The Grief of Lost Years

I held a newborn in one arm and the weight of betrayal in the other.

My youngest was six weeks old. My oldest was ten. I was up at 3AM with a baby on my chest, Googling “signs he’s still lying.”

Getting the kids ready for school meant digging through weeks of clean laundry—because folding felt like Everest. Most mornings, we limped through the Dunkin’ drive-through.

I was mothering. Functioning.

But inside?

I was gone. A shell of myself.

That was the year the truth detonated my life.

What no one tells you is that betrayal doesn’t just steal your peace—it steals your presence. Your time. Your memory. Your ability to look your child in the eyes and fully be there.

No one talks about the grief of lost years.

Because technically, I didn’t go anywhere.

I was at the school concerts. I bought the birthday balloons. I took the pictures.

But I look back now—and so many of those moments are just… gone.

Hijacked by hypervigilance. Blurred by brain fog. Muted by the silent scream of:

What is happening to my life?

There’s no funeral for that kind of loss.

No sympathy cards when you forget the bedtime prayer because you’re scrolling a recovery app.

No casserole when you miss your baby’s first laugh because you’re reading a disclosure timeline in the bathroom.

There is so much shame around it.

Especially in Christian spaces—where we’re told to forgive, move on, be strong for the kids.

But what if staying strong meant I never stopped to grieve what I’d lost?

What they lost?

This past June, two of my kids graduated—one from high school, one from middle school.

We posed for the pictures. We smiled. We celebrated.

And I ached.

Not just because they’re growing up—but because there are whole seasons I can’t clearly remember.

Some things I remember.

Some I ache to.

Like the beach trip where I should’ve remembered my son’s sandcastle—the way my daughter’s eyes lit up when she’d bring the “perfect” shell to me for safekeeping, or the way my one-year-old fell asleep on my chest, lulled by the rhythm of the waves.

But those aren’t the things that stuck.

Instead, I remember the young woman in the bikini.

I remember tracking her every move—because I was tracking his.

Watching for signs. Bracing for impact. Wondering if this moment would become one I’d later have to recover from.

The grief isn’t just about not being present.

It’s about all the energy I poured into calculating how safe or unsafe every moment might be.

It’s about the way my body stayed on high alert while my kids just wanted to play in the sand.

And listen—maybe your story doesn’t include children.

Maybe the grief you carry shows up in different photos, different milestones, different almosts.

Maybe it was the dream of becoming a mother that you had to put on hold.

The degree you couldn’t finish because survival took priority.

The job you walked away from because your nervous system was holding on by a thread.

The wedding you postponed.

The move you canceled.

The med school graduation you went to alone—because having the person who broke your heart in the audience would’ve crushed you.

I see you.

And I’m so sorry.

It was never supposed to be this way.

No matter what you lost—time, dreams, memories, milestones—your grief is real.

And it matters.

For a long time, I thought peace would come when things felt safe again—when the truth stopped unraveling, when my partner changed, when I could finally forgive.

But the peace I’ve found didn’t come with answers or closure or the fairytale ending I used to pray for.

It came in pieces.

It came the first time I said:

“I don’t remember that birthday. And it breaks my heart.”

It came when I stopped performing for the world and started grieving for the woman I used to be—and the mother I wanted to be before betrayal hit.

It came when I realized that forgiveness doesn’t erase the grief.

And grief doesn’t mean I’ve failed.

It means I loved deeply.

Showed up fiercely.

Survived something sacred and savage all at once.

Now… I show up different.

Because I know now that joy doesn’t erase grief—it lives beside it.

I don’t try to “make up” for lost time. That’s not possible.

I honor it.

I name it.

I let myself feel it all… especially the ache that still lingers when a milestone hits and the highlight reel feels blurry.

God is restoring me—not by giving me back those years, but by making me fully alive in the ones I have now.

Awake in my body.

Present in my parenting.

Rooted in reality.

And unapologetically here.

I didn’t choose betrayal.

But I get to decide what kind of woman—what kind of mother—rises from it.