“It’s Not You, It’s Me”

Betrayal has a way of making you question everything about yourself. You replay every word, every action, every silence, asking, “What did I do wrong?”

But what if the answer is nothing? What if the truth—the painful, freeing truth—is that it was never about you at all?

It’s crazy how one realization can be both freeing and crippling: It’s not you, it’s them.

"It's not you, it's me", at first, those words can feel like a lifeline. Relief washes over you as you realize you didn’t fail. You didn’t drive them to betray you. Their choices, their actions, their brokenness—it wasn’t about you. But then the weight of the other side hits: if you didn’t cause it, you can’t control it. And that helplessness feels like a prison.

I’ll never forget sitting in therapy, hearing him say it wasn’t me at all. That I was the “perfect wife.” That what he was doing was completely outside of me. Part of me wanted to exhale—finally, the truth was on the table. But instead, my chest tightened. It was as though a thousand-pound block of ice dropped right onto my heart. The chilling weight of it—If it’s not me, then I can’t fix it. If it’s not me, then I can’t make myself safe.

And that’s when I realized something deeper: my desperate need for it to be my fault wasn’t really about him at all. It was about me. About the little girl who grew up believing she was always the problem, always the reason people hurt her, always the one to blame. If I was the problem, at least I could change. If I caused the abuse, at least I could prevent it next time. That lie was so deep-rooted in me that when he betrayed me, I instinctively searched for where I went wrong—because blame, even false blame, felt safer than helplessness.

But what was deep-rooted in him? What pain, what emptiness, what wound made him reach for destruction? I caught myself looking at him with the same eyes I use when I look at the little girl inside me—with a mix of ache and longing, wanting to understand, wanting to heal. That was the moment I realized: his brokenness was never mine to fix, just like the abuse I suffered was never my fault.

When you grow up in abuse—layer after layer of pain—control becomes your survival. It’s not even conscious. It’s instinct. Fight when you need to, run when you have to, freeze when there’s no other option. Survival mode was my default setting. But here’s the thing: survival mode works when you’re a child trying to endure trauma—it doesn’t work when you’re a grown woman trying to save a marriage you didn’t break.

And yet, that’s where I found myself. God wasn’t letting me fight. He wasn’t letting me flee. So I froze.

But freezing in my marriage didn’t stay neatly tucked inside those walls—it bled into every corner of my life. I stopped moving forward because I couldn’t even see where forward was. I couldn’t find up, couldn’t find air. I was so disoriented, it felt like I wasn’t even living in my own body anymore. My identity, my energy, my sanity all shifted into him. I lived inside his mind, obsessing over what he wasn’t saying, analyzing the cracks in his stories, trying to fix what he refused to admit was broken.

It sounds crazy, I know. But if you’ve been there, you know exactly what I mean. You’ve sat in that place, too—trying to make sense of what doesn’t make sense, because if it could be explained, then maybe you could feel safe. But the sad truth? It didn’t even make sense to him. He couldn’t answer the questions: Why am I like this? How did I get here? What void am I trying to fill? Am I even brave enough to admit there’s a void at all?

And there you sit, paralyzed—frozen in their storm, slowly losing yourself.

But let me tell you something I had to learn the hard way: control—even the illusion of it—feels like peace, stability, safety. We crave it because it convinces us we have power. That we can stop the bleeding. That we can build a wall around our hearts that no one can climb. But that’s a lie. Control won’t save you. Control won’t heal you. And control won’t fix them.

I almost wished he would’ve blamed me for something. At least then, I could’ve changed me. But here’s the truth God whispered into the rubble of my denial:
You were never meant to carry the burden of changing someone else.
You are not responsible for their brokenness.
You are not defined by their choices.

And here’s where the victory piece comes in. When we focus on fixing what we can’t fix, we find ourselves fighting from a place of defeat—constantly reacting, constantly exhausted, constantly bracing for another blow. But victory doesn’t come from that place. Victory comes from shifting our fight: from the desperation of control to the freedom of clarity. From the lies of blame to the power of truth. From trying to play savior to letting God do what only He can do.

That shift didn’t happen overnight. It took tears, silence, and some days when I could barely get out of bed. It took prayer that sounded more like groaning than eloquence. It took sitting with God in the middle of my freeze, until He gently began to thaw me out.

And here’s what I want you to hear: You are not alone. If you’re frozen right now—paralyzed by what someone else’s choices did to your soul—you are not crazy. You are not weak. You are human. And God is not disgusted with you; He is right there in the stillness, waiting to breathe life back into you.

Here are a few truths and tools that anchored me when nothing else made sense:

• You cannot control them. Release yourself from the weight of carrying their decisions. That burden was never yours.
• You can ground yourself. When your body feels like it’s floating outside of you, anchor it. Breathe deep, touch something solid, whisper truth out loud: “This is not mine to carry.”
• You can rebuild safety with God. Safety doesn’t come from control—it comes from trust. Trusting the One who sees the future you can’t see and holds the healing you can’t yet feel.
• You can move, even in small steps. Frozen doesn’t have to be forever. Sometimes healing starts with the smallest act: writing a prayer, stepping outside for fresh air, saying “no more” to the lies replaying in your head.

So breathe. Rest. Lay down the weight of trying to figure out the “why.” It was never yours to carry. You don’t need their answers to begin your healing.

Because it’s not you.
It’s them.
And God’s got you.

Takeaway

You are not responsible for someone else’s damage. You are not the cause of their choices, and you are not the cure. When we focus on fixing what we cannot fix, we end up fighting from a place of defeat—exhausted, disoriented, and powerless. But true victory in your marriage, in your healing, and in your soul does not come from control; it comes from surrender. Victory is found in the clarity of knowing what is and isn’t yours to carry. Victory is found in the power of truth that sets you free. And victory is found in letting God do what only He can do. Healing begins the moment you release the weight of their brokenness from your shoulders and begin nurturing the small child inside you who has always deserved love, safety, and peace.

Put down what was never yours to carry, and pick up your crown—standing unwavering in who you are… until next time.