As my therapist and I dive deeper into my past and my marriage, a lot of questions and old feelings come back.

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Some questions are starting to keep me up at night again. Some make my anger resurge. I find myself breaking things down step by step, reevaluating. I am not trying to see if I could have done things differently. I just want to ensure I have truly grown and learned, since I can only control myself.

There had been joy—laughter, light, and love. Then came the first shift. It wasn’t long into my marriage.

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I had some minor medical issues. We went to the doctor together to explore options. After the appointment, he was upset. He felt the doctor hadn’t acknowledged his presence or involvement. Not long after, he came home from work. When I mentioned I was following the doctor’s instructions, I was reprimanded. He said I hadn’t given him a heads-up or considered how that decision might make him feel.

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Nothing more was said. Nothing more was done.

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I stopped listening to the doctor and carried on with my life. That was when I learned an unspoken rule: if I did exactly what was expected of me—no more, no less—we would have a peaceful household.

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For a while, that worked.

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Then I noticed messages on his phone. I confronted him. We cried. We promised to work through it together. For a time, we didn’t talk about it. But the messages continued. When I brought them up again, I was met with, “You’re not giving me space or trusting me, so what do you expect me to do?”

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So I stopped talking—at least at certain times.

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And he was right—I didn’t trust him. Not anymore. Not completely. I kept snooping. I didn’t give space or privacy.

I don’t know what I was looking for. Evidence? Proof that my sadness was justified? Something to scream about? Something to validate how I felt?

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And really—why did I need that so badly? Why was I so determined to prove my pain was real?

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In many ways, that sums up the flaw in our first year. Trust was broken early, and as we entered our second year—despite still loving one another—we never truly did the work to repair what had been lost.

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Looking back, I see my own fault. Regardless of how this story may sound, there was fault on both sides. That doesn’t mean the fault was equal—one person can bear more responsibility than the other. We are human, and humans are full of faults.

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What matters is how we respond to our mistakes. Over time, I've learned that our faults aren't meant to define us—they're meant to teach us. They challenge us to reflect, grow, and become better than we were before.

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I still catch myself placing blame on my own shoulders, and there are moments when forgiving myself doesn't come easily. But through experience, I've learned that holding onto guilt only keeps me stuck. More often now, I'm able to acknowledge my mistakes, learn from them, and let them go so I can continue moving forward and growing.