We had been in couples therapy for weeks. My husband, Mark, and I would go in, sit on opposite ends of the couch, answer questions, talk about our feelings, and drive home in almost complete silence. I kept waiting for that movie moment when someone says something profound, everything clicks, tears flow, and we walk out hand‑in‑hand like a new couple.
That never happened.
Instead, we circled the same arguments. The same hurts. The same defensiveness. I’d leave sessions feeling emotionally wrung out and oddly empty. I was praying, “Lord, please heal our marriage,” but I was also thinking, “Maybe this is just who we are now—two Christians who can’t seem to live like Christians at home.”
I believed in God’s power. I believed in His design for marriage. I just wasn’t sure I believed that anything could actually change us.
What Brought Us There
We didn’t end up in counseling because of one big blowup. It was more like a slow leak that we ignored for years.
Mark and I both loved Jesus, went to church, served in ministry, smiled in the lobby, and posted nice pictures on social media. But at home, we argued about everything—money, disciplining the kids, my schedule, his job, even how the dishwasher should be loaded.
It wasn’t just conflict; it was the way we fought. He got quiet and withdrawn. I got loud and sharp. I felt unseen and unimportant. He felt disrespected and constantly criticized. We said things like, “You always do this,” and “You never listen,” so often that those words felt like part of our normal vocabulary.
At some point I realized I was talking more to my friends than to my husband about my heart. That scared me. I knew emotional distance can be just as dangerous as physical distance. I also knew I was starting to entertain hopeless thoughts—things like, “We’ll never change,” and, “We’re just wrong for each other.”
Our pastor gently suggested we see a Christian counselor. I agreed, with this mix of desperation and skepticism. Mark agreed too, mostly because he didn’t want to be the one who refused help.
So we went. And for a while, nothing seemed to happen.
The Day Everything Shifted
Our breakthrough came on a day I least expected it. I was tired, frustrated, and honestly just going through the motions. I told the Lord in the car, “I’ll go in, I’ll be polite, but I’m done expecting anything.”
We sat on the couch—me on one end, Mark on the other. Our counselor started like he always did, asking us to share how the week had gone. I jumped in first, describing another argument we’d had about the kids. I could hear my own voice getting colder as I talked.
Then the counselor did something different. Instead of asking Mark to respond, he turned to me and asked, “When Mark pulls away and shuts down like that, what message do you hear in your heart?”
I knew the answer immediately, but I didn’t want to say it. It felt too vulnerable, too childish. But he waited quietly. Mark was looking at me, really looking, which made it worse—and better.
I took a breath and said, “I hear, ‘You don’t matter. You’re too much. You’re a burden.’”
As soon as the words came out, I started to cry. Not loud sobbing, just this steady stream of tears I couldn’t stop. I felt embarrassed and exposed, but also… honest. It wasn’t my anger talking, it was my ache.
Our counselor nodded gently. Then he turned to Mark and asked, “What happens inside you when you hear that this is the message she’s been living with?”
I glanced over. Mark’s jaw tightened, and his eyes filled with tears I hadn’t seen in a long time. He swallowed hard and said, “That’s not what I feel about her at all. But that’s exactly what my dad made my mom feel. And I swore I’d never be like him.”
Something cracked open in the room.
Our counselor got quiet, like he didn’t want to trample on holy ground. Then he said, “Mark, would you be willing to tell her what’s really going on in you when you shut down? Not as a defense, but as a confession?”
Mark nodded. He turned toward me, not just with his body but with his whole attention, and he said, “When we argue, I feel like I’m going to fail you no matter what I do. I hear, ‘You’re not enough. You’re messing it all up.’ And instead of running to God, I retreat. It’s not that you don’t matter. It’s that I’m afraid I don’t matter to you unless I get everything right.”
I just stared at him. It was like seeing him for the first time in years.
Naming the Real Problem
In that moment, I realized something that shook me: we had both been fighting phantom voices from our past more than we were fighting each other.
I wasn’t just reacting to Mark; I was reacting to every time I had felt overlooked, dismissed, or “too much” growing up. He wasn’t just reacting to me; he was reacting to his own history of never feeling like he measured up.
Our counselor opened his Bible and quietly read, “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” He talked about how the gospel doesn’t just save our souls; it reshapes how we see ourselves and each other.
Then he said, “You both came into this marriage with deep insecurities and hurts. Instead of bringing them into the light together, you’ve been using each other as mirrors to prove them true. You see rejection. You see failure. But neither of those stories is the one Christ tells about you.”
Those words sank deep.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t see Mark as my enemy. I saw him as another broken person, like me, desperately needing the grace of God and not really knowing how to ask for it.
The Hardest Prayer
Our counselor asked if we would be willing to pray, right there, with each other—not a generic “God help our marriage” prayer, but a humble, honest, repentant prayer.
If you had asked me five minutes earlier, I would have said no. But something had shifted. The wall between us had cracked. So I nodded.
I started, voice shaky. “Lord, I confess that I’ve been so focused on how Mark hurts me that I’ve barely looked at how I hurt him. I’ve used my words as weapons. I’ve made him feel like he’s never enough. That’s not how You treat me. Please forgive me. Please teach me to see him the way You see him.”
Then Mark prayed. “God, I confess that instead of loving my wife like Christ loves the church, I shut down and hide. I’ve made her feel like she doesn’t matter when she matters deeply to me—and even more to You. Forgive me for my pride, my fear, and my silence. Teach me to lead with humility and love, not withdrawal.”
We both cried. It wasn’t pretty or polished. But it was real.
Our counselor didn’t rush to tie a bow on it. He just said, “This is what breakthrough looks like. Not perfection. Not instant change. Just two sinners coming into the light together at the foot of the cross.”
A Different Kind of Homework
That week, our homework wasn’t some complicated communication exercise. It was simple and terrifying:
Every night, sit together for ten minutes, hold hands, and each share one fear, one gratitude, and one specific prayer request. No fixing. No correcting. Just listening and bringing it to God.
The first night felt awkward. We sat on the couch, and I could feel old patterns tugging—my urge to lecture, his urge to withdraw. But we pushed through.
I said, “I’m afraid we’ll slip back into old habits and waste this chance God is giving us. I’m grateful we were honest today. And I want to pray that God softens my tone when I’m frustrated.”
Mark said, “I’m afraid I’ll let you down again and you’ll give up on me. I’m grateful we’re still here, together. And I want to pray that God gives me courage to stay present when I want to shut down.”
We prayed short, simple prayers. No big speeches. Just two people who needed Jesus more than we needed to be right.
Something softened in those moments. Not all at once, but enough to feel a shift. It felt like we were finally on the same side of the table, talking to the Lord together, instead of talking at each other across a battlefield.
What “Breakthrough” Really Meant
I wish I could say everything changed overnight, but it didn’t. We still argued. Old habits still tried to sneak back in. But from that day forward, something was different.
First, I noticed a new tenderness in how we spoke. Not perfect, but more aware. I caught myself mid‑sentence more often: “Wait, that sounded harsh. Let me try that again.” Mark caught himself too: “I’m starting to shut down. I don’t want to. Can we pause and pray?”
Second, I saw us owning our sin faster. Repentance became part of our normal rhythm instead of a rare event. We apologized sooner. We forgave sooner. We stopped keeping score quite so fiercely.
Third, I realized that my hope for our marriage was shifting. It wasn’t about Mark suddenly becoming the perfect husband or me becoming the perfect wife. It was about the two of us learning to run to the perfect Savior together, over and over again.
The real breakthrough wasn’t a magic phrase or a counseling technique. The real breakthrough was when the Lord broke our pride and self‑protection enough for us to see each other through His eyes—broken, loved, redeemable.
Looking Back with Gratitude
If you had told me months earlier that couples therapy would be one of the greatest tools God used in our marriage, I probably would have laughed. Or cried. Or both.
But looking back now, I see His hand all over it. He used a wise counselor, honest questions, and painful moments to expose lies we had believed for years. He used those sessions to lead us back to the gospel we already knew in our heads but weren’t applying to our marriage.
We still have work to do. We always will. But now when I sit in that parking lot before a session, I don’t feel hopeless. I feel expectant. Not because therapy itself is the hero, but because the God who meets us there is faithful.
Our story isn’t perfect, and it isn’t finished. But we did have a real breakthrough. Not the kind the world promises, where everything instantly becomes easy, but the kind where two hearts are softened, humbled, and turned back toward each other—and toward Christ.
And for us, that changed everything.