N8tivegirl

By V. Parson

Marriage is perseverance. It is surviving the highs and the lows, the storms and the sunshine. It is compromise—especially when you don’t want to. In marriage, there are no winners or losers. There is only us. Two people surrendering personal agendas to pursue a common goal.

It’s when “I” becomes “we,” when pride dies so partnership can live.

But the truth is this: compromises are hard. Some people refuse to surrender their will for God’s will, and that’s when the honeymoon ends. Because marriage is no longer about you—it becomes about us, the two of you and the One who joined you.

And when one person refuses to bend, they pout, they hide, they withdraw—because their vision isn’t being followed. But the foundation of marriage was never built on one vision. It was built on love, on sacrifice, on letting the old you die so you can embrace who you are becoming together.

Scripture says the two become one. A husband cannot hate his spouse and love himself, because the two are one flesh.

No one told me the sacrifices would cut this deep.

God made the ultimate sacrifice for His bride, and yet here we sit—across a cold table, armored with lawyers, pretending not to recognize the person we once prayed for. These strangers beside us don’t know our story. They don’t know the nights we cried together, the storms God delivered us from, or the testimonies we carry in our bones.

I want to scream, What about me? What about my heart?

But you tell yourself you want out. You run, because running is easier than fighting.

There were moments when I thought I didn’t need you. Moments when condemnation, pride, and fear built walls between us. Moments when the bar felt too high and I didn’t want to reach for it. In those moments, I felt like Israel—wandering in the desert, begging God for a sign. But the signs were always with me, just like you were.

I gave you my life, and now you say you want out.

You say my attitude pushes you away. Funny—my fire and strength were the very things that attracted you to me. Now they irritate you. And as you hide from me, I search for you like the woman in Solomon: Have you seen my beloved? Yet you avoid me without explanation.

Marriage is hard even when it’s good. There are foxes that tempt, distractions that pull. You’re not cheating on me—that would almost be easier. At least then I’d know what I’m fighting. But instead, I look at you through eyes no longer filled with lust but with love. You are my husband, my comforter, my companion, the one I vowed to fight for.

Yet you say you want out, and you still cannot tell me why.

You want to be alone.

I want to be understood.

But responsibilities don’t pause when a heart hurts. Marriage doesn’t stop because one person feels overwhelmed. You ask for a smooth exit, but there is nothing smooth about fighting for love.

I am tired—emotionally drained from battling for a marriage that no longer battles for me. We’ve stood through triumphs, endured lows, survived storms together. God carried us—but you still want out, without reason or clarity.

You call it irreconcilable differences.

I call it an unwillingness to submit—to me, but more importantly, to God.

The truth is… we are afraid.

Afraid to fight.

Afraid to admit fault.

Afraid to say, “I was wrong.”

So we let the world define our marriage, instead of the God who formed it.

We forget the covenant.

We forget the vows we whispered through tears.

We forget that conflict reveals the hidden corners of our hearts.

Somewhere along the way, we lost focus. We let other voices drown out the only voice that matters—His.

He created me out of you.

He joined us.

I am bone of your bone, flesh of your flesh—your helpmate.

Yet you no longer see me.

I have survived losing family, losing friends, leaving behind the life I knew. But I don’t know if I can survive losing you. I gave everything for “for better or worse.” I didn’t enter this covenant lightly.

And yet… there is always a way to survive the impossible.

Christ fought for His bride with everything He had—through pain, rejection, and sacrifice. I am the bride. You are the bridegroom. Our marriage is the church in miniature. It deserves the same fight—the same passion, the same commitment.

We began with prayer.

So we return to prayer.

We ask God to mend broken places, restore trust, and revive what we let die. We ask Him to help us release the bitterness, the anger, the unspoken wounds.

I remember: I gave you my heart to protect.

You gave me yours.

So how do we survive this?

We begin again.

We wipe the slate clean.

We choose forgiveness over fear.

We choose covenant over convenience.

We choose God over ego.

You once said, “Today my life begins,” and you vowed to protect me. But now I stand here with tears in my eyes and your head bowed low, and I ask again: Why?

I don’t want this. I love you.

So what do we do?

Scripture says, “He who finds a wife finds a good thing.”

So fight for your good thing.

I don’t want to be bitter.

I don’t want to be the woman who tears her house down with her own hands.

I want to be the Proverbs woman—the wife of your youth, the one you fight to hold.

Disobedience has a price, and neither of us can afford it.

So we begin again—this time with God at the center, not on the sidelines.

Not because I fear starting over, but because I love you.

And when I vowed forever, I meant forever.