So many tears. I never knew a person could cry as long or as often as I did in those first weeks after discovering my husband’s secret struggle with porn. The tears showed up without warning—in the shower, in the car, in the dark hours of the night when sleep wouldn’t come. I was sure the pain would stop once he fixed himself. After all, it was his fault we were in this mess. I told myself my healing would come when he finally got his act together.

For so many years, I tried to manage a life of constant busyness. My pace was rush, rush, rush — day in and day out. It felt like all I did was shuffle my kids around, toting them to-and-from private school, a 25-minute commute each way. For several years, when they were on different schedules, I drove this path back-and-forth several times a day. Five years of this wore me down.