Gifts for Mom, Grandparents, Besties and YOU🎄 ➔

You need to stop being the victim of divorce. 

My head snapped up. I looked at her and felt as though she just slapped me. My whole body jerked and I felt the dreaded rush of heat going through my body. The roaring in my head grew louder. I blinked. Again and again. Trying to keep the tears from falling. 

Just like that, I realized she was right. I am. I have played this role well. Wrapping it around me like a gorgeous red velvet cloak. Showing my scars and hurts to whoever was around. Look at me. I am sad. I was left. I was tossed aside like an old worn dress. I never wanted pity. But I did want something. For I was the victim. 

I know it takes time to grieve. I know it takes time to accept and understand this new life that was handed to me. Healing doesn’t happen instantly. It is complicated and complex. But I will never achieve true and real healing if I keep playing this game. I stated at the very beginning I didn’t want to be bitter or angry. The title bitter ex-wife makes me sick. But so does victim of divorce. And victim of single motherhood. And victim of an affair. The victim. 

Somehow I turned into all of these. 

It is never easy to hear negative but true comments about oneself. But when our new family therapist said this out loud, I knew it was true. The next day I repeated the conversation to my therapist and she just smiled and nodded. Yes. I have been. Yes. It is time for a change. 

The change begins with me. I admit when it comes to my former husband and his life, I am very judgmental. I am negative and full of resentment. Yes, he has hurt me and our marriage is over. He is living a life with someone else. And I am so focused on how they are living their life and criticizing them, I was harming myself, them, and our boys. 

So here I am. Admitting it out loud. So I can end how I have been living and start working on how I can more forward. Do I know what to do to change this? Not really. But then I have been fumbling my way through this entire process already. Making mistakes. Trying again. Apologizing. 

I have to stop with the negativity. Thoughts are powerful. I notice when I focus on the negative I feel horrible inside. I don’t enjoy who I am. I also don’t have to be overly positive when I think of them either. But I can look for the good. I can look for kindness. I can look for love. Because it is present. It is real. 

What has been done is done. I can’t change it. Neither can they. Rather than me constantly throwing it back at them wearing my cloak of victim, I can stop. I know by writing this out and making the steps to change, it won’t happen overnight. This is not magic and the snap of my fingers doesn’t make my heart stop hurting and grieving. I know my thoughts will pop up negative automatically and I will have to consciously switch it to neutral or positive. I have to begin the hard work with my therapist of taking off the cloak. 

I have been allowing what has happened to me lead me. It has been the shield protecting me from the world. Rather than admit I feel shame from the end of my marriage, shame of being divorced, shame in resentment and anger, I have been the victim. And I am sorry. 

Yes, what happened has broken me, hurt me, and changed me. I am still healing. However, I am done with allowing events to become who I am. I want to be someone who isn’t a victim, but someone who found a way to forgive—them and myself—to move forward with my head held high in a humble way, to change my thinking and perspective. 

I am the victim of divorce. 

And working to be no more. 

If you liked this, you'll love our new book, SO GOD MADE A MOTHER available for pre-order now!

Pre-Order Now

Katie Weber

Me. My two little men. My second change. Motherhood. Depression. Divorce. Love. God. laugher. Friendship. My lovely. It's all right here. Follow along for more at Lovely in the Dark. 

I Thought Our Friendship Would Be Unbreakable

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Two friends selfie

The message notification pinged on my phone. A woman, once one of my best friends, was reaching out to me via Facebook. Her message simply read, “Wanted to catch up and see how life was treating you!”  I had very conflicting feelings. It seemed with that one single message, a flood of memories surfaced. Some held some great moments and laughter. Other memories held disappointment and hurt of a friendship that simply had run its course. Out of morbid curiosity, I clicked on her profile page to see how the years had been treating her. She was divorced and still...

Keep Reading

The First 10 Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking

In: Journal, Marriage, Relationships
The First Ten Years: How Two Broken People Kept Their Marriage from Breaking www.herviewfromhome.com

We met online in October of 2005, by way of a spam email ad I was THIS CLOSE to marking as trash. Meet Single Christians! My cheese alert siren sounded loudly, but for some reason, I unchecked the delete box and clicked through to the site. We met face-to-face that Thanksgiving. As I awaited your arrival in my mother’s kitchen, my dad whispered to my little brother, “Hide your valuables. Stacy has some guy she met online coming for Thanksgiving dinner.” We embraced for the first time in my parents’ driveway. I was wearing my black cashmere sweater with the...

Keep Reading

To The Mother Who Is Overwhelmed

In: Inspiration, Motherhood
Tired woman with coffee sitting at table

I have this one head. It is a normal sized head. It didn’t get bigger because I had children. Just like I didn’t grow an extra arm with the birth of each child. I mean, while that would be nice, it’s just not the case. We keep our one self. And the children we add on each add on to our weight in this life. And the head didn’t grow more heads because we become a wife to someone. Or a boss to someone. We carry the weight of motherhood. The decisions we must make each day—fight the shorts battle...

Keep Reading

You’re a Little Less Baby Today Than Yesterday

In: Journal, Motherhood
Toddler sleeping in mother's arms

Tiny sparkles are nestled in the wispy hair falling across her brow, shaken free of the princess costume she pulled over her head this morning. She’s swathed in pink: a satiny pink dress-up bodice, a fluffy, pink, slightly-less-glittery-than-it-was-two-hours-ago tulle skirt, a worn, soft pink baby blanket. She’s slowed long enough to crawl into my lap, blinking heavy eyelids. She’s a little less baby today than she was only yesterday.  Soon, she’ll be too big, too busy for my arms.  But today, I’m rocking a princess. The early years will be filled with exploration and adventure. She’ll climb atop counters and...

Keep Reading

Dear Husband, I Loved You First

In: Marriage, Motherhood, Relationships
Man and woman kissing in love

Dear husband, I loved you first. But often, you get the last of me. I remember you picking me up for our first date. I spent a whole hour getting ready for you. Making sure every hair was in place and my make-up was perfect. When you see me now at the end of the day, the make-up that is left on my face is smeared. My hair is more than likely in a ponytail or some rat’s nest on the top of my head. And my outfit, 100% has someone’s bodily fluids smeared somewhere. But there were days when...

Keep Reading

Stop Being a Butthole Wife

In: Grief, Journal, Marriage, Relationships
Man and woman sit on the end of a dock with arms around each other

Stop being a butthole wife. No, I’m serious. End it.  Let’s start with the laundry angst. I get it, the guy can’t find the hamper. It’s maddening. It’s insanity. Why, why, must he leave piles of clothes scattered, the same way that the toddler does, right? I mean, grow up and help out around here, man. There is no laundry fairy. What if that pile of laundry is a gift in disguise from a God you can’t (yet) see? Don’t roll your eyes, hear me out on this one. I was a butthole wife. Until my husband died. The day...

Keep Reading

I Can’t Be Everyone’s Chick-fil-A Sauce

In: Friendship, Journal, Living, Relationships
woman smiling in the sun

A couple of friends and I went and grabbed lunch at Chick-fil-A a couple of weeks ago. It was delightful. We spent roughly $20 apiece, and our kids ran in and out of the play area barefoot and stinky and begged us for ice cream, to which we responded, “Not until you finish your nuggets,” to which they responded with a whine, and then ran off again like a bolt of crazy energy. One friend had to climb into the play tubes a few times to save her 22-month-old, but it was still worth every penny. Every. Single. One. Even...

Keep Reading

Love Notes From My Mother in Heaven

In: Faith, Grief, Journal, Living
Woman smelling bunch of flowers

Twelve years have passed since my mother exclaimed, “I’ve died and gone to Heaven!” as she leaned back in her big donut-shaped tube and splashed her toes, enjoying the serenity of the river.  Twelve years since I stood on the shore of that same river, 45 minutes later, watching to see if the hopeful EMT would be able to revive my mother as she floated toward his outstretched hands. Twelve years ago, I stood alone in my bedroom, weak and trembling, as I opened my mother’s Bible and all the little keepsakes she’d stowed inside tumbled to the floor.  It...

Keep Reading

Sometimes Friendships End, No Matter How Hard You Try

In: Friendship, Journal, Relationships
Sad woman alone without a friend

I tried. We say these words for two reasons. One: for our own justification that we made an effort to complete a task; and two: to admit that we fell short of that task. I wrote those words in an e-mail tonight to a friend I had for nearly 25 years after not speaking to her for eight months. It was the third e-mail I’ve sent over the past few weeks to try to reconcile with a woman who was more of a sister to me at some points than my own biological sister was. It’s sad when we drift...

Keep Reading

Goodbye to the House That Built Me

In: Grown Children, Journal, Living, Relationships
Ranch style home as seen from the curb

In the winter of 1985, while I was halfway done growing in my mom’s belly, my parents moved into a little brown 3 bedroom/1.5 bath that was halfway between the school and the prison in which my dad worked as a corrections officer. I would be the first baby they brought home to their new house, joining my older sister. I’d take my first steps across the brown shag carpet that the previous owner had installed. The back bedroom was mine, and mom plastered Smurf-themed wallpaper on the accent wall to try to get me to sleep in there every...

Keep Reading