When Wanting Peace Was Misunderstood
There was a time, back when my girls were still little, when I was working at Wal-Mart. I started there in September of 2004—the month after we got married, and the same month I found out I was pregnant with my first daughter. A few years later, I had two sweet daughters, still small, still needing me in every way.
Work became more than just a paycheck during those years. For the first time in a long while, I had friends. I talked. I laughed. I felt like a person again—not just a wife, not just a mother, but me.
One of those coworkers was a man named Jake. He was kind. Soft-spoken. He had a calm presence that felt easy to be around. I liked him as a friend—nothing more. We only ever spent time together at work, surrounded by others, sharing ordinary conversations that felt light and human.
Once, the girls and I met him at the beach. We sat and talked while my girls played in the sand. It was simple. Innocent. A quiet moment of connection and sunlight.
At some point, my husband at the time called and asked if he could join us. I don’t remember my exact words—only the feeling in my body. I knew that if he came, the ease of the moment would disappear. Things would become awkward. Tense. I wasn’t trying to exclude him or hide anything. I was trying to preserve peace.
Even then, I had already learned to anticipate his temper.
But to him, there was more to the story than there ever was.
He later accused me of kissing Jake—something that never happened. I told him he could ask Jake himself if he didn’t believe me. Instead, he confronted him at work. After that, I learned a quiet lesson: some friendships weren’t safe to talk about anymore.
At the time, I didn’t have the language for what was happening. I only knew that something harmless had suddenly become heavy. Embarrassing. Unsafe. I began to edit myself. To keep things to myself. To make my world smaller so there would be less conflict.
Looking back now, I can see it clearly.
It wasn’t about the beach.
It wasn’t about Jake.
It wasn’t about infidelity.
It was about insecurity—and how insecurity can slowly turn into control.
When kindness feels threatening, the response isn’t curiosity. It’s accusation. When someone feels entitled to your world, even your innocence can be questioned.
What stayed with me wasn’t the argument—it was the silence that followed. The way I learned not to mention certain names. Not to share certain moments. Not to take up too much space.
That’s how it happens. Not all at once, but quietly. In moments that don’t seem big enough to name—until years later, when you realize how much of yourself you learned to hide.
Healing has given me a different lens now. I can hold compassion for the woman I was—the one trying to keep peace, protect her children, and survive the emotional undercurrents of her life. And I can also honor the truth: I wasn’t wrong for wanting calm. I wasn’t wrong for enjoying kindness. I wasn’t wrong for being human.
Today, I understand that healthy love doesn’t accuse without cause. It doesn’t require you to manage someone else’s emotions. It doesn’t make you smaller to feel secure.
Healing, for me, has meant reclaiming my right to connection—to trust my instincts, to speak freely, and to exist without fear of being misunderstood.
And that has changed everything.
