild your relationship, you need to focus on the two of you—going on dates, being intimate, and spending time alone together. While that may be true to an extent, healing for us wasn’t just about the two of us. It was about our family.

    Investing time and effort into family life healed me, and in turn, it healed us. It brought us closer together and made us a stronger unit.

    Once labour started, I felt myself calm down. It showed throughout my labour and birth experience. I truly believe everything I had endured over the previous year helped me get through it.

    I kept repeating to myself, “If I can survive the last year, I can survive anything.”

    With every contraction, I recited, “I can do hard things,” and for the first time in a long time, I truly believed it.

    During my first labour and birth, my husband was pretty useless—sorry, hubby, but it’s true. He didn’t really know how to help, and I didn’t know how to tell him what I needed. I wanted to do everything myself.

    This time was completely different.

    I asked my mum to be there as well, partly because I knew I might need the extra support and partly because I wanted her to witness the birth of her grandchild. My husband was by my side the entire time. I had a mostly unmedicated labour, with more than twelve hours of active labour, and he supported me through every minute of it, squeezing my hips through every contraction to help manage the pain.

    I did think about her during labour, which I really didn’t want to do, but strangely, it helped. Whenever she entered my mind, it made me more determined. More determined to push through the pain. More determined to prove to myself that I could do hard things.

    There is something about overcoming difficult situations that makes me feel as though I’ve reclaimed a part of myself. Not because life is a competition, and not because “winning” is what matters, but because choosing to keep going when things hurt feels like a victory of its own.

    The truth is, no one wins when an affair is involved. There are no trophies, no perfect endings, and no way to undo the hurt that was caused. But what I have learned is that healing is possible. Trust can be rebuilt. Families can be restored. Not because the past changes, but because the people involved choose, day after day, to keep showing up. As I hold our newest little boy and watch our family of four settle into this new chapter, I don’t feel like I’ve won. I feel grateful. Grateful that I stayed. Grateful that he stayed. Grateful that we did the work. And grateful that after so much hurt, we’ve found hope again.

    Sarah xx

  • 2025: The Year I Rebuilt Myself

    As I look back on 2025, I’m struck by how much can change in a year — and how much can heal. This year didn’t begin with certainty or calm; it began with a quiet determination to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I didn’t have a clear map, only the deep knowing that I couldn’t stay where I was. And now, standing at the end of this year, I can honestly say: I’m proud of how far I’ve come.

    2025 became the year I slowly rebuilt parts of myself I once believed were permanently broken. I learned that healing isn’t a straight line — it’s a thousand small choices made on days you feel strong and on days you absolutely don’t.

    There were moments that shaped me in ways I never expected. Family memories that grounded me. Conversations that reopened trust. Quiet wins that no one else saw but meant everything. And of course, one of the most beautiful surprises of the year — growing our family again, something that once felt impossible after everything we’d been through.

    But this year wasn’t easy. Healing rarely is. There were setbacks, triggers, doubts, and days where I felt like I was walking backwards. Yet each time, I found my way back to myself a little quicker. That counts as growth too.

    This year taught me that:
    • I am stronger than the hardest thing I’ve lived through.
    • I can hold both grief and joy without breaking.
    • I’m allowed to protect my peace, even when it disappoints others.
    • Healing doesn’t require perfection — only willingness.

    If I had to choose one word for 2025, it would be reclaiming: my voice, my confidence, my safety, my hope.

    If you had told me at the end of 2024 everything that was coming for me in 2025, I would’ve called it quits. There’s no way I would have believed I could handle it all. But that’s the thing about life — you don’t truly know your strength until you’re in the moment, doing what you once thought you couldn’t. We often underestimate our mental resilience, yet the universe has a way of showing us just how capable we really are.

    People usually think of strength in terms of physical fitness — something you can see or measure. But strength looks different for everyone. For me, this year revealed my mental strength. I wouldn’t call myself physically strong — you won’t catch me deadlifting 150kg — but mentally, I now feel like I can take on whatever comes my way.

    It’s been almost one year since discovering my husband’s affair — one year since my heart shattered, my world collapsed, and the new version of me began to take shape. I wouldn’t wish an affair on my worst enemy… not even on the woman who knowingly caused this pain. But strangely, I do believe it was meant to happen. I know that sounds crazy — maybe it is — but it forced changes in my relationship, my life, and our family dynamic. It unearthed a strength within me I didn’t know existed.

    2025 taught me to live truly in the present — to understand that everything can change in an instant and we can’t put our happiness on hold. There’s no point waiting, no point stressing about the future. The time to live is now, because you never know what’s around the corner.

    This year, I went from discovering my husband’s affair, hitting rock bottom mentally, and slowly piecing myself back together… to finding out I was pregnant, and then losing two of my grandparents within three months. I’ve cried, laughed, grieved, and grown. I’ve continued progressing in my career, raising a beautiful, kind, wild 2-year-old boy, and focusing on my relationship and our family. I’ve learned to hold boundaries, take time for myself, and be true to who I am. My husband has grown too — into an incredible dad and family man, putting us first while still working toward his own goals.

    Do I still get triggered? Yes.
    Do I still have a lot of growing to do? Absolutely.
    But am I proud of how far I’ve come?
    FUCK YES.

    And as I step into 2026, I’m carrying the softness, the boundaries, the lessons, and the quiet belief that even after being hurt, there is still so much life left to live — and so much love left to give.

    To anyone reading this who is somewhere in the middle of their own rebuilding: be gentle with yourself. Healing isn’t linear, but it is possible. And you’re further along than you think.

    Here’s to another year of becoming.

    Sarah xx

  • Life Update

    Hey everyone,

    I’m sorry I’ve been so MIA these last few months — life has been a lot, in the best and hardest ways, and I finally feel ready to sit down and catch you all up.

    Let’s start with the good news… SURPRISE! We’re having another baby.
    This little one was a shock to us, but a very welcomed one. Another child was always something we envisioned for our family. Even after the betrayal, it was a topic we approached carefully and honestly, and we both agreed that expanding our family still felt right for us. My husband has grown so much over the past year, and watching him step up as a father in such meaningful ways has been healing for both of us. We’re excited for this next chapter and can’t wait to meet our new addition.

    With this beautiful news has also come a lot of emotional work for me.
    Pregnancy has been a major trigger in my healing journey. It was during my last pregnancy that my husband’s mental health declined and things began to change, so stepping into pregnancy again has brought some of those memories back to the surface. I’ve really had to ground myself in the present and remind myself that this is a different chapter, with a very different version of him — and of me.

    There have been moments where I’ve needed reassurance, and that’s okay. Sometimes he struggles with it because he feels like I’m “bringing it all back up” or “throwing it in his face,” which I’m not. I’ve explained to him that choosing to stay doesn’t mean pretending nothing happened — it means working together. Seeking reassurance isn’t about punishment; it’s about support. And healing sometimes requires exactly that.

    Around the same time we found out I was pregnant, both of my grandparents became unwell and ended up in the hospital. My Granddad was diagnosed with a nasty cancer, and my Grandmother contracted Influenza A. They spent two months in and out of hospital, and during that time I stepped into the role of supporting my Grandmother.

    Sadly, my Grandmother passed away, and the grief has been immeasurable.
    It’s been such a strange, heavy season — grieving someone I was incredibly close to while also growing a new life. It has been two months since her passing, and I wish I could say it has gotten easier, but it hasn’t. I think about her every day and dream about her almost every night. I know grief has no timeline, and I’m just trying to give myself grace as I move through it.

    I’m trusting that the universe only gives me what I can handle. And so far, 2025 has tested that theory — but it has also taught me so much about resilience, love, and choosing hope even when it feels heavy. I’m still here, stronger than ever, and doing my best to take life one moment at a time.

    I hope everyone has been doing okay, and that you’re continuing to rise beyond the betrayal,
    Sarah xx

  • Healing Isn’t Linear: Why Setbacks Don’t Mean You’re Failing

    If there’s one thing I’ve learned since my world turned upside down, it’s that healing doesn’t follow a straight line. I think so many of us expect that once we decide to heal, things should keep getting better, day by day, like climbing a staircase. But the truth? Healing is messy. It’s more like waves that carry you forward, then pull you back, over and over again.

    There are days I feel strong and hopeful. I can look at how far I’ve come and feel proud of myself. And then out of nowhere, a wave crashes and drags me under again. In those moments, it feels like I’m right back at square one. But I’ve come to understand that setbacks don’t mean failure. They mean I’m human, and they’re part of the process.

    Society loves to give us timelines for grief and healing. “You’ll feel better in six months.” “It just takes time.” The problem is, healing after betrayal doesn’t follow a clock. Some days, it feels like I’ve “moved on,” only for something small to remind me of the pain, and suddenly it’s fresh again.

    A setback doesn’t erase the progress I’ve made. It just means there are still layers my heart is working through.

    What’s caught me off guard most are the triggers. Sometimes they’re obvious, but other times they completely surprise me.

    • Anniversaries – Dates hold so much weight. “One year ago today” memories pop up, and it’s like a punch in the stomach. Suddenly I’m questioning everything that happened back then and whether it was all a lie.
    • Places – For me, the gym became a huge trigger. What used to feel like a safe space for my husband to have his self care turned into a painful reminder. In particular, when my husband would talk about feeling unhappy with his weight or progress. I wasn’t expecting something so normal to shake me so deeply, but it did. These were just small comments that he started making prior to the affair and although it likely had nothing to do with why he did what he did, it’s such a huge trigger for me. 
    • Random conversations – A simple comment can sting more than I ever imagined. And once the spiral starts, it can be hard to pull myself out.

    What I’ve learned is that triggers don’t mean I’m weak or failing. They’re simply signals that my body and mind are still processing what happened.

    I used to tell myself, “I’m back at square one.” But I’ve realised that isn’t true. The version of me today isn’t the same as the version of me who first discovered the betrayal. I’ve grown. I’ve learned tools. Even when a trigger pulls me down, I don’t stay there as long as I once did.

    Each setback is a chance to practise what I’ve learned — to breathe through the storm, to remind myself of the progress I’ve made, and to choose not to give up on myself.

    One of the most freeing lessons has been giving myself permission to just sit in the sadness sometimes. To cry, to curl up, to indulge in the heaviness of the day. Because pretending I’m fine only makes it worse.

    What matters is remembering that tomorrow is a new day. A setback day doesn’t erase the days I’ve been strong. It’s just one piece of a bigger picture. The important part is to keep trying to move forward, even if it’s slow.

    Healing isn’t about never feeling pain again. It’s about learning to carry it differently. The setbacks will come, but they don’t define me — they refine me.

    If you’re in a season of setbacks, please remember: you are not failing. You are healing, even when it feels messy, even when it feels unfair, even when you have to start again tomorrow.

    Progress isn’t always visible, but it’s there. And so is hope.

    Lets rise together,
    Sarah xx

  • When You Feel Like You’re Losing Your Mind: Gaslighting, Intuition, and the Truth We Know Deep Down

    I wish I knew I wasn’t crazy.

    When I first started suspecting something was wrong, I was in the thick of postnatal depression. I was sleep-deprived, emotionally raw, and navigating the complete upheaval that comes with caring for a newborn. I didn’t trust my body, let alone my mind. So when those quiet thoughts crept in — something’s not right… he’s not the same… could he be seeing someone else? — I silenced them.

    Because how could I trust myself when I could barely get through the day?

    What I now know, looking back, is that my instincts weren’t broken. They were trying to protect me. But I was living inside a storm of emotional manipulation that made it nearly impossible to hear my own voice.

    Every time I asked the hard questions, I was met with defensiveness.

    “You’re crazy.”
    “Are you cheating on me?”
    “Who are you sleeping with?”

    I started to believe him. I started to believe I was imagining things. That maybe I was broken. That maybe my anxiety was twisting reality. But it wasn’t.

    The truth is, gaslighting is real — and it’s one of the most common forms of emotional manipulation women face, especially when we begin to sense betrayal. It doesn’t always look like yelling or controlling behaviour. Sometimes it’s quiet, subtle, disguised as concern or denial. But it chips away at your reality, little by little, until you don’t know what’s real anymore.

    Looking back now, the signs were there:

    • His sharp defensiveness every time I asked a question.
    • The way the conversation always flipped back onto me.
    • The accusations that I must be the one cheating.
    • The way I constantly walked away feeling like I had done something wrong.

    But I was exhausted. I was running on empty. And when you’re just trying to survive motherhood, confrontation feels like one battle too many. So I stayed quiet. I swallowed my gut feelings. I tried to be the “understanding wife.”

    And yet, my instincts wouldn’t go away.

    I questioned him again and again over the space of almost a year. And every time, I was told I was crazy. Every time, I was made to feel guilty for even asking. And eventually, I started to believe that narrative — that I was unstable, hormonal, irrational. That the problem was me.

    Until the day someone else told me the truth.

    I still remember the moment I found out. It wasn’t him who confessed — it was someone who had found out and felt I deserved to know. And when the words were spoken, I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I didn’t fall to the floor like the movies show you.

    I felt relief.

    Relief that I wasn’t crazy.
    Relief that my instincts had been right.
    Relief that I could finally stop doubting myself.

    It was the most heartbreaking validation I’ve ever felt.

    Since then, I’ve made myself one promise: I will never again doubt my intuition.

    It’s not always loud. It doesn’t always come with flashing lights. But it knows. And when someone is working hard to make you question your own reality, it’s even more important to get quiet and listen.

    To any woman reading this — if your gut is telling you something is wrong, listen. You’re not crazy. You’re not overthinking. You’re not too sensitive. You’re picking up on things that someone else is working hard to hide.

    You deserve honesty. You deserve peace. And you deserve to trust yourself.

    Even in the darkest moments — especially in them — your intuition is not your enemy. It’s your guide.

    Let’s rise together,
    Sarah xx

  • Staying After Infidelity Isn’t Weak

    When someone finds out their partner has been unfaithful, the world often expects one reaction: Leave. Walk away. Be strong. Start over.

    But here’s the truth no one talks about enough: choosing to stay can be just as strong — if not stronger.

    Staying after betrayal isn’t about weakness, denial, or self-sacrifice. It’s about facing something that shattered your world and choosing, day by day, to see if it can be rebuilt. It’s waking up in the middle of the night with a broken heart and still choosing to stay. Not because it’s easy — but because healing, forgiveness, and love are worth exploring.

    It takes immense courage to sit with pain, to look it in the eye, and to say, “This doesn’t get to define me — or us.”

    The idea that staying after infidelity is “weak” is deeply unfair and overlooks the complexities of relationships and healing. It would have been easier to walk away, to leave all the pain behind, and start over with a clean slate. But I didn’t stay because it didn’t hurt. I didn’t stay because I forgot what happened. I didn’t stay because I forgave what happened. And I definitely didn’t stay because I’m weak.

    I stayed because I couldn’t watch 13 years go down the drain without a fight.
    I knew there was something here worth fighting for — even if it’s hard, even if it hurts, even if no one else understands.

    This kind of strength isn’t graceful or pretty.
    It’s not tied up with a neat little bow.
    It’s messy, real, painful — but deeply human.

    Staying doesn’t mean I’m naive or blind. I know my worth. I know I deserved better. I’m not scared of being alone. I stayed not because I’m afraid to lose someone — but because I believe in redemption. I believe people can change for the better. I believe in breaking cycles, in doing the work, in not letting generational hurt dictate the rest of my life.

    For some women, staying is the start of a deeper healing journey — one that’s complicated, raw, and deeply personal. It might mean putting boundaries in place, starting therapy, rebuilding trust one brick at a time, or even walking alongside a partner who is also committed to doing the work. And sometimes, staying isn’t forever — it’s a season of working it out before deciding what comes next.

    Staying doesn’t mean I’m constantly okay. I still hurt. I still question. I still cry. I’m still trying to rebuild something I didn’t break in the first place. But here’s the thing — in the middle of all that, I’ve also been rebuilding myself. I’ve learned how to stand in my worth. I’ve found my voice again. I’ve become someone I’m proud of.

    This experience — as devastating as it’s been — became a wake-up call.
    A reminder that no matter how hard you try to prevent it, sometimes shit things happen to good people.

    And when that happens, you don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you choose to survive.

    Whether you stay, leave, or are still figuring it all out — know this:
    You are not weak.
    You are not broken.
    You are rising — on your own terms.

    Lets rise together,
    Sarah xx