Rising Phoenix: Steps To Authenticity

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.

Rebuilding After Infidelity

Infidelity doesn’t just damage a relationship; it destroys your sense of safety in a way that feels almost physical. It hits like a collapse from the inside out. The shock, the confusion, the pain, the sudden inability to trust anything you thought you understood—it all crashes into you at once. For a long time, I believed that once the trust was broken, the story was over. 

That there was nothing left to salvage, no solid ground to stand on, no version of the relationship worth fighting for. But at some point, when the numbness settled just enough for me to breathe, I realized there was a choice to make: to walk away, or to try to rebuild something that no longer felt recognizable. Neither option felt simple. Neither guaranteed peace. But rebuilding meant facing myself—something I hadn’t done in a very long time.

Rebuilding trust after betrayal isn’t about pretending the hurt didn’t happen or forcing myself to “move on.” It shouldn’t be about erasing the memories, swallowing the fear, or blindly believing everything will magically return to normal.

Rebuilding requires slow, intentional healing. It requires honesty, vulnerability, and a willingness to sit with the parts of the story that feel jagged and humiliating. Rebuilding hurt. It was messy, uncomfortable, and often incredibly lonely. But it was a process I had to choose with clarity, because the alternative was staying broken forever.

Choosing to Rebuild

When the betrayal happened, I didn’t trust anyone—not him, not the world, not even myself. I was suspicious of every silence, every pause, every change in tone. I questioned my instincts constantly. I felt hollowed out and unsure of who I was without the pain. Choosing to rebuild trust wasn’t automatic; it was a decision I had to make repeatedly, even on days when it felt impossible.

And yet, rebuilding wasn’t just about him proving he could show up again. It was about me learning how to show up for myself in ways I never had before. I had to figure out what safety meant to me, what I needed to feel grounded, and what boundaries I had abandoned long before the betrayal. Rebuilding meant learning to trust myself again—my own intuition, my own inner voice, my ability to see truth. It meant learning to believe that I deserved more than just survival.

Learning Myself Again

As I started picking up the pieces of my life, I realized something I didn’t want to admit: if I wanted to heal, my own behaviors had to change. Not because I caused the betrayal, but because the way I responded to pain was built on fear and survival. My reactions, my thought patterns, the way I spiraled, the way I braced for abandonment—none of it was helping me heal. I couldn’t keep living inside the same mental habits and expect a new outcome.

I had to unlearn old thought patterns and replace them with new ones, slowly and intentionally. It meant catching myself when I jumped to conclusions. It meant pausing when I felt panic rising. It meant challenging the stories I told myself about what every silence or delay meant. I had to practice these shifts daily, sometimes hourly. Healing wasn’t a mindset; it was repetition. It was work I never thought I’d have the strength to do, but somehow did.

Understanding My Triggers

One of the biggest breakthroughs came when I finally understood my triggers. For so long, I thought my reactions came out of nowhere like sudden explosions that blindsided me. But when I paid attention, I realized the signs were always there. My body whispered warnings long before my mind ever screamed. The tightness in my chest, the shallow breathing, the sudden rush of heat in my face, the cold in my fingertips—the feeling of emptiness in the pit of my stomach - these sensations arrived before a single thought formed.

These weren’t random reactions. They were my body remembering pain before my mind recalled the story. They were protective mechanisms, not weaknesses. Once I began listening—really listening—I realized they weren’t trying to hurt me. They were trying to keep me safe. Understanding that changed everything. Not because the triggers vanished, but because they no longer controlled me in the same way.

Recognizing the Pattern Before the Spiral

There was something life-changing about learning to recognize the beginning of the spiral instead of waiting until I was already drowning in it. For the first time, I could catch the shift in my body before my thoughts went wild. I could notice the tightening, the change in my breath, the wave of emotion about to hit. And instead of collapsing into the fear, I could tell myself, “I know what this is. I know where it comes from. This isn’t the present. This isn’t truth.”

That awareness didn’t stop the triggers completely, but it gave me back a sense of control I hadn’t felt in a long time. I wasn’t powerless anymore. I wasn’t reliving the same trauma without warning. I was learning the language of my own body. And the more I understood it, the more grounded I felt.

Journaling as Release

Journaling became the place where nothing had to make sense. It was the one space where I didn’t have to be calm, reasonable, or forgiving. I wrote every ugly thought, every fear, every question, every anger-filled sentence I’d never say out loud. I let myself pour the truth onto the page without censoring anything.

Writing didn’t fix the pain, but it opened a release valve. It let me empty the storm instead of letting it build inside me. Journaling made it possible to separate what was old trauma from what was actually happening in the moment. It gave me clarity when everything felt blurry. And in some ways, it gave me back my voice.

Meditation as Rebuilding Space

Meditation surprised me. It wasn’t peaceful or quiet or even comforting at first. It wasn’t the serene, perfect silence I imagined. In this season, meditation looked more like giving myself permission to breathe without bracing for impact. It was about sitting with myself when everything in me wanted to run.

Meditation became the space where I could reconnect with parts of myself I had abandoned. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave me a place to hold it without being consumed by it. When the world felt unstable, meditation created a pause—a moment where I could hear my thoughts without drowning in them. Slowly, through these small pauses, I started feeling steady again. 

Peace didn’t come all at once. It came in flashes. In moments where I realized I wasn’t reacting, I was noticing. That subtle shift from reaction to awareness was the quiet start of my rebuilding.

Finding Support

It took me three months to tell my mom what happened. And even now, no one else in my family knows. Not because I’m protecting anyone, but because it feels too heavy to bring up after all this time. I can’t imagine starting a conversation with, “By the way, four years ago…” Some things feel too tangled to reopen. Maybe one day they’ll know. Or maybe this is something I carry quietly.

I realized early on that I couldn’t do this alone. 

My support system was small. My friends cared deeply, but none of them had lived through betrayal like this.

They could listen, but they couldn’t fully understand the weight of the trauma, the way trust fractures, or how triggers show up months later out of nowhere. Still, even imperfect support mattered. Being heard mattered. Being believed mattered. Having someone sit with me in the mess mattered more than I expected.

Letting Joy Back In

There were moments in those first few years when I didn’t think about the betrayal, and for the first time, I didn’t feel guilty about it. I laughed with my kids and felt it. I smiled at a friend and didn’t feel the need to explain what I was carrying. These moments weren’t big. They weren’t life-changing. But they were mine. And they reminded me that joy doesn’t erase grief. It simply means I’m finally living again.

What Choosing Myself Really Looked Like

Choosing myself didn’t look like leaving. And it didn’t look like staying. It didn’t look like clarity or confidence or some neat version of healing people like to post online. Choosing myself looked like reading the most painful words I’ve ever seen written about me—and still believing I was worthy of love. It looked like breaking down on the kitchen floor and allowing someone to witness me at my lowest. It looked like setting boundaries that others didn’t understand. It looked like long silences. And somehow, incredibly, unexpected laughter too.

This is what choosing myself actually looked like. Raw. Messy. Tender. Human. Every time I chose myself—in anger, in sadness, in stillness, in softness—I came home to myself a little more.