For many years, alcohol had been a presence in our home–not through my own choice, but through someone I loved. I didn’t grow up with it. In fact, my childhood home was dry, even at family gatherings. So when I married into a family where alcohol was at the center of nearly everything, I didn’t realize how deeply it would effect me, or how long those effects would last.
My husband eventually stopped drinking–something I am truly grateful for. His decision took strength, and it changed the trajectory of our family. But while the alcohol left, the hurt didn’t. The effect lingered in quiet ways: in the way I flinched at raised voices, the way I braced myself for disappointment, the way I tried to keep peace at all costs. I had learned to survive in a world built around someone else’s habit. And even after those habits were gone, the survival mode stayed.
Healing from those years hasn’t been simple. It’s been slow and deeply personal. And one of the hardest part is this: to this day talking about that season of life is nearly impossible. If I bring up the past, I’m met with. “I quit. That’s the past. Don’t bring it up.”
But I’ve come to realize that healing and blame are not the same. I’m not trying to hold anyone hostage to their mistakes–I’m trying to free myself from the weight I’ve been carrying. Talking about the past isn’t about punishing someone. It’s about naming what was, so I can move forward more whole.
I share this not to cast shame or stir up pain, but to reach out to others who may be living in that silence. You’re not alone if you still feel the echoes of what once was. It’s okay to speak about what hurt you, even if the hurting has stopped. It’s okay to need healing, even when others believe everything is “better now.”
I have learned that God can handle the things we are afraid to say out loud. He sees our wounds, even the ones others don’t think we should have anymore, And He’s patient with our healing, even when others are not. This journey is still unfolding. But I’ve taken the first brave steps–by naming the past, trusting God with the pain, and believing that healing is not just possible–it’s promised.
It’s just not my story, though. The effects reaches beyond the souse–they ripple through a home and land on the hearts of the children too. Our kids saw and felt things no child should have to. They learned to read the room too quickly, to hold in their feelings, and to live with tension they didn’t cause. Our oldest carried responsibilities far beyond her years. She stepped in where things were falling apart, trying to bring stability where she could. I have carried deep sorrow over that–wishing I could go back and lift that weight from her shoulders. I know each of our children has their own story to tell about what those years were like, and I won’t speak for them. Their experiences are theirs to share, in their own time, if and when they choose.
A PRAYER FOR THE WOUNDED HEARTS
Lord,
You see every scar we carry–the ones on our hearts, the ones our children silently bear. You know the pain that was never spoken, the tears that were hidden, the weight that was too heavy for their young shoulders. We place all of it–our past, our pain, and our people–into your healing hands. Give peace to those still in the storm. Give comfort to those just beginning to speak their truth. And give grace to us all as we walk this road of healing, one step at a time. Heal what we cannot fix. Redeem what we cannot understand. And remind us that you are always with us–binding up the wounds, lifting the burdens, and writing a new story. Amen.
