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Hello. Nice to meet you. My husband cheated. Those words don't define me and if you find truth in those words, they don't define you either. 

No two journeys are ever the same. But if by telling mine helps even one other person it will all be worth it. Even if it's just to show that person she's not alone. 

If I was told five years ago that I would be writing a non-fiction series about my experiences as a betrayed wife, I would've told said you were out of your mind. My husband...betray me?

Umm no. Impossible. You must be confused with someone else's husband because mine would never do that.

Not in a million years. *bites fingernail* Nope. Never.

Well, a million years flashed before my eyes and kicked me in the ass because it happened and it leveled me. So much so it took me three years to face what he had done. See, I shoved the ugliness away for all that time - three years - before I could face it. Sure, it came at me like a heat-seeking missile every once in a while, knocking the air from my lungs. But I pinched it between my thumb and index finger and dropped it back into the black hole of I don't want to fucking deal with it right now and moved on with my life being the perfect mom, wife, friend, volunteer, employee, and every other profile of perfection I could find to hide what was going on in my life until I turned forty-nine. From that day forward, all bets were off. I made a pact with me to not hide, to not feel ashamed, and most of all to not blame myself. 

I had nothing to be ashamed about. He was the one who did it. Gosh, those sentences are so easy to say (and write), but believing them is a whole other animal because that's what we do.

We blame ourselves.

We shoulder responsibility.

We decide what to show others and weakness isn't an option. We've worked too hard and have too much invested to go down in a fiery crash of snarled failure. Right? 

Yup. I said these words. I lived that life...until I couldn't do it anymore. That day occurred on New Year's Day.

New Year.

New Me. 

The truth would set me free.

And oh boy, it did. But not in a self-preservation sort of way. The original wound I secured a bandage over became infected and the truth got uglier and every bad thing that could've happened over the past few decades happened within a few months.

And it took everything you had just to take a breath.

You've been there. I've been there. Women we don't know have been there. 

Let's try something...let's be there for one another whenever possible. There's strength in numbers. 

I promise.

Join the upward journey with me and I'll give you a hand with your own. 

My story starts here.

Next: Just Breathe

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