Looking back, I didn’t realize I was slipping into depression while desperately trying to figure out what was wrong with my daughter. At the same time, I often felt alone in my marriage.

For two years, I wrestled with how to explain what I knew in my heart to be true to my very logical husband. But logic hadn’t caught up with my intuition… yet.

When he finally said, “You were right all along… I am so sorry…” I remember those words echoing in my head. They were sincere. They mattered. 

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But it was too late. The damage was done.

If I’m being honest, unity was the greatest weakness in our marriage. This was really highlighted when kids entered the picture. We clashed on everything from discipline to finances to family boundaries. I wanted structure and firm limits in behavior expectations; he preferred flexibility. I wanted shared experiences and intentional time together; he wanted simplicity and solitude. We both had deep values, but we didn’t know how to value each other in the process.

We had a habit of pointing out each other’s flaws, often at the worst times. Somewhere along the way, we started keeping score and making each other look like the problem. It was like we were competing to prove who was the more wounded one, the better parent, or whose life was harder. And winning never actually felt good.

“Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” (NIV) – Mark 10:9

We were both guilty of resentment. I resented feeling like I was doing everything on my own—carrying the mental load, planning birthdays, making appointments, and still being treated like I was “too much” or inconveniencing him when asking for help. He resented feeling like he could never do enough or get it quite right. His stress showed up as detachment. Mine showed up as frustration.

“Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.” (ESV) -James 1: 19-20

When Kenzie was born with all of her health issues, our struggles only multiplied. I leaned on my family for support more than I leaned on Ryan, not because I wanted to shut him out, but because I didn’t trust him. I was scared, overwhelmed, and felt like I was the only one showing up to face the storm.

It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just didn’t grasp the gravity of it, at least not in the same way I did. He wasn’t built to panic or overanalyze. I, on the other hand, lived in those spaces.

In his mind, he was holding down work, trying to succeed, trying not to fall apart. But in mine, I needed a partner who was just as involved, just as worried, and just as ready to fight for answers.

We both shut down in our own ways. The distance between us grew. Love felt absent. Flirting disappeared. Intimacy faded. On the best days, we were roommates. On the worst days, we were adversaries. The truth is this: we were both hurting. Both selfish. Both stubborn. I didn’t feel supported, so I pulled away. He didn’t feel respected, so he shut down. Fighting was pointless, but we did it anyway. It seemed better to be right than to settle for a loving compromise. Our cycle of hurt led to a downward spiral.

“And if a house is divided against itself, that house cannot stand.” (KJV) – Mark 3:25

When we finally agreed to Christian counseling, we were coming in with empty tanks. I wanted the counselor to “fix him.” Ryan didn’t think we even needed help. Neither of us had the heart posture for real change.

My child was battling a debilitating disease. I was falling apart. My marriage was unraveling, and my family was barely hanging on.

We needed a miracle. We needed God.

Looking back with a 10,000-foot view and a lot more spiritual insight, I see it now…

Satan found a crack in our foundation, and he wasted no time splitting it wide open.