When Love Breaks You but God Calls You to Stay

Five weeks. That’s how long I lay in that bed, trapped in one of the most intense seasons of depression and brokenness I have ever experienced. And this time, it wasn’t just life “lifing”—it was the betrayals. Hidden betrayals from women I considered friends—people I trusted, shared memories with, even broke bread with—and from my own husband. For over a decade, secrets lingered quietly, like a virus slowly eroding trust, and in one shattering revelation, everything came crashing down.

I was upended, tormented in heart, mind, and spirit. How could this happen again? How could the testimony I had been sharing about restoration and renewal feel undone by the very marriage I had been living in faith? Generational curses loomed on both mine and my husband’s side, echoing patterns of deception, broken trust, and betrayal—and now, they had found me, resurfacing in a way that felt almost designed to crush me.

The avalanche of lies hit with the force of a tidal wave: “You’re not good enough. He’s going to leave you. No one could truly love you. Your first marriage failed; this one will too. You’ve sacrificed everything and for what? You’re a failure. God doesn’t want to use you.” For five weeks, I battled for my life—not just emotionally, but spiritually. And yes, I was embarrassed—humiliated, really. I wanted to completely shut down, hide Pick Up Your Crown, hide my marriage, hide my pain from everyone. I didn’t want the world to see this side of me—the broken, wounded, unsure version of the woman who preaches restoration, who writes about hope.

But this time, it felt different. I felt different. And I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing. I didn’t know if I had gone numb, if I had become incapable of choosing to love him again. I definitely did not believe it was possible for him to ever love me as I had once known. Trusting women, especially those in ministry, felt impossible—after all, the betrayals had occurred there multiple times. And trusting God? That felt like walking on razor wire. Truth be told, I was mad at Him. Why me? How could He allow this to happen? And in the quiet, He whispered back: Why not you?

It has taken me four years to share any of this because I didn’t want to be the poster child for a marriage riddled with indiscretions and lies. I didn’t want the world to see the process, the mountain—the climb before the promise. I wanted them to see the promise. But God was teaching me that the mountain is where the real work happens, where faith grows, where endurance becomes testimony.

In that brokenness, God revealed something profound: sometimes He assigns mountains—not to punish, but to prepare. Mountains of repeated betrayal, of pain, of endurance—assigned so that when they are moved, others will see that God can move the impossible. Obedience doesn’t always feel good. It doesn’t always make sense. Sometimes it hurts like hell. But when God assigns the mountain, He also provides the strength, the plan, and the purpose.

Scripture gives us the right to divorce in the face of infidelity, and that truth is real. But that doesn’t mean God is telling everyone to do so. I’m not here to tell anyone to stay or go. I can only share that God told me to stay. And in staying, I discovered that this mountain was also an invitation: to break generational curses, to heal old wounds that whispered I wasn’t worthy of love or restoration, to navigate trust where trust had been broken, and to show others that even the hardest mountains can be moved when God is in it.

I began to see that faith isn’t about what feels possible in the moment; it’s about what God makes possible when we follow Him through brokenness, even when every part of us screams, I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this. Why would I? The mountain didn’t disqualify me from the work God had chosen me to do through Pick Up Your Crown—instead, it became an intricate part of the assignment. My struggles weren’t setbacks; they were essential to the process. They showed me—and anyone watching—that our pain doesn’t disqualify us from God’s calling; it equips us to walk it with authenticity, depth, and power. My pain became a platform. My endurance became testimony. Pick Up Your Crown became more than a ministry; it became a living example that isn’t just about sharing what’s comfortable—it’s about being true to every chapter, even the uncomfortable ones, because someone else, sitting in the middle of their own mountain, needs to see they are not alone. God used the hardest season of my life to show that what feels impossible can be moved when He is at work, and that hope exists not just at the moment of reaching the promise, but even right in the midst of the process.

And that understanding opened the door to hope. Hope that even the deepest wounds can become channels of purpose. Hope that mountains—no matter how high, painful, or seemingly impossible—can be moved when God is at work. The promise may feel distant while we are in the process, but it is real. And when we trust Him through the climb, we begin to see that the journey itself is part of the miracle. Pain becomes preparation, endurance becomes testimony, and obedience becomes the bridge to the impossible.

This is why I share my story now. Not to highlight the pain, but to shine a light on the God who moves mountains and redeems the broken. Your struggles don’t disqualify you—they are necessary to the process. The mountain assigned to you is part of your assignment. And when God moves it, the world will see that what once seemed impossible was never beyond His power.

Your struggle may not be infidelity, and your challenge may not be your marriage—but whatever it is, it is not the end of the road, nor is it a detour; it is the path God uses to show His power in you.

~ Keep your crown in place—til we meet again.