Trusting the Process, Part 3

The Last Three Years and the Marriage We Built

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 last three years were not about repairing what broke. They were about building something entirely new. By then, we were no longer operating from shock or survival. 

We were two people who had faced ourselves, separately and together, and made conscious choices about how we wanted to live. Not perfectly. But intentionally.

The question was no longer Can we survive this? It became: Who are we going to be now?

Living With Risk Without Living in Fear

For a long time after betrayal, there was a quiet that followed the apologies. Not peace—but the persistent, underlying question: What if it happens again?

That question stayed longer than I expected. It lingered even on days that felt calm, even in moments of progress.

Giving someone another chance was never just an act of love—it was a long-term gamble with my heart. What changed wasn’t the existence of risk. It was my relationship to it. I stopped relying on constant reassurance and started relying on myself.

Boundaries became non-negotiable—not as punishment or control, but as protection. No undersharing. No half-truths. No blurred lines. No minimizing. No pretending. These weren’t rules to manage someone else—they were lifelines that anchored me.

Each time I honored a boundary, my nervous system learned something new: I see clearly now. I trust myself. I protect my peace. Fear loosened its grip—not because nothing could go wrong, but because I no longer abandoned myself when it did.

The Marriage We Created: Mirrors of Healing

Before D-Day, our marriage operated like many do: separate activities, separate interests, separate spaces. He had his mountain biking; I had my yoga, solo weekends, personal routines.

We thought independence protected the marriage. It did—but it wasn’t enough to create the depth of connection, trust, and resilience we now know is possible.

During our healing, we made a conscious—and sometimes scary—choice: to integrate more of our lives, to seek shared experiences that required collaboration, patience, and mutual presence. That decision—simple on the surface but profound in practice—became a cornerstone of our recovery.

Mountain biking became a metaphor for us: learning to face fear without letting it take control, finding our center after a fall, and trusting ourselves again on unpredictable terrain. Each trail reflected our journey: unexpected turns, moments of uncertainty, and the joy of finding rhythm despite obstacles. Courage wasn’t just a word—it was a practice.

Hiking reminded us that healing isn’t linear. Some climbs left us sore and breathless; others revealed breathtaking views we’d only earn through patience and endurance. Seasons mirrored recovery: summer masked fatigue, winter exposed what we’d neglected, spring demanded care and attention, and autumn asked us to let go of what no longer served.

Building puzzles became a quiet practice of presence and resilience. Some pieces fit easily, others took time or seemed lost—but persistence, teamwork, and careful observation always revealed the bigger picture. Each completed puzzle mirrored our marriage: victories celebrated together, frustration endured together, patience cultivated together.

As we started traveling to our destinations for biking and hiking, hours spent in a vehicle—talking, sharing, laughing, even crying—deepened that sense of connection. Traveling reinforced this integration. Plans shifted without warning. Those moments weren’t about escape; they were practice in staying grounded together, supporting one another when the world felt unstable.

Spending time together now is exciting and loving in a way that feels different. Sharing the small details of our days, hearing about each other’s experiences, and celebrating little wins has become its own form of intimacy. It’s not just being in the same space—it’s being truly present for one another.

This journey also revealed the dynamics of our wider life. During this period of deep focus on our marriage, we lost some relationships we thought were permanent. Yet we also gained others we never expected—and we are deeply grateful for both. Choosing the path we chose has shown us clearly who is meant to be in our lives and who isn’t.

 It’s a lesson in discernment, alignment, and the value of genuine connection.

Our conversations now carry the same lessons. They are honest, grounded, respectful. We can disagree without fear. Speak openly without battles. Listen to understand, not to defend. Even in conflict, there is support. Even in difference, there is safety.

And then there are the quiet moments: the small gestures, the unspoken care, the presence that doesn’t need explanation.

The intimacy we share now isn’t just physical; it’s emotional, intentional, deeply attuned. It’s the experience of being fully seen—and still chosen.

This marriage exists because we faced what needed to be faced. Because we moved through fear, embraced discomfort, endured the climbs, and celebrated victories, both big and small, together. Because we chose to be present, to share life fully, and to let the people who matter walk beside us.

Shared Adventures as Evidence of Healing

Our hobbies and adventures are not distractions from recovery—they are its reflection. Mountain biking, hiking, puzzles, travel: each became a way to practice resilience, patience, courage, and trust.

Together, we enjoy new adventures—new places to explore—new memories filled with curiosity, excitement, and the quiet assurance that we can face whatever comes, because we’ve already faced the worst—and stayed.

At the time, we didn’t recognize what was unfolding. We weren’t aware that these moments—these long drives, shifting plans, shared silences, and small triumphs—were quietly reshaping us. We didn’t yet understand how each new experience was strengthening us individually, or how deeply it was binding us together as a couple. We were simply showing up, choosing forward motion, trusting something we couldn’t yet name. Only in looking back can we see how those experiences became the foundation of our healing.

Every trail, every climb, every challenge reminds us: healing isn’t a destination. It’s a way of moving through life, together, with eyes open, hearts steady, and hands willing to hold each other through the hard parts.