Trusting the Process, Part 2

When the Trusting Process Became Real

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.

Survival kept me alive.
But it didn’t teach me how to live.

The years that followed the first rupture were not marked by sudden clarity or emotional relief. They were marked by repetition—hard conversations, uncomfortable truths, and a commitment to stay present even when everything in me wanted to retreat.

What came after that first year was different.

My triggers didn’t disappear, but they stopped hijacking me. I continued learning how to recognize them, name them, and move through them without being swallowed whole. The emotional weight became lighter—not gone, but more manageable. I wasn’t carrying everything all at once anymore.

Something began to shift—not dramatically, not all at once—but physically. Quietly. My nervous system started to settle. Not permanently. Not perfectly. But enough that I could feel the difference. I slept more deeply. My breath came easier. The constant vigilance softened.

Healing stopped being theoretical.

It became tangible. Trusting the process was no longer about hope. It was about evidence.

When Trusting the Process Became Real

The three years after that first rupture were not easy—but they unfolded differently. Each time we lifted another rug, opened another door, or told another hard truth, my body responded.

With each honest reckoning, my nervous system learned something my mind already knew: real change was happening. We examined everything with clear eyes—our marriage, our childhoods, the coping strategies we had mistaken for personality. 

We looked at attachment, mental health, silence, and survival. The conversations didn’t always end neatly, and they didn’t always end kindly, but they were honest.

His Work: Turning Inward Instead of Away

One of the most meaningful shifts came when he stopped focusing on repairing us and started confronting himself. He didn’t stop at the affair. He took responsibility for who he had been long before it—the rage, the avoidance, the entitlement, the emotional volatility, the relationships he built and thought he needed, and the lies he told himself he had control.

Therapy revealed what had always been there: ADHD, Borderline Personality Disorder, deep abandonment wounds, and a lifelong chase for validation as relief from shame.

These diagnoses weren’t excuses. They were context. For the first time, he stayed with discomfort instead of running from it. He stopped minimizing, deflecting, and explaining—and started owning. He learned how to pause instead of react. How to stay present instead of disappearing. How to tolerate shame without numbing or outsourcing it.

Trusting the process for him meant facing himself without escape.

My Work: Reclaiming Myself

I did my own work—just as deeply. I opened every door from childhood to adulthood. I faced grief from the affair and grief that had nothing to do with the affair and everything to do with who I learned to be long before it.

I confronted the patterns that taught me to over-function, to minimize myself, to stay quiet, to keep the peace. I stopped confusing endurance with love. I stopped shrinking to be loved. I learned that boundaries are not walls—they are doors. Doors I control.

I learned that forgiveness is a choice—not an obligation, not a timeline, and not something owed. Forgiveness does not mean access. It isn’t automatic, and it isn’t required on demand. Sometimes forgiveness comes when holding onto the hurt becomes heavier than letting it go. When that happens, forgiving isn’t about excusing what occurred; it’s about choosing your own peace over carrying the weight of someone else’s actions.

But forgiveness is not always necessary to heal. And that truth matters.

You are allowed to protect yourself without softening the truth.

You are allowed to heal without rewriting what happened. You are not bitter. You are not stuck. You are not broken if forgiveness doesn’t feel right.

Peace can come through forgiveness.

But peace can also come through acceptance, clarity, boundaries, and letting go in your own way.

And most importantly, I learned this truth: I do not have to abandon myself to stay.

By the end of those three years, I wasn’t healed, but I was grounded. I trusted myself again. I knew my boundaries. I knew what I would and would not tolerate. The fear hadn’t disappeared—but it no longer ran my life.

The Ripple Effect of a Regulated Marriage

The stability we created at home didn’t stay contained—it rippled outward into every part of my life. As our marriage became more grounded, my nervous system began to trust safety again.

Triggers didn’t vanish, but they became less overwhelming. Certain songs, memories, or moments that once sent me into panic now stirred only awareness. Why? Because we talked through them. Because we stayed present with the discomfort instead of avoiding it. Each time I shared what I felt, and he stayed with me—without minimizing, rushing, or explaining away—I learned that I could experience fear without it controlling me.

Boundaries stopped feeling situational; they became a way of living. At work, I no longer operated from urgency or guilt. I communicated clearly, protected my energy, and trusted my instincts about what was sustainable. In friendships, I became more discerning—not colder, just clearer. I stopped over-giving to relationships that lacked reciprocity and stopped confusing proximity with connection. 

Over time, the moments that used to feel like minefields—the evenings near the anniversary of D-Day, the places that once carried weight—became easier. Less triggering, less consuming, because we had walked through them together, acknowledged them, and understood they were signals of unhealed parts, not hidden betrayals.

The marriage we rebuilt reinforced this truth daily: safety isn’t created by managing others. It is created by honoring yourself consistently. The more we did that, the more our lives reflected that stability—not just at home, but everywhere we showed up.

Rebuilding Through Time, Healing, and Consistency

The last three years have been marked by quiet victories more than dramatic moments. Our family wasn’t restored by pretending nothing happened. It was rebuilt by showing up differently—intentionally, consistently, and honestly.

Our children didn’t need perfection. They needed emotional safety, consistent responses, and accountability modeled in real time. As our nervous systems regulated, our home followed. There was less volatility. Fewer moments where silence felt heavy or unpredictable. Laughter returned—not forced or performative, but genuine. 

We didn’t go back to being a family. We became one again—consciously.

Triggers still appeared, but they no longer sent shockwaves. They became conversations instead of crises, signals instead of threats. 

Each year that approached D-Day was easier than the last, not because the memory faded, but because we had the tools, the practice, and the shared commitment to walk through it. We didn’t avoid the pain; we experienced it together. 

And in those moments, safety grew stronger than fear. That is what real progress looks like—not the absence of reminders, but the presence of safety when they appear.

Healing Beyond Marriage: Expansion and Self-Integration

This healing was never meant to stay contained within our marriage. As I learned to trust myself again, I saw how deeply my old patterns extended into every part of my life.

For years, I equated being “easy” with being safe. I overextended at work. I stayed quiet in relationships where my needs were minimized. I absorbed responsibility that wasn’t mine. The rupture didn’t create these patterns, but it made them impossible to ignore. 

As I practiced boundaries at home, I practiced them everywhere. I stopped over-explaining. I stopped tolerating dynamics that relied on my silence or self-sacrifice. I learned that saying no didn’t require justification and that disappointment, mine or others’, was not a threat.

Healing reshapes how you move through the world. I wasn’t just rebuilding a marriage—I was becoming a more integrated version of myself, one who could stand firmly in her values without shrinking or abandoning herself to be accepted. And as my internal stability strengthened, I could show up more fully for others, especially our family.

Healing wasn’t just about reducing pain—it was about expansion. About becoming available to life again, without losing myself in the process. Every trigger we faced, every anniversary that once felt like a minefield, every moment we stayed present instead of retreating—these were all steps toward a life built on honesty, boundaries, and trust. 

This, too, was part of trusting the process.