HOPE AFTER HURT

Hurting Deeply. Healing Loudly. Rising Stronger.

Tag: life

  • 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

  • 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

  • 5 Things That Helped Me in the Early Days After Infidelity

    Firstly, if you’re here reading this because you’ve found yourself in a situation similar to mine — I’m so sorry. Infidelity is gut-wrenching. It’s something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. If you’re in the thick of it, please know you’re not alone.

    I created Hope After Hurt to help other women navigate life after betrayal — to share what helped me survive, and eventually start to heal. There are many things that can support you on this journey, and I’ll be exploring them more deeply in upcoming posts. But today, I want to share the five things that helped me most in those early, painful days.

    1. Counselling — Together and Alone

    The number one thing that helped both me and my husband in the initial stages after I found out about the affair was couples counselling. I know how fortunate we are to have had access to it — especially in today’s economic climate. It’s not cheap, and the cost can be a barrier for many. But if you’re considering it, I really encourage you to shop around. In my experience, session prices ranged anywhere from $90 to $500 depending on the provider, and there are more affordable options out there.

    Individual counselling has also been incredibly beneficial for me. It gave me a safe space to vent, reflect, and learn tools to support my mental health. People often say things like, “You’re so strong,” or “You handled that so well.” And while I appreciate those words, the truth is — my mental health took a massive hit. I was shattered. I felt shattered. Therapy helped pull me out of those dark places. It reminded me of my worth and gave me strategies to start rebuilding who I was.

    2. Journalling (In a Way That Worked for Me)

    I’ve had a bit of a love/hate relationship with journalling over the years. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it overwhelms me. During this time, I threw out the rules and did it my way — no prompts, no pressure. Just a place to unload the chaos in my mind.

    It helped me process intrusive thoughts and also made communication with my husband clearer. I’m the type of person who, if I don’t say something right away, I’ll forget — and then bring it up at the worst moment. Journalling helped me figure out whether something was worth raising or if it was something I could work through on my own. It became a quiet space to organise the emotional mess.

    3. Esther Perel’s Work

    I’ve been a long-time follower of Esther Perel — therapist, speaker, and New York Times bestselling author — so I turned to her work almost immediately. Her book The State of Affairs: Rethinking Infidelity was a game-changer. She explores why people cheat and how, in some cases, an affair can be the beginning of a new marriage — with the same partner.

    She also hosts the podcast Where Should We Begin?, which features real couples in therapy sessions. Listening was eye-opening and validating. It helped me feel less alone, and more empowered by seeing how others faced (and worked through) similar situations.

    4. Being Present with My Son

    My son is the light of my life. But I promised to be honest here — and the truth is, I wasn’t a good mum in the first month after I found out. I was numb, disconnected. I cried — a lot — even in front of him. I didn’t want to parent. I was shutting down.

    Slowly, as I started to re-engage and be present with him, I felt pieces of myself come back. Focusing on the moment — not the pain of the past or fear of the future — helped me breathe again. It’s hard to stay stuck in the dark when a toddler is grabbing your hand and pulling you into joy, giggles, and mischief.

    5. Focusing on Me (For the First Time in a Long Time)

    It’s sad, but true — it took infidelity for me to realise I needed to put myself first sometimes. And that doing so actually makes me a better mum, a better partner, and a healthier version of myself.

    So what did I do? I started small. I set a boundary: Wednesday afternoons are mine. When my husband gets home, I clock off. I go to a Pilates class, I skip cooking dinner, and I take a break from the bedtime routine.

    It might not sound like much, but as someone who cooks most meals, works, and is the primary caregiver — that one evening of freedom changed everything. It gave me something to look forward to and reminded me that I matter too.

    I plan to explore all of these steps more deeply in future posts. But if you have questions or need someone to talk to, please don’t hesitate to comment, email, or message me on social media. I’m always open to chatting — and walking alongside others on this difficult, courageous journey.

    Let’s rise together,
    Sarah xx

  • My Story of Infidelity

    In late December 2024, my world changed. I found out my husband—my partner of 13 years—was having an affair, we had a 15 month old child at the time. What made it worse was that the other woman wasn’t a stranger. She was someone I knew from his gym, someone I’d met multiple times. She was also a mother. 

    I’d questioned their relationship throughout the year, but I never had solid proof. Every time I brought it up, he denied it. Deep down, I sensed something was off. I knew there was an inappropriate relationship, but I didn’t realise the extent of it—or how long it had been going on. When I finally discovered the full truth, I was shattered.

    They had started talking when I was pregnant. He would ask if she was single, and even though she knew he had a pregnant wife, she kept engaging. They slept together for the first time when my son was just six weeks old, and the affair continued for the entire first year of his life.

    I had always told myself that if my husband ever cheated, I would leave. And in that split-second after finding out, that was my instinct—to run. But the decision wasn’t so clear-cut. Seven months later, we’re still together and committed to making things work.

    That first week after finding out, I barely slept. My mind was in overdrive. I couldn’t understand how he could do this to me. Or how she—another mother—could knowingly be part of it. I began questioning everything: Was our whole relationship a lie?

    I went through his phone, his socials, his notes, his photos—everything. I wanted the whole truth, no matter how much it hurt. I don’t know if it was the “right” thing to do, but it felt necessary. I believed that in order to heal, I needed to know it all.

    From the moment I told him I knew, he said he would do anything to fix it. He apologised endlessly. He said he didn’t want me to leave—but he’d understand if I did. We both agreed to start couples counselling, and within two weeks we had our first session.

    I already knew I wanted to try. I wanted to make it work—not just for our son, but for us. I also knew we couldn’t do it alone. The truth is, our marriage had actually been getting better. By the time I found out, the affair had ended almost six months earlier. I’d felt the shift in our relationship—it had been improving. That was a sign to me that we had a real shot. Before she entered the picture, we were good. And after she was gone, we were better.

    Not long after uncovering everything, I decided to speak to the other woman face to face. I needed to know that her version lined up with his. I needed the full story. That first conversation felt surface-level. She didn’t seem genuinely sorry—it felt more like she was defending herself, maybe even playing the victim.

    But the second time we met, months later, was different. That conversation was truly healing. She was remorseful. She owned her part. She seemed to be doing the work to grow, to make sure she never did something like this again. For a moment, I could see her as another human being—flawed, but trying. Some days, I still want to scream at her. Some days, the anger boils over. But I remind myself: hating her won’t heal me. It only keeps me stuck. And I want to move forward.

    After couples counselling, the ball was in his court. I was honest about what I needed. I laid out what I expected in our relationship, in our life, in our healing. I told him: either you can show up for this, or I’m out. And he did. He kept showing up. For months, it felt like we were making real progress. But deep down, I also felt stuck. 

    I realised I was pretending to be okay, avoiding the depths of my pain. Then one night, everything caught up to me. I spiralled into a very dark place—and the next day, I reached out for help. That moment was the beginning of my journey back to myself.

    It felt so unfair. Something awful happened to me, and yet I was the one who had to pick up the pieces. But there’s something strangely freeing about realising no one else is coming to save you. You are the only one who can pull yourself out of the darkness. You are the only one who can reclaim your identity.

    Individual counselling has changed everything for me. It helped me start prioritising myself, set healthy boundaries, and take back control. I’m not perfect. I’m still working through so much—in my marriage, in life, in my messy mind. But I finally feel like I’m healing.

    I have a lot left to unpack and I also have a lot to share.
    If you’re here, I hope you’ll stick around. This space—Hope After Hurt—is for anyone who’s ever been broken by betrayal, but still believes in rising.

    Let’s rise together.
    Sarah xx

  • Introducing Hope After Hurt

    Hi, I’m Sarah — and this is Hope After Hurt.

    I’m a 30-something woman, wife, and mum who never imagined I’d be writing these words.

    Seven months ago, I discovered my husband — my partner of 13 years — had been unfaithful. It was the kind of moment that splits your life in two: before and after. I was devastated. I always believed that if something like this ever happened, I would walk away. But when it actually did, my decision wasn’t so clear-cut.

    I chose to stay. 

    Not out of weakness, but out of strength — for my son, for myself, and for the life I still believed we could rebuild. Staying didn’t mean forgetting, and it definitely didn’t mean excusing. It meant choosing to face the pain head-on, to ask the hard questions, to do the inner work — not just to repair a marriage, but to reclaim me.

    Because the truth is, betrayal doesn’t just break your heart — it shatters your identity. Who am I now? What do I believe? What do I deserve? These are the questions I’ve been living.

    Hope After Hurt was born from a place of wanting to find purpose in the pain. I wanted a space where I could write honestly about healing after infidelity — the good, the brutal, the confusing. A place for women like me, who never thought they’d be here either.

    This is not a highlight reel. This is the in-between. The picking-up-the-pieces. The rediscovering of self-worth. The rebuilding of trust. The moments where you wonder if you’re strong enough — and the ones where you realise you already are.

    If you’re walking through betrayal, confusion, or heartbreak — I hope this space helps you feel seen. I don’t have all the answers, but I do believe in healing, in honest conversations, and in the power of women supporting women.

    Thanks for being here. You are not alone. 

    Let’s rise together,
    Sarah xx