I used to look at couples holding hands in church and wonder what they had that we didn’t. They smiled easily, whispered to each other during sermons, and seemed genuinely happy to be there together. Meanwhile, I sat beside my husband in silence—close enough to touch, but feeling miles apart. The truth is, I was unhappily married. And though I wouldn’t have admitted it to many people at the time, I was seriously considering divorce.
Our relationship had become mechanical. We exchanged schedules instead of conversation, responsibilities instead of affection. He worked long hours, I juggled the kids and the house, and somewhere along the way, we stopped being partners and became co-managers of chaos. Love didn’t die all at once—it just faded, quietly, over years of unmet needs and unspoken frustrations.
The Lonely Reality of Marriage Gone Cold
There’s a unique loneliness that comes from being married but feeling invisible. I remember lying in bed beside him, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he even noticed how miserable I was. We rarely argued anymore—there simply wasn’t enough passion left to fight. Instead, we existed in detached politeness. I smiled when company came over, I played the good Christian wife, but behind closed doors, my spirit was tired.
The kids felt it too. They were old enough to sense the chill between us. Our home wasn’t angry, just tense—always busy, never warm. I found myself snapping at them more often, maybe because I felt emotionally starved. When a marriage is cold, the whole family shivers.
I tried pretending it wasn’t that bad. I told myself marriage was supposed to be hard, that we’d always be more like teammates than lovers. But deep down, something in me ached for more. I wanted to be seen, cherished, pursued again. I wanted laughter in the house and affection that didn’t feel forced. Mostly, I wanted to feel alive. I started thinking maybe God had made a mistake putting us together.
The Breaking Point
One night, after yet another silent dinner, I went into the bathroom and cried. I looked at my reflection and whispered, “I can’t do this anymore.” I wasn’t planning to leave that night, but the idea had begun to feel less sinful and more sensible. I rationalized that maybe God would understand—that He wouldn’t want me to live this miserable life.
But then, something unexpected happened. As I sat there, crying over my hopeless marriage, a quiet thought entered my heart: What if you’re looking at marriage backward?
At first, I ignored it. But the thought returned, gentle yet firm: What if love isn’t found—it’s built? What if I’ve been waiting for something only God can create in me first?
I didn’t hear a voice out loud, but in that moment, it was as though the Lord Himself was speaking. He was asking me not to give up—yet. To surrender the idea that happiness came from being loved perfectly, and to start learning what it meant to love unconditionally.
The First Small Steps
The next morning, I woke up with a new kind of heaviness—conviction. I realized I had invested years of emotional effort in trying to change my husband while neglecting my own heart. I wanted him to be more affectionate, more talkative, more spiritually engaged. But I hadn’t stopped to ask whether I was offering him respect, patience, or grace.
So I made a quiet commitment: I would start doing small things differently. No confrontation. Just choice. I began praying for him—not for God to change him, but for God to soften me. Every morning, before the kids woke up, I opened my Bible and asked the Lord to give me love where I felt resentment.
And weirdly enough, something started changing. My prayers weren’t long; sometimes they were just a few whispered words. But they began melting my bitterness. I caught myself noticing little things again—the way he worked tirelessly without complaint, the way he cared for the kids, the steadiness that had always been there but I’d overlooked. I still didn’t feel “in love,” but I was starting to feel compassion. And compassion is often the seed of something bigger.
When Love Came Back to Life
Weeks passed, and our home slowly grew warmer. He noticed my softer tone. I stopped reacting to small irritations. I started thanking him for small things—taking out the trash, fixing the car, helping with homework. He seemed surprised at first, maybe even suspicious, but he responded quietly with more kindness of his own.
Then one night, while we were washing dishes together, he said something I’d never expected: “You’ve really been different lately. I don’t know what’s changed, but it feels good.”
I smiled, fighting tears. “God’s working on me,” I said simply.
He didn’t reply immediately, but a slow smile spread across his face—one I hadn’t seen in years. That moment felt like the first ray of spring after a long winter.
We began talking again, not just about bills and kids, but about dreams and memories. We started praying together before bed, something we hadn’t done since our honeymoon. Every little act of grace seemed to breathe oxygen into our weary hearts.
The Turning Point of Faith
One Sunday, our pastor preached on forgiveness in marriage. He said, “If you want your spouse to see Christ in you, stop keeping score and start giving mercy.” I sat there weeping, because I realized how long I’d been holding grudges—tiny ones, layered over time, forming walls between us. That night, I told my husband everything. I admitted how close I’d been to leaving, how angry I’d felt, and how God had been changing my heart.
He listened in silence, then took my hand and said, “Thank you for not giving up.”
That moment was sacred. I could almost feel God repairing what we had broken. The pain didn’t vanish overnight, but grace began writing a new chapter in our story. Slowly, joy returned—authentic joy, the kind that only God can create through repentance and persistence.
A Home Filled Again
Today, our marriage looks completely different. We still have ordinary days and imperfect moments, but the love we share now is deeper than the honeymoon kind. It’s a love refined through fire—tested, surrendered, redeemed. We laugh more. We listen better. We hug longer. The kids notice it too. They don’t see tension now—they see partnership. Our home feels safe again.
I occasionally look back and shudder at how close I came to quitting. Divorce might have solved my discomfort but not my brokenness. I see now that me leaving wouldn’t have healed anything; it would have multiplied the hurt. God didn’t rescue my marriage by fixing my husband. He rescued it by transforming me—and through that, my husband changed too.
What I Would Tell Any Woman in My Shoes
If you’re reading this and you feel detached and unloved, I need you to know—you’re not alone. Christian marriages struggle too. Even the strongest couples face seasons of emptiness. But emptiness isn’t the end. It’s God’s invitation to start again.
Don’t believe the lie that your marriage is too far gone. It’s never too broken for grace. Begin by surrendering—not your marriage, but your heart. Ask God to fill the spaces your husband cannot. Pray before you speak. Love even when you don’t feel loved. Trust that the One who created marriage knows how to heal it.
Giving up might seem easier, but perseverance brings resurrection. It’s hard work—humility always is—but it leads to peace that outlasts feelings.
Life After the Storm
Now, years later, I find myself smiling beside the same man who once felt like a stranger. We hold hands during church again. We laugh while cooking together. The love I thought was dead is alive and thriving—and stronger precisely because it almost died.
Every time I tell our story, people ask what made the difference. I tell them it wasn’t counseling or new communication techniques—though those helped. It was surrender. I stopped seeing my husband as the problem and started seeing my own heart as the battleground. When I let God fight for me instead of against him, He did what only He can do—He brought redemption from ashes.
Now, when I hear of other wives ready to give up, I gently tell them: “Don’t make a permanent decision based on a temporary season. God can restore what feels impossible.”
The Miracle of Staying
The greatest miracle isn’t that God changed our marriage—it’s that He changed our hearts while we stayed. Staying isn’t glamorous; it’s gritty. It means choosing love on days when you feel nothing. It means trusting grace when disappointment runs deep. It means believing that the same God who raised Jesus from the dead can raise love from the grave.
I am living proof that He can. My husband and I aren’t perfect. But we’ve seen firsthand what happens when you invite Jesus into the middle of a dying marriage—He doesn’t just patch it up; He makes it new.
So here I am, years later, thanking God that I didn’t walk away. Because now, every laugh, every prayer, every quiet evening beside my husband feels like redemption. I am not unhappily married anymore. I am joyfully, humbly, deeply in love—with my husband and even more with the Savior who taught me how to love him.