Admitting failure has never been easy for me. Losing isn’t really an option in my mind—I literally hate being wrong. I always push, always fight, always try.
But this time… I have to be okay with knowing that I did everything I could, even if it wasn’t enough.
Ugh. It sounds gross, doesn’t it? Something people say when they’re making excuses. “At least you tried your hardest… you’ll get ’em next time.” I hate that line. It feels like a consolation prize for losers—or worse, for parents of losers.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t a game I lost, or an assignment I failed. It was bigger. Much bigger. I failed. Again.
Spoiler alert: I left my husband. We are divorced. Our marriage is over. Our dream of forever together failed. And yes… I feel like I failed too.
I had very little control over the circumstances that ultimately led me to file for divorce. But in the end, it was me who finally said enough. I was the one to throw in the towel. I didn’t say those exact words aloud, but that’s exactly what it felt like: I gave up. I couldn’t do it anymore. I freaking quit.
I don’t think I’ve ever quit anything in my life—certainly not something I held so close to my heart, something I wanted so badly. Anyone who knows my story might think I’m crazy for feeling like a failure. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
Ending my marriage wasn’t even the hardest part. The hardest part was letting go of the dream I had carried for years: the dream of a happily ever after. I knew, deep down, that my marriage was over long before the divorce papers were signed. But giving up on the idea of my dream—it nearly broke me. I tried, though. I really did. I don’t give up, ever. But this time… I was forced to.
I wanted, I expected, my happily ever after. And yet… at least I tried my hardest.
I think I knew early on that things would never be the same once Kyle’s addiction began. But I didn’t realize just how much it would cost me—or that it would eventually make me walk away. I begged him, pleaded with him, over and over again, to get a hold of himself. And each time, he convinced me that he had it under control. For over a year, I believed him.
The strangest thing, looking back, is that I never called him an addict. I said he was addicted to pain pills… or Adderall… or meth… but never that he was an “addict.” Not the full, devastating kind that changes lives. I couldn’t see it—or perhaps I just couldn’t allow myself to.
Then last October, everything changed. I had to face the truth in the most public, undeniable way. I had to tell a police officer that my husband was an addict after he had attacked me—leaving handprints, cuts, grass stains, and rug burns all over my body. I had to call my parents and tell them their son-in-law was an addict and that he had been arrested for domestic violence. I had to tell a neighbor while hiding in a garage, waiting for the police. I had to tell a friend after her mother-in-law saw him in the police car. And worst of all, I had to tell my two oldest boys that their father was an addict, that he wouldn’t be home for a while, and that he had hurt me.
I watched them break down in tears, gripped by fear and confusion. No words I offered could protect them from the “what ifs” that consumed their little minds. The pain I saw in their eyes literally shattered my heart.
And that is addiction. It destroys thoughts. It corrupts minds. It breaks hearts. It hurts. So much.
And imagine what it does to the addict. I can’t even begin to fathom what Kyle was thinking that day—or even now.
Even after this life-altering, dream-shattering incident, it wasn’t enough for him to change. I prayed that jail would be his rock bottom. He spent five days there. I thought it would be enough.
Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.
Honestly, I still don’t know if he’s ever hit his rock bottom. All I can do is pray—for him, for my kids, for my own sanity, my future, and my happiness.
Through this journey, I’ve learned firsthand how loving an addict or an abuser can make someone lose hope for a better life. But I still believe in the possibility of a happily ever after. I found the courage to share my story because I hope it will help others start speaking up too, to break the silence and begin the path toward healing.
Even in the heartbreak, even in the failure… there is hope. And sometimes, just trying your hardest is everything.
