When Knowing Isn’t Healing

This post is part of an ongoing series written by “Rising Phoenix,” a woman giving an honest account of how she’s learning to rise out of the pain and destruction of betrayal. Read all her posts by clicking the Rising Phoenix link above. To read all her posts chronologically, start with her first post and then click the “Read Rising Phoenix’s Next Post” link that appears at the bottom of each article.

The Knowledge Gap

As months started to go by, I did what I thought I was supposed to do. I read the books. Listened to the podcasts. Sat through therapy sessions and took notes. I researched trauma, betrayal, attachment, infidelity, communication, healing — all of it. I wanted to understand. I needed to understand. And in some ways, I did. I could talk about betrayal trauma. I understood the stages of grief, the dysregulated nervous system, the importance of boundaries, and the language of repair. But none of that meant I was healing. Because healing doesn’t happen just because you know what needs to be done. It only begins when you're ready to live it.

And for a long time… I wasn’t ready. We weren’t ready. I was learning without action. Processing without movement. Trying to intellectualize something that needed to be felt—in the body, in the heart, in the core of who I was.

Looking back, I think part of me believed that if I just learned enough, I could skip the messy parts. Bypass the pain. Control the chaos. Keep everything neat and contained. But that’s not how healing works. It’s not a checklist. It’s not a course you can complete.

Healing didn’t begin for me in a book or a breakthrough moment in therapy. It began when I finally stopped hiding—even from myself. When I admitted I was scared. When I stopped performing "progress" and started allowing pain to be seen, held, honored. And even then, it didn’t come all at once. It came in tremors. In hard decisions. In days when I felt like I was moving backward—and others where I finally exhaled. Healing began when I realized that I didn’t need to be perfect to begin again. I just needed to be honest.

But the deep, true healing—the kind that shifts everything—didn’t really happen until the end of our first year. That was when both of us finally reached a place where we could stop pretending, stop running, and start facing what was broken—together, and with raw honesty.

The First Holiday Season

This was tough. We were coming up to our first holiday season since d-day. I was a complete disaster. Decision-making? I was incapable. My brain was foggy, my emotions unstable. My memory from that time is still distorted—blurry around the edges, like I was floating above my own life, watching it happen from somewhere far away.

But I agreed to go away. To the mountains—my favorite place. The mountains have always been my space for peace, for stillness. My husband knew this. A place where I could breathe. And when the idea came up, it gave me the smallest smile—something I hadn't felt in what felt like forever.

So we went. Just the two of us. We started something new together—something we’d never done before. Stayed in the same hotel room. Shared the same bed. Everything familiar felt unfamiliar.

And then came our first intimate moment since the affair. I cried. I couldn’t do it. The idea brought on a wave of shame I didn’t expect. I felt exposed in a way I couldn’t describe—like I was betraying myself somehow. What was I thinking? Looking back, I wasn't thinking. I cried a lot that weekend. The main topic of conversation was still his affair. I was still digging, still looking for truth, for clarity, for anything to help make sense of the mess I was living in. He, on the other hand, was trying to ease my pain. Trying to create something new. Trying to move forward.

We talked—a lot. Much more than we had in a long time. It all felt surreal, like we were suspended in some in-between space where time didn’t move the same. And even though the words were spoken, I was still scared—still guarded. Like part of me was waiting for it to fall apart again. But then there was this moment—unexpected, almost cinematic. We were on a ski hill, and I was going too fast, laughing without thinking, caught up in the rush. Before I knew it, I slammed right into him. He flew back and hit the ground hard. For a second, I panicked. We were both sprawled out, breathless and stunned, covered in snow. 

I froze. I lay there, scared—not from the fall, but from his reaction. What’s going to happen now? Will he yell? Will he shut down? But then he walked over to me. Put out his hand. Helped me up. Hugged me. And softly asked, “Are you okay?” We shared our first genuine laugh since D-Day.

It shook me. Because in that moment, I saw something I hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentleness. Presence. Safety. I didn’t know what to do with it. I was confused, emotional, undone by something so simple. But it was a moment. One small, quiet moment that reminded me: I was still allowed to feel cared for. I was still allowed to feel comforted. I was still human—even in my pain.

Trying to Look Normal

We tried to make that first holiday season feel as normal as we could—for the kids. The house was decorated, the gifts were wrapped, the traditions stayed in place. We played the music, baked the cookies, smiled in photos. We went through the motions like actors on a stage, trying to convince ourselves—maybe even each other—that we were okay. But we weren’t. And the kids felt it.

No matter how much we tried to cover the cracks, the tension was there. The sadness was there. The shift in energy was there.

And our oldest? They hated the day and their dad. They saw right through it. They told me they had planned on making me choose—between them and him. And in some way, I think they were right to feel that way. They felt betrayed, too. Their foundation had been shattered. And watching me still try to function alongside the man who had blown up our lives felt like another betrayal altogether. 

There were too many emotions in the room—mine, his, theirs—and no one was equipped to carry them all.

The Behaviors That Follow Betrayal

After betrayal, your sense of reality splits. You’re not sure what’s true, what’s safe, or who you are anymore. And that confusion? It breeds behaviors—some loud, some quiet—that are more about survival than healing. And we were both surviving. Barely.

We started spending money—ridiculous amounts of it. On trips, clothes, new experiences, even two new vehicles (his because she was in it) but anything that could give us the illusion of moving forward, of “new beginnings.” Looking back, I see it now: we were trying to outrun the wreckage. If we bought enough, maybe it would distract us from the mess underneath.

We drank—a lot. More than we should have. More than what is healthy. Not only in excess amounts at once, but steadily. Regularly. Like a slow drip of numbing. The alcohol softened the edges of the hard conversations. However, intensified my triggers. But also helped us avoid the weight of what we were really feeling.

And then there was intimacy - 

Eventually, it came back—but not in a tender, connected, rebuilding way. It became something else. It was raw. Urgent. Sometimes aggressive. Sometimes emotional. And almost always confusing. And a lot of it.

It didn’t feel like intimacy—it felt like possession. Like we were trying to reclaim what had been stolen. Trying to own each other again.

In hindsight, it felt territorial.

Like: You’re still mine.

Or: If I touch you this way, maybe you’ll forget who else did.

Or worse: If we keep doing this, maybe we can pretend none of it happened.

But intimacy after betrayal is layered. For me, it was often laced with shame, insecurity, and longing. Was I enough now? Was he picturing her? Was I being used—or using him to feel something that had gone numb? Sometimes it felt like connection. Sometimes it felt like punishment. But rarely in that first year, did it feel safe.

What We Were Really Doing

We were both trying to hold on to something—control, maybe. He was trying to prove he still wanted this life. I was trying to prove I could still feel like I mattered. But deep down, we were grieving in our own silent, separate ways.

None of it was sustainable. Because underneath all those behaviors—money, intimacy, drinking, performing for the kids—was the unspoken truth:

We were still broken. We were still bleeding. Healing had begun, but true healing still eluded us. Deep healing had not started for him or for me. Not for us, and certainly not for the family.

And pretending we were “okay” for the sake of appearances didn’t stop the chasm from growing underneath it all.