A Prayer Born from Pain:
I felt it—the unmistakable nudge to pray.
On the day my ex was getting married, I couldn’t think of anything else. His smiling face and her white dress were all over Instagram. A tightness gripped my chest; a pit formed in my stomach.
“Lord, please protect her.”
That was my prayer—for the woman walking down the aisle toward a man I knew to be manipulative and emotionally destructive.
As the words left my lips, they brought me back to my own story. I remembered the girl I used to be—the one who believed she was building a future with someone who claimed to love her, not knowing she was walking straight into a pattern of harm. She was young, hopeful, and unaware of what waited on the other side of that “love.”
When His Life Moved On, and Mine Stood Still
When I was with my abuser—let’s call him Aaron—the plan was to be married by 27. Now, at that very age, I find myself reflecting on how radically different my life looks.
Even four years after leaving, I still carried a weight I couldn’t name. Anger and grief sat in my chest like stones I didn’t know how to set down.
Part of that burden came from watching how quickly he moved on. Within a year, he was dating again. Two years later, engaged and married. While I was slowly rebuilding myself, he seemed to slip seamlessly into the life he’d always wanted to project. It felt like I’d fought hard to reclaim my freedom, only to be replaced—like someone had photoshopped a new woman over me in the image of his life.
From Comparison to Compassion
As I processed how differently our stories unfolded, the old insecurities he had planted in me began to resurface. I found myself comparing—her appearance, her demeanor, her “fit” into his world. She seemed to embody the very things he had once demanded of me: thinner, blonder, whiter. And in my mind, probably more compliant.
At first, it felt personal. Like he had chosen her specifically to hurt me. But slowly, the truth became clear: it was never about me. And not really about her either. She’s her own person, with her own story—most of which I will never know.
Late at night, the questions circled:
Did he change for her?
Was I simply not enough?
Can abusers truly change?
My searching only uncovered one vague story online about a narcissist who transformed after years of deep therapy—but even that lacked credibility. In my own therapy, I had to face the truth: Aaron’s behaviors aligned with Narcissistic Personality Disorder (NPD), and the chances of true, lasting change—especially so quickly—were very slim.
That realization didn’t minimize my pain, but it helped reframe it. It allowed me to see his wife differently. She may be fighting silent battles I once knew too well. Or perhaps she’s still unaware, confused by the same charm that once disarmed me.
Too often, I’ve seen the real face of abuse show itself after vows are exchanged, or especially after children arrive. Narcissists can maintain a convincing mask for years, but eventually, the cracks begin to show. And though it aches to imagine, I sometimes wonder if she endures more than I once did—now that his tactics have likely become more refined.
That thought still tugs at me. But strangely, it also softened my heart.
Praying for the Unthinkable
As my perspective shifted, prayer followed. Not just on the wedding day, but in the months that followed. I prayed for her—consistently. For wisdom, for protection, for clarity.
That she would see the truth.
That she would be spared the harm I once endured.
That she would know her worth.
And then—almost unthinkably—I began to pray for him, too.
Years ago, I had prayed Aaron would change—that Jesus would rescue him the way He rescued me.
But this time, these prayers were different.
I was praying for release—
His release from the brokenness made him hurt others.
And mine, from the bitterness and grief that were never mine to carry.
This wasn’t about excusing what he did. It wasn’t about minimizing my pain. It was an act of surrender—to God, and for my own healing.
Praying for my abuser created space in my heart where resentment once lived. It gave God room to meet me in my deepest wounds. I came to realize that holding onto anger would only keep me from trusting love again—and from stepping into the life I was always meant for. A life free of the baggage he left behind.
How Letting Go Actually Freed Me
Forgiveness doesn’t erase what happened. It doesn’t excuse the abuse or make it something we should simply “get over.”
What it does is reclaim your peace. It releases what was never yours to carry. It opens the door to healing, to hope, to wholeness.
Ephesians 4:31–32 says:
“Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.”
Starting on that wedding day, prayer and compassion became the way I stepped into that kind of grace—not as a gift to those who hurt me, but as a gift to myself. A pathway to freedom. A beginning of healing.
Taking the First Steps Toward Forgiveness
If you’re struggling with someone who hurt you deeply, consider these approaches:
- See the person’s humanity: Recognize that others may be unaware, misled, or navigating their own struggles.
- Separate the abuser from yourself: Compassion doesn’t excuse the abuse; it frees you from holding onto resentment while keeping the abuser accountable.
- Journal your reflections: Write about the shifts you notice inside yourself as you develop empathy and understanding.
- Let God meet you in your complexity: You can hold grief, anger, and compassion simultaneously, allowing space for healing and growth.
Let’s Talk
Have you ever struggled to feel compassion for someone connected to your abuser, someone you initially resented? What helped you shift toward empathy, and how did it affect your healing?
Share your response in Community Voices. Together, we remind one another that healing can include seeing the full humanity of those around us, even when it’s difficult.
🌿 Book Recommendation: Forgiving What You Can’t Forget – Lysa Terkeurst
With love and grace,
Madison Taylore