"When you are standing in [a] forest of sorrow, you cannot imagine that you could ever find your way to a better place. But if someone can assure you that they themselves have stood in that same place, and now have moved on, sometimes this will bring hope."
~ Elizabeth Gilbert

Initially, after learning the full truth of my husband's infidelity, everything felt tainted, dark, lifeless, and just meaningless. I saw him as a person who willingly created this situation for me with total disregard for my life, and my capacity to ever experience meaning and peace in it again, as though I just didn't matter at all.

I often asked myself, can anyone really be happy after infidelity? Or are they just "less sad" – working hard to patch up a shipwreck that would never be any good again anyway? In fact, I asked this exact question to a number of "experts" in the field of infidelity as I was looking for hope that there was "real" recovery, and not just a band aid masking these gaping wounds. Every single one told me it was definitely possible to find happiness after betrayal. But still, I didn't believe them. They would often still talk about sadness and triggers, and to me, that negated any talk of happiness.

In recovery, I have struggled with black and white thinking, and I suspect that I am not alone.

Either my husband cared about me, or he was willing to hurt me.
Either my husband loved me, or he wanted to have sex with someone else.
Either he cared about protecting our family, or he wanted to have an affair.
Either our moments together were real, or he was cheating on me.
Either I had value, or I was not worthy of faithfulness.
Either God loved me, or He let this happen and didn't care about me.

It is the ubiquitous struggle of good and evil, true or false, darkness and light. But some things don't fall neatly into those categories.

As I have traveled the path toward healing, what I have found is that where I am tempted to put an "or," there is often an argument for "and."

In the early seasons of recovery, I remember just waiting for the time I could eventually feel happiness, when the sadness was no longer present. As I began to slowly heal, I did experience happiness – genuine happiness. What I did not expect was that the sadness remained alongside. I didn't anticipate that they could coexist, and yet both be real and true. It still doesn't make sense in my head, but that has been my experience.

I do have moments, and even days of genuine happiness, even feelings of joy, and peace. I never thought I would feel any of that again. In fact, I was certain I wouldn't. Absolutely positive. I thought I was destined to fake it forever. And at first, when it first started to trickle back into my life, happiness felt foreign, unnatural, even undeserved. My inner voice would reject it and say, "What are you happy about? Don't you remember? How can you be happy when this is your life?" And then it would tell me I am pathetic, fooling myself, just a loser accepting crumbs. (My inner voices are very unkind and quick to play on my fears. Maybe you have them too.)

For me, at this point, I am happy a good deal of the time. I am also sad often. I am both. At the same time.

When I first started on this journey, I heard people talk about holding pain and joy side by side and I couldn't understand it. It sounded dreadful, so I assumed it meant they were just faking happiness amidst the pain. I couldn't wrap my head around feeling genuine happiness without the pain being GONE.

But now, I see they do coexist, and in a way that now feels natural. The pain is not gone and will probably never be gone. But it definitely doesn't feel like it did in the beginning, what some of you might be experiencing currently. The pain I feel now is very different. Softer. Quieter, like an undercurrent. More rooted in disappointment, than the searing, blinding, pain that shouted over any other feelings I was trying to have. And it doesn't always feel as relevant to my present life as it once did.

That loud kind of pain I felt in the beginning still shows up, but not as often anymore. And when it does, I am comfortable that it is only here for a visit rather than a full blown vacation, so it doesn't scare me anymore. It doesn't overwhelm me like it used to. I deal with it and then it goes back into the box. I don't have to shove it in there like I used to attempt unsuccessfully; it just goes in on its own. And I am content with that - for now. That doesn't mean I am free from triggers and those crushing thoughts and feelings that derail me. Sometimes I lose hope and I don't want to do this anymore. As a matter of fact, I had to pause writing this for a while to navigate some painful stuff. I expect this to get better as time goes on and as I continue to do the very hard work of recovery. This is not a static process. It has required action and energy, and looks different for each of us. We are all unique, so what has worked for me might not work for you, and vice versa.

I have heard the interpretation that pain doesn't get smaller, but the other parts of your life – happiness, purpose, meaning, etc., grow bigger around it. I think that's true. I feel more deeply now, good or bad. I feel more gratitude for the good things in my life than I did in the past. I don't worry or stress about stuff that used to weigh me down pre-infidelity. My priorities are different, and clearer. And I am happy with all of that.

I am a better person now. More present. More real. More whole. More forgiving (in general - not just this stuff). More understanding, insightful, and compassionate. I am sensitive to the pain of others around me in a way I was not before. I am a much deeper person. I have a closer relationship with God and a much closer relationship with my husband. I still have pain, and I still experience triggers and reminders that impact me deeply. But when they come back, I can talk to my husband about them, and it is healing.

This is really hard. There is no way around it.

After discovery, I thought, "I can't believe this is my life." Because to me, now this was my life. My whole life. There wasn't anything else. This thing had eclipsed me entirely, along with everything else that used to matter.

Now, I can look at this thing and think, "This is part of my life." It is still hard, but it is no longer my whole life. There is more. More that I want to do. More that matters, more that I am.

If someone had told me in the beginning I could carry the happy and sad feelings at the same time I would have been horrified, thinking it meant the "good ones" would be forced and fake. I couldn't comprehend how I would ever be able to hold these feelings side-by-side and not feel devastated every moment of the day. But what I'm experiencing now is much more peaceful. Accepting. I'm still disappointed and sad, don't get me wrong. There is no panacea. There is a loss of innocence with happiness now, but also an appreciation and thankfulness for all we have endured and what we almost lost forever. When the darkness fell around me, it seemed as though the light completely disappeared. And for a time, it did. But eventually, I saw glimpses of light and couldn't believe they were real. They were faint and sporadic and I assumed I was imagining them. Until one day I looked around and realized I wasn't lost in the dark anymore. I say this to encourage those of you who aren't here yet, that there are feelings that you probably can't yet understand. Hang in there. The light is coming.