Hearing Your Voice Makes Me Tremble
God's Voice Should Never Make You Tremble
A note before you begin: I first wrote parts of this years ago, from inside an abusive marriage. I'm sharing it now from the safe shore—I've since left, and I'm remarried to a gentle man whose voice has never once made me afraid. I'm writing to my sisters who are still in it. This touches on abuse, so be gentle with yourself as you read. And hear me first: if you're being hurt, it is not your fault, and there is help waiting for you at the very end of this page.
There was a day I sat frozen in a rental car and could not make myself get out.
I'd been working out of state, and the poor clerk waited patiently while I stalled, unable to finish checking in the car. Finally I quietly shut the door, closed my eyes, and prayed—why can't I move? My heart was pounding, blood rushing in my ears. And then I understood: I was terrified to go home. So I called and pushed my flight back several days, extended the rental, and told my husband I "felt like I needed to stay a little longer." The people I worked with were thrilled. And I got a few more days to gather the courage to walk back into my own house.
My heart ached to be with my children. But I knew I wasn't well. I kept thinking about the oxygen mask on an airplane—the one you're told to put on yourself first, before you help your child. I needed oxygen. I just didn't understand yet why my own body was reacting so violently to going home. The abuse wasn't that bad… was it?
Years later, I can see it plainly: the intimidation, the yelling, the throwing and slamming of things, the constant criticism, the sense that I could never do enough. And more than once, it turned physical—once badly enough that I ended up in the ER, and once badly enough that I called the police. That is not normal. If any of this is your life, please hear me: you need to get yourself to safety.
The moment my husband finally understood came when I turned to him and said, "Do you realize that the sound of your voice makes my stomach churn and my knees go weak?" Something in him broke open. The tears poured down his face.
Your body knew before your mind did
For a long time I thought my symptoms were just weakness. They weren't. Living under constant fear takes a devastating physical toll—on your heart, your gut, your hormones, all of it. My body had been keeping score of everything my mind kept trying to explain away.
It was a phone call that finally named it. At my lowest, I dialed a number a friend had given me, needing to talk to someone who understood. The woman on the other end had lived it herself, and gently, she told me I was showing every sign of PTSD. It made so much sense. My body wasn't betraying me. It was telling me the truth.
It was never your fault
In counseling, I learned about the cycle of abuse, and I was horrified to recognize the pattern I'd been living inside. It was the "honeymoon phase"—that sweet stretch that follows the criticism and control—that kept pulling me back in.
From the very first year, I'd had a nagging feeling that something was wrong. I'd even canceled our wedding twice, because my spirit sensed something my mind couldn't name. But every time I raised a concern, I was told it was my issue, my problem, that no one but me was responsible for how I felt. And slowly, I came to believe it. I started questioning myself every time I felt hurt, or lonely, or afraid.
So let me say this as clearly as I know how, to you: your husband's choices, his addictions, his cruelty—none of it is because of you. Hurt people hurt people. A man who cannot see his own worth will often cast that darkness onto the people closest to him. That is about him. It was never your fault, and it was never yours to fix.
Choosing to live
I won't pretend it never got dark. There was a season when the pain was so heavy that a part of me understood how a person could long to escape it completely. But I made a choice then, and I still make it now: I choose to live. I chose to face the pain instead of numbing it or running from it—day by day, hour by hour, sometimes minute by minute—and to keep reaching out: for help, for the people who understood, and for God. "God, please hold me" became my constant prayer. And He did.
If you're in that heavy place too, please don't carry it in silence. Reaching out is not weakness. It's the bravest, most life-giving thing you can do.
"It is enough"
For years, I'd been running from what I already knew—like Jonah running from God. My "big fish" moments, the ones that finally gave me space to think, came when I traveled away to serve and to heal. Away from the chaos, my body began to mend, and the truth got clearer.
And then, one day, I heard it—gently, but unmistakably, three times over: It is enough. Later, I understood without a doubt that God was not okay with how I was being treated, and that if things didn't change, He would lead me out.
Eventually, He told me to go. At the guidance I felt so clearly, I found a job, secured it, and told my husband the children and I would be finding somewhere else to live. He offered to be the one to leave instead, so the kids and I could stay in our home. And so began the hardest, most necessary season—showing up to work and caring for my children and looking, on the surface, like everything was sunny, while underneath I was paddling like a drowning duck in a hurricane. I even commuted separately, because I no longer felt safe riding in the same car as him.
Months of that, and slowly I began to feel like myself again. My dancing changed—no longer performed with my eyes on the ground and my back hunched under the weight of the world. I lifted my head. I let joy back in.
Learning to dance differently
Here's something I've come to believe with my whole heart: in order to dance differently with someone, you first have to know what it feels like to dance with a true gentleman.
So partner with the Savior of the world. He knows you intimately and perfectly. Let Him lead, and let Him show you how a good man speaks to a woman—gently, patiently, lovingly. Once you've felt that, you stop being willing to keep dancing with someone who steps on you.
And please, remember this: God's voice should never make you tremble. If you shake when your partner opens his mouth, that fear is not coming from God. You were not made to live afraid in your own home.
You have a right to be angry. You have a right to feel betrayed. You have a right to protect yourself and your children, to voice your concerns, and to be seen. Two books helped me find those words when I couldn't find them myself—The Dance of Anger and The Emotionally Destructive Marriage—and I'd gently pass them along to any woman who needs them.
For you, and for our children
On my hardest days now, I go into my closet, get on my knees, and simply ask, God, please hold me. And He wraps His arms around my trembling heart and quiets my mind. A dear friend—one of the most Christlike women I know—taught me to do that: to remember that God is our Daddy, and to run to Him to be held.
Because here is the truth underneath all of it: the ache to be loved and held is real and human and good. When that ache is roaring, I remind myself of something wise a friend once told me—there is always a better way to meet a real need than a harmful one. As I let God fill that place, He restores what was emptied out.
Our children need to see a mother who holds her head high—not out of pride, but out of a quiet knowing of her own worth. A woman comfortable in her own skin, because she knows who her true Father is, and knows the Creator of heaven and earth has her back.
So, sister: pray. Have faith. Listen. And leave when you are told to. Set a zero-tolerance line for abuse—for you, for your children, for your animals—and hold it.
Dance. Fly. Laugh. Weep. Let clean, cool water pour over your life and wash it new. Fill your days with everything good and pure and nourishing to body, mind, and spirit.
You deserve to feel joy. And one day, I believe our children will thank us for the brave, beautiful moves we finally made.
If someone is hurting you, please reach out—you don't have to carry it alone. In the U.S., the National Domestic Violence Hotline is 1-800-799-7233 (call or text), any time, day or night. And if the pain ever grows so heavy that you don't want to be here, please call or text 988 and let someone stay with you. If you're outside the U.S., please reach out to a local support line. You deserve safety, and you deserve to be held.
With much love,
Your sister
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