God Bless the Broken Road that Led Me to You

I met him when I was 18.

I was still figuring myself out—still carrying pain I hadn’t fully unpacked, still learning how to breathe without all the weight I had been dragging behind me. I had just gotten out of a relationship that had left me emotionally bruised, doubting my worth, and questioning what love even was. So when I met him—the one who would become my husband—I didn’t trust it. Not right away.

I was waiting for the catch. The red flag. The moment he’d leave, like others had. Or the moment I’d mess it up because deep down, I didn’t think I deserved to be loved well.

But the catch never came.

He was kind. Gentle. Funny. Safe.

I tested that safety more than once. I tried to push him away. Not because I didn’t care, but because I did. Because I didn’t want to get too close and lose it. Because I believed, somewhere in my bones, that if he really saw all of me—the anxious, messy, guarded parts—he’d leave too.

But he didn’t.

Every time I expected the door to close, he opened it wider. Every time I pulled back, he leaned in. He didn’t fix me. He didn’t rescue me. He didn’t try to be my savior. He just loved me. Patiently. Consistently. In ways I had never seen before.

And slowly, I began to believe it was real.

Our story hasn’t been perfect. We’ve had our arguments, our growing pains, our seasons of stretching and stumbling. But there has never been a day—not one—when he made me feel like I had to earn his love. He’s the kind of person who shows up, even when it’s hard. Who listens, even when I don’t know how to say what I feel. Who sees me—really sees me—and doesn’t flinch.

Loving me hasn’t always been easy. I’ve had days where I couldn’t see my own worth, where I let old fears speak louder than truth. But he’s never let me forget that I’m not too much. That I’m not broken beyond repair. That I am—and always have been—worthy of love.

And the most beautiful part?

He loved me before I believed it myself.

And now, here we are—seventeen years together, nine years married, and raising two beautiful daughters.

We’ve built a life from the ashes of old wounds. We’ve grown up together. He’s seen every version of me, and somehow, he still loves me like it’s day one. Watching him be a father to our girls only deepens my gratitude—for the kind of man he is, and the kind of love we have.

Seventeen years in, and I’m still learning what love really means. Not the fairytale kind. The real kind. The show up every day kind. The kind that stays, grows, forgives, and endures.