The Fear

Divorce carries a thousand sharp edges, but one of the deepest cuts for me was fear.

Not long after the separation, fear didn’t just whisper, it moved in. It ran through my mind and my body every single day, relentless and loud. For so long, my confidence had been braided into my marriage, and when it ended, it felt like the strength I leaned on walked out the door with it. Suddenly, things I’d never thought twice about began to loom over me like threats.

Could I really succeed at my job and be a single mom?
Could I keep up with the house?
What was I even supposed to do with the water softener downstairs?
Would the ache in my chest ever stop hurting?

Every morning, I woke up with an anxiety so heavy it felt physical, like a weight pressing into my ribs. The sadness was there, too, a deep, persistent pain that made even ordinary tasks feel impossible. I wasn’t the only one hurting. My kids were hurting right alongside me, and on the nights when the fear felt especially unbearable, the three of us would sleep in the same room. Not because it fixed anything, but because it helped us feel less alone. It kept our minds from drifting too far into the dark corners.

Because when we were alone, fear always made its debut.

My son became convinced someone was going to break into our house at night. One evening, with wide eyes and a trembling voice he tried to hide, he asked if he could sleep with a baseball bat in his room. My daughter’s sadness seemed to grow heavier after sunset. Nighttime was the hardest for her. She dreaded going to bed, afraid of what tomorrow would bring, afraid of what this new life might look like. And heartbreakingly, she carried a lie no child should ever carry, she was certain the divorce was her fault.

When I look back on that season, I’m honestly amazed at the ferocity of fear that swept through our home. It was as if someone unleashed it against the three of us, and it hit like ocean waves crashing into the shore, one after another, pounding, exhausting, relentless. And if I’m being honest, we still have to stay diligent to keep it from pulling us under, especially at night.

It was during that time that I began a study on David in the Old Testament. I’ve always felt a kinship with him, partly because I’ve long believed he was a fellow redhead, but mostly because of the way his emotions sit so honestly on the page. David didn’t polish his prayers. He didn’t tidy up his pain. And when I read his desperation in Psalm 142:6–7, I recognized more than just a personality… I recognized a fellow sufferer.

“Listen to my cry, for I am in desperate need;
rescue me from those who pursue me, for they are too strong for me.
Set me free from my prison, that I may praise your name.
Then the righteous will gather about me because of your goodness to me.”

I understood that kind of desperation. I needed rescuing, too. I didn’t have enemies chasing me with swords, but fear had cornered me all the same. Anxiety felt like a prison cell I couldn’t unlock. Depression wrapped around my ankles like chains. I smiled for my kids and kept moving because I had to, but inside, I felt trapped.

At the time David wrote those words, he was living in a cave, literally hiding while his enemies hunted him. David’s cave was real and dark and dangerous. Mine was invisible, but it was just as suffocating. My sadness and fear had caved in around me in a way I’d never experienced before. His cave became a picture of my own pit.

But here’s what caught me: even in the cave, David still believed God’s promises.  And I needed to learn how to do that, too. I needed to let go and believe God's promises, just like David.  

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what it meant to “let go.” I assumed it meant snapping my fingers and suddenly feeling better. But God didn’t rush me. He showed me slowly, gently, through a process that required bravery I didn’t think I had. He led me, step by step, into the most tender, painful places of my heart, not to harm me, but to heal me.

And along the way, He revealed something surprising: some of my grief didn’t begin with divorce. There were wounds inside me that were older than this story, sadness I’d carried for years, fear that had learned to live in my bones. And He showed me He wasn’t intimidated by any of it. He intended to bring His powerful healing right into the center of my pain.

To begin getting better, He showed me three things I needed to focus on:

First, I could no longer have idols before God, even if that idol was my marriage.
I had to stop looking for a second savior, a substitute to soothe me, validate me, rescue me, or make me feel safe again. I had to believe in my real Savior like I’d never believed Him before.

Second, I had to let my ex go, truly let him go.  I had to stop trying to control the outcome, stop trying to manipulate the story into turning out the way I wanted. I had to accept that I couldn’t force love to return. I could only move forward, one step at a time, with God’s hand in mine.

Third, I had to learn, really learn, how much God loves me.  I don’t know that anyone can fully comprehend it, but I had to try. Because if I didn’t, I would keep searching for love in other places, and that would only deepen the ache.

I had been through so much. I was so broken and so exhausted that obedience wasn’t a “spiritual goal” anymore, it was survival. I couldn’t afford more pain. I was desperate to get better.

And yes, there were times I slipped.  I still do.  There were days I backtracked, days I cried until my throat hurt, days I felt angry and confused and tired of trying. But I kept coming back. I kept telling God, I’ll get up again. I’ll keep moving forward. But I need You, every step of the way.

And He did not leave.

There is light on the other side of this.

I pray, if you’re reading this, that your marriage can be saved. I pray for restoration and healing and softening hearts and miracles that only God can do. But if it can’t be saved, I want you to know something just as clearly:

God loves you tremendously.
He will heal.
He will bind up your wounds.

So if you’re in the middle of it right now, if your chest is tight, if bedtime feels hard, if fear is prowling the hallways of your mind, I want you to hear this:

You are not forgotten.
You are not alone.

You are a daughter of the Most High… and He does not forget His daughters.