The Ache of Two Truths

October 3, 2025

This year has been the most emotionally and psychologically devastating year of my life.

It wasn’t the loss of my dad,

or the ridiculous amount of school board stress.

I have faced death, loss, and massive leadership stress before.

Those are known things to me.

What I had never experienced

was making the intentional and thoughtful choice

to open myself up fully to a man I truly believed was a friend—

and loving him deeply.

I built a life with him,

woven into my foundation,

woven into my routine.

And then, while my dad was dying,

he disappeared.

He replaced me

after spending more than a year

whispering words of love and safety into my head and heart.

Only later did I discover

that he had been lying, manipulating,

and abusing me the entire time.

That is not a normal part of life.

At least, it never has been for me.

I have been in abusive and dysfunctional relationships before.

But I worked hard to heal

so I could give and receive healthy love.

I’ve loved wounded people.

I’ve lived inside dysfunction.

I’ve carried hurt and been part of others’ hurt.

But this,

this was beyond comprehension.

Because it wasn’t just what he did,

it was what it did to me inside.

I was holding two worlds that could not coexist.

The tenderness of being told I was safe, warm, and loved,

and the devastation of learning I was lied to from the start,

groomed, consumed,

and then left on the side of the road like I was nothing.

The warmth of his hand in mine,

and the cold truth that he was never truly there.

The illusion of devotion,

and the reality of deception.

Hundreds of hours spent together.

Meals shared.

Private moments of connection and ecstasy.

The dogs.

Dinners with my kids and family.

All of it was real to me.

The belief that he was my friend,

and the crushing clarity

that this is not how friends treat each other.

That collision ripped through me, body and soul.

It scrambled my mind,

confused my heart,

and left me spinning between opposites

that refused to reconcile.

That collision has a name: cognitive dissonance.

The most confusing part to survive.

When two truths collide inside you,

each demanding to be believed:

• He said he loved me and wanted me safe, warm, and cherished.

• He lied to my face repeatedly, manipulated me, and was never, truly who he said he was.

My heart couldn’t reconcile it.

My nervous system didn’t know where to land.

Some days I cried for the man I thought I had.

Other days I seethed at what he did.

Sometimes I felt both at once—

compassion and disgust tangled together.

And the silence between us has made everything so much harder.

Because he is still the man I shared so much time with.

He is still the man I invested my heart and life into.

He is the man who kept me safe while hiking across snow fields

in the massive wilderness of the Northern Cascades.

He is the man I loved simply being with.

And his absence hurts.

This is what has made my healing jagged.

Why my emotions remain so unpredictable.

I swing between tenderness and rage,

grief and clarity—

sometimes all in a single day.

Not because I am unstable,

but because my mind has been trying to make sense of the senseless—

trying to bridge the impossible gap

between what I lived

and what the true reality was.

Cognitive dissonance doesn’t just hurt—

it scrambles.

It leaves you second-guessing your memories,

your instincts,

even your worth.

Was I loved, or was I used?

Did he ever mean it, or was it all an act?

Was any of it real?

The answer is both and neither.

And that paradox has been the storm I’ve had to untangle.

Time has passed,

and the shock has worn off.

Now the memories and grief of what was lost

hit me like a sledgehammer.

I’m not confused anymore.

I understand why I swing between tenderness and anger.

I can see the truth clearly:

he lied, he manipulated,

he was never truly who he said he was.

And—I grieve.

I grieve the reality that was mine,

the one I lived,

the one I loved,

the one I lost.

Cognitive dissonance is no longer the fog I wander through.

It is the ache I carry

as I learn to hold both truths at once:

that what I lived was real to me,

and that what he offered was partially real,

but never safe.

And still—

I am opening.

Even October, with all its shadows,

can hold room for possibility.

This year, I will let grief walk beside wonder.

I will let memory stand next to hope.

And I will keep opening toward the new life waiting to unfold.