Rising Phoenix: What the Past Can Teach Us

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.

Standing in My Own Truth

I’m learning to stand in the truth of my own story without minimizing it, without doubting it, and without letting someone else’s choices distort what I lived. Healing has taught me that my memories, my pain, my love, and my effort were real. Even when betrayal made everything feel distorted, I was always telling the truth about my life. And now I’m giving myself permission to honor the whole story with honesty and compassion.

I’ve heard these thoughts before. I’ve lived them. I’ve been asked the same questions countless times: What happens to the life we lived before discovery day? How can I ever look at old photos without feeling like a fraud? How could those moments be authentic?

The answer is painful, but clear: they were real. Every laugh, every tear, every late-night conversation, every gesture of care—all of it mattered. Even that time I got fired because… well, I was too honest and didn’t hold anything back? Some things still haven’t changed. I’ve carried that authenticity, even when it cost me, and I refuse to shrink it now.

When the Past Started to Feel Uncertain

During the first couple of years of healing, I kept circling the same question: Were the 22 years before my husband’s infidelity even real? Were all those tears, all that laughter, all those moments—were they lies?

I knew they weren’t. I had photos, memories, and two children whose entire childhood was built inside those years. Yet betrayal made it feel surreal—like a story I once read, like a life I could remember but not fully touch. Trauma dulls the edges of truth until even your own memories feel uncertain.

Even though we struggled for years to have our babies, we did. And they grew. Their childhood existed fully during the life we built before discovery day. I cannot and will not view it as anything less than real. It deserves full recognition, respect, and love as part of our story. 

Yes, our marriage as it existed then ended. Yes, we later had to start over and build a new foundation. But that doesn’t erase decades of our shared story.

The Life We Built Together

Those years were far from perfect, but they were ours. We came together carrying trauma—old wounds from childhood, past relationships, from the strain of life itself. We both had baggage, but we also had ways of finding each other again and again in the small moments that made life feel like home.

The late 2 a.m. conversations where we confessed fears, shared dreams, and whispered apologies no one else would ever hear. The little gestures that mattered more than words: the way my hand found yours without thinking, the silent hug after a hard week.

The career support, no matter how many jobs changed, how many setbacks we faced—always showing up, always backing each other. And yes, even when I got fired for being too honest, those same values of authenticity and courage stayed with me. Some things haven’t changed.

The financial struggles that forced laughter in the middle of panic. The quiet flow between us, where no words needed to be spoken for each of us to understand exactly what the other needed.

We built a life with inside jokes, spontaneous trips before kids, and beautiful adventures once they arrived. We made traditions, especially our Christmas getaways, when the world slowed down and peace found us again.

We showed up for every school event, every practice, every milestone. New homes, pets, everyday chaos, everyday love—so much of it was real and meaningful. Yet beneath it all, there was always a heaviness in you—something unspoken and unaddressed that eventually shaped our life in ways neither of us fully understood.

Infertility and the Weight It Put on Us

Ten years. That’s how long we fought for our babies. A decade filled with appointments, procedures, hope, heartbreak, financial strain, and emotional exhaustion. 

Infertility didn’t just stress us; it reshaped us. It broke parts of you, especially carrying the guilt of knowing the medical issue was yours. Watching me endure the treatments weighed heavily on you. It carved into our marriage, and into our individual mental health, in ways we didn’t have the words for yet.

And after our youngest was born, we struggled to find our way back. With a 6‑year‑old and a newborn, exhaustion set in alongside postpartum struggles. I literally tried to give our baby back to the doctor. She never slept. 

You worked graveyard shifts. Your inner battles began showing up more often, and the cracks between us widened. Looking back, I can’t fully understand how we survived. Yet through all of it, those years were real. They deserve to be remembered with gentleness, not erased by what came later.

Remembering What Was True

We have years of proof—not just in our memories but in the entire childhood of our kids. Those moments matter.

We need to talk about them, look at the photos, recall the parts of our life that held joy, comfort, and love so they don’t get buried beneath the weight of what went wrong.

Healing isn’t about pretending the good cancels out the hurt. It’s about refusing to let the hurt rewrite the good.

Owning My Part Without Carrying Yours

I wasn’t perfect. I reacted instead of responding. I tried to control what felt uncontrollable. I became demanding and rigid in ways that collided with your already fragile mental health. I own my part because growth requires honesty.

But none of my behaviors, none of our struggles, and none of the trauma we carried caused your decision to cheat. Infidelity belongs to the person who chooses it. It is never a shared responsibility.

Now, I’m choosing to reclaim the truth:
The love was real.
The pain was real.
The memories were real.
The unraveling was real. And my healing is real.
I’m learning to hold all of it—the joy, the grief, the confusion, the clarity—without erasing myself or the life we lived.

Those years mattered. I mattered. Our girls mattered. You mattered. And the full story deserves to be remembered with truth, compassion, and strength—not rewritten by betrayal, but honored for the depth and honesty of all our lived experience.