There is something I’ve wanted to share for a long time.

Years ago, when my husband was in rehab, he only came home on weekends. For the first time in our 38-year marriage, I experienced a peace I had never known. That may sound strange, because I loved him, and I still care deeply for the man he once was. But I had gone from a dysfunctional childhood into a dysfunctional marriage, and I didn’t even realize how exhausted I was mentally, physically, and emotionally until the house became quiet.

When he returned home full-time, I slipped back into the routine. Then, about two years later, he suffered a stroke that left him blind in one eye. Before the stroke, his anger was occasional. Afterward, it became constant. Nothing I did was right. Nothing I said was good enough.

Over time, I withdrew from friends, family, and life itself. Every evening I would cook dinner, clean the kitchen, and retreat upstairs to my room. I prayed constantly that things would improve. I suggested counseling, but he told me I was the one who needed therapy. Those words shook me deeply.

By October of 2025, I knew I could no longer live that way. On January 1, 2026, he moved out.

I knew what that decision would cost me financially. For seven years he had been the breadwinner. I knew there would be no extras, no new clothes, no expensive shampoo for my fine hair, no purchases just because I wanted them. Every penny would matter.

But I also knew something else.

Money cannot buy peace.
Money cannot buy sanity.
And money cannot turn dysfunction into a healthy life.

The first few months alone were peaceful. Then life started throwing punches.

The refrigerator died. My savings bought a new one.

The washer quit. A high school friend I hadn’t seen in years sent me $500, and that bought a washer.

Then I discovered that three of the six porch columns supporting my roof were completely rotted. The repair would cost $2,600. My brother sent me $1,600, enough to make the structure safe. The painting will have to wait.

Years ago, that would have driven me crazy. I have been a perfectionist most of my life. But at 70 years old, I’m learning that what matters most is not perfection. It’s stability. It’s safety. It’s peace.

Nothing in my life has ever come easy. Everything I’ve had, I’ve worked for. Sometimes I worked multiple jobs. Sometimes I paid in ways that had nothing to do with money.

And somewhere along the way, I lost myself.

Many of you have probably noticed that my posts have changed. The truth is, after withdrawing from people for so long, I don’t always know how to communicate anymore. I’m still figuring out who I am.

At 70 years old, I’m learning how to live alone. I’m learning how to handle finances by myself. I’m learning how to trust God in ways I never have before. I’m learning that I am stronger than I thought.

Many times I planned to sell this house and move. Twice I came close. Twice it fell through. Each time, it felt as though God was gently saying, “Not now.”

So I’m still here.

In the home where I’ve lived for 20 years.
The home where I raised my grandchildren.
The home where my parents visited before they left this earth.

Maybe God’s plan is different from mine. Maybe one day I’ll understand why the answer was no. Maybe I won’t understand until Heaven. Either way, I trust Him.

To everyone who has followed my journey through the years—through my husband’s addiction, through my struggles, through my victories and failures—thank you.

Thank you for staying.

The future still scares me sometimes. I worry about finances. I worry about finding work. I worry about things I can’t control. But I know this:

I must put my faith before my fears.

The enemy whispers daily that I can’t do this. But God reminds me that I can.

And for those who thought I would never stand on my own two feet…

I can.

I will.

Not because of my strength.

But because of His

❣️ Debbie

this video it’s short I love music and it describes how I feel