Finding My Way Back to Love with God’s Help

“I can’t do this anymore, Emily. You have to choose.” Jake’s voice trembled, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel. The car was parked in front of my parents’ house—rain tapped a frantic rhythm on the windshield, and my heart pounded even louder.

I stared down at my hands, the diamond ring he’d given me glinting in the cold streetlight. My mind raced. How could I choose between the man I’d promised to marry and the man who’d quietly stolen my heart? How could I admit to Jake, my high school sweetheart, that my feelings had changed?

Just days before, I’d sat in the back pew of St. Mary’s, hands clasped so tightly in prayer they ached. I’d whispered, “God, show me the way. I’m lost. Please, help me do what’s right.”

But now, with Jake’s ultimatum hanging in the air, I couldn’t hide anymore.

“Jake, I—I need more time,” I stammered. He slammed his fist on the dashboard, startling me. “You’ve had months, Em. Months! What else do you need?”

Tears blurred my vision. Jake’s anger hurt, but I knew I deserved it. He’d loved me since we were sixteen, through college, through my mother’s chemo, through everything. But then I met Lucas at work—a gentle, quiet soul who listened in a way Jake never had. I hated myself for even thinking about Lucas while Jake was planning our wedding. Was this what heartbreak felt like? Was I really the villain?

That night, I crawled into bed and pressed my face into the pillow. My mom’s voice echoed from the hallway, muffled and worried: “Emily? Honey, are you okay?”

I didn’t answer. I just prayed. Not for a sign, not for someone to tell me what to do, but for strength. All my life, faith had been my compass. But now, I felt like God was silent. Did He abandon me, or was He waiting for me to finally listen?

The next morning, my dad found me sitting at the kitchen table, red-eyed and shaky. He poured me coffee and sat across from me, his rough carpenter’s hands folded gently.

“Em,” he said quietly, “sometimes the hardest thing is to be honest—with others and with yourself. You can’t build a life on a lie.”

I nodded, choking back a sob. “How do I even start?”

He squeezed my hand. “Start with prayer. And then tell the truth.”

The truth. It sounded so simple, but felt impossible. I went back to church that afternoon, the pews nearly empty. I knelt, tears streaming down my cheeks, and whispered, “God, I’m scared. I don’t want to hurt anybody. I don’t know how to love the right way. Please, help me.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt peace—not a solution, just a quiet sense that I wasn’t alone. I remembered the story of the prodigal son, how even after all his failures, his father waited with open arms. Maybe God could forgive me. Maybe I could forgive myself.

That night, I called Jake. I told him the truth—that my feelings had changed, that I was sorry, that he deserved someone who loved him without hesitation. He didn’t yell. He just cried, and I cried too. We sat in silence, connected by heartbreak and years of memories.

The next day, I met Lucas at the park. He looked at me, searching my face.

“I broke up with Jake,” I said, voice trembling. “But I need time. I need to figure out who I am, apart from both of you.”

Lucas nodded, his eyes kind. “I’ll wait, Emily. Whatever you need.”

But no one tells you how lonely it is, choosing yourself. My mom was disappointed—she’d loved Jake like a son. For weeks, she avoided talking about the wedding, about Lucas, about anything. My sister called to say I was selfish. At work, gossip buzzed like bees—people whispering about the girl who broke her fiancé’s heart.

But I kept praying. I went to therapy. I spent long hours walking by the river, journaling, asking God to help me forgive myself. Slowly, I started to see glimpses of who I could be—someone brave enough to face the truth, to live with integrity, to love deeply and honestly.

Months passed. Jake moved on. My family learned to accept my choices, even if they didn’t understand them. Lucas and I started seeing each other, gently, slowly—like two people learning to trust again.

One evening, Lucas and I sat on my porch, the sun setting over the cornfields. He reached for my hand, and for the first time, I didn’t feel guilt—just gratitude.

“It took me losing everything I thought I wanted to find out what I truly needed,” I told him softly. “I thought love was something you owed, or earned. Now I see—it’s a gift. One you have to receive with open hands.”

He smiled, and I knew, deep down, that God had been guiding me all along. Not by giving me easy answers, but by teaching me to trust, to pray, to let go.

Sometimes I still wonder: What if I’d chosen differently? What if I’d stayed with Jake, or run from it all? But then I remember how far I’ve come—and I know that grace is real, and love is worth waiting for.

Do you think it’s possible to truly forgive yourself for hurting someone you love? Or are some choices too heavy to ever let go? I’d love to hear your thoughts.