Marriage, Addiction, and Healing: How Faith Restores Love and Sobriety

When God Set Me Aside: Finding Strength in the Battle for My Husband’s Heart

Addiction doesn’t simply take root in one life—it vines its way into every life nearby, squeezing tight, stealing light, and leaving marriages to wonder if there’s enough thread to stitch together what’s been torn apart. Chris’ addiction wasn’t just his battle; it was ours. I thought it was mine to fight.

And oh, how I fought.

We, as women, are the rib. As the story goes in the Good Book, God made Adam a helper from one of his ribs. God shaped us close to the heart for a reason. We were created to be side by side in life. We’re made to protect, to shield, to stand as the fierce ones who guard the vulnerable places. And when the storm of addiction came crashing into our home, I did what I thought I was made to do: I fought. I shielded. I tried to mend what was broken with my bare hands.

But the truth I couldn’t see then—what my heart wasn’t ready to hear—was this: sometimes the very thing we think we’re fixing, we’re holding back.

God had to take me out of the battle.

He didn’t do it with a loud command or a thunderous voice. He did it with my body—this fragile frame that suddenly couldn’t keep up. My autoimmune disease flared until I had nothing left to give. Surgery after surgery, weakness upon weakness, the fighter in me became the one who could barely stand. I was set aside, not because I was failing, but because God was fighting in a way I couldn’t understand.

Chris watched me.

He saw me laid low, vulnerable, clinging to God’s strength because mine had long run out. And something began to break—not in me, but in him. I could no longer be his warrior, his shield, his protector. And for the first time, he had to wrestle—not just with his addiction, but with the ache of his heart. With the ache of the things that needed mending and stitched back together.

Chris had to watch me fight for my life. And in my weakness, God awakened something in him.

Addiction had dulled his heart, numbing him to the battles he needed to face. But as I fought through pain, surgeries, and the weariness of simply staying alive, Chris saw what love looked like. He saw what it meant to fight for someone who could no longer fight for themselves. He couldn’t numb this time. He couldn’t turn away. He couldn’t ignore it, and he couldn’t run from it. Not if he wanted to finally have the life he truly longed for. And in that space, God stepped in and began to heal what had been broken for so long.

It wasn’t instant. Healing rarely is. Sobriety wasn’t just about putting down the bottle; it was about picking up the courage to face shame, pain, choices, and the wounds of the past. It was about Chris wrestling with God, no longer hiding behind my shield but standing exposed, raw, and ready for redemption.

And in that holy wrestle, God wasn’t just transforming Chris. He was working in me too.

Because being set aside isn’t the same as being cast aside.

In those moments when I couldn’t fight, I discovered what it meant to surrender—not to give up, but to give over. God didn’t ask me to fix Chris. He asked me to trust Him. To trust that He sees the whole battlefield, the hearts of His children, the threads He’s weaving into something beautiful, even when all I see are tattered edges.

This is the truth that holds: sometimes the bravest act of love isn’t standing and fighting but stepping back and praying. Sometimes the most profound strength is found in surrender.

If you’re in a season where it feels like you’ve been benched, sidelined, or set aside, hear this: God is not punishing you. He is positioning you. Sometimes He has to pull us back so that He can do the deep work in the ones we love—and in us, too.

Chris’ journey to sobriety was never just his. It was God’s tender hands, shaping two hearts into something new. And the work He started in us, He will carry to completion. Because this is who He is: the God who doesn’t waste our pain, who uses even our weakness to bring forth His strength.

And as for me, the rib, the one designed to protect the heart, I learned something I never expected: even a rib must sometimes be removed so the Healer can reach the heart.

When God set me aside, He wasn’t dismissing me from the battle; He was repositioning me for a purpose only He could see. By removing me, He exposed Chris’ heart to the work that only God could do. It was there, in the vulnerable spaces, that God restored him, mended him, and made him whole.

And as God worked on Chris’ heart, He was also refining mine—teaching me that my strength was never in my fight, but in my faith.

The rib was never meant to carry the whole weight of the heart—only to guard it for a time until the Healer could step in. And in that holy space, both hearts are made new.

So if you’re weary, take heart. God is working in the waiting, in the weakness, and in the wrestle. Trust Him to hold it all—the broken pieces, the frayed edges, and the hearts you’ve been fighting so hard to protect.

Because sometimes, it’s in being set aside that we’re finally set free.

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