Truth Over Toxicity

When God Lets You Tell the Truth Without Letting It Take You Under

By Cherie Faulk | The Lost Conversation

I’m tired.

Not the kind of tired that sleep fixes.

Not the kind of tired where you take a nap, wake up, drink some water, and feel like yourself again.

I mean the kind of tired that settles in your chest.

The kind that makes you quiet because if you start talking, you might say too much.

The kind that makes you sit in the car for a minute before you go in the house because you need to get your face together.

The kind that makes you look at your husband and feel his heaviness before he even opens his mouth.

That kind of tired.

And if I’m being honest, this co-parenting journey has brought that kind of tired to our door more times than I can count.

There have been moments where Dex and I were not even arguing.

We were just exhausted.

Exhausted from the conversations.

Exhausted from the back and forth.

Exhausted from trying to explain simple things that should not have to be explained.

Exhausted from trying to protect peace in a situation that keeps inviting confusion.

Exhausted from watching a child be placed in the middle of adult choices, adult pride, adult control, and adult mess.

And I know people like to make co-parenting sound neat.

Like everybody just needs to communicate better.

Like if the adults would just “put the child first,” everything would work itself out.

But sometimes the problem is not that people do not know what is right.

Sometimes the problem is that people keep choosing what keeps the mess alive.

And I have lived enough of this to know the difference.

There have been moments where I did not want to speak life.

I wanted to say exactly what I felt.

Not the softened version.

Not the version that sounds good on a blog.

Not the “I’m praying through it” version.

The real version.

The version that comes up when Dex is sitting there frustrated, trying to stay calm, and I can see that something has touched that place in him again.

That father place.

That place that just wants access to his son without having to jump through emotional hoops.

That place that wants to be present without being controlled.

That place that wants to love his child without his marriage being treated like an inconvenience.

And as his wife, I have felt that.

I have felt the frustration.

I have felt the disrespect.

I have felt the confusion.

I have felt the weight of watching him try to be a father while also trying to be a husband who honors the covenant we are building.

And some days, I just wanted to say, “This is too much.”

Because it has been.

It has been too much.

The side conversations.

The information being carried from one person to another.

The smiling in one face and stirring in another.

The acting like a friend while carrying details back into the very situation that needs less mess, not more.

The confusion that keeps getting fed from the outside like people are more entertained by the drama than concerned about the child.

And I am going to say that honestly because I am tired of pretending toxicity is just “a misunderstanding.”

Some things are not misunderstandings.

Some things are messy.

Some things are manipulative.

Some things are intentional.

Some things keep a father from his son while everybody else acts like they are just watching it happen.

And that has hurt.

It has hurt because this is not gossip to us.

This is not a storyline.

This is not something to run back and repeat.

This is Dex’s son.

This is a child.

This is a little boy who deserves love without adults making it harder than it has to be.

And it is hard to keep watching people feed confusion and then act surprised that peace cannot grow there.

That is the part that has worn me down.

The acting.

The pretending.

The “I’m just trying to help” energy when the fruit of it is more tension.

The friendly faces that do not match the private behavior.

The way people can sit in somebody’s face like a friend, then carry information back to keep the whole thing stirred.

And you sit there wondering, how are we ever supposed to get to peace when people keep getting rewarded by the mess?

There have been times I wanted to name everything.

Every person.

Every conversation.

Every moment.

Every receipt.

Every time something was said one way and done another.

Every time boundaries were treated like disrespect.

Every time our marriage was disregarded as if Dex being a husband somehow made him less of a father.

That part right there has been one of the hardest for me.

Because there were moments where it felt like the expectation was for Dex to show up in a way that ignored me.

Ignored our marriage.

Ignored our home.

Ignored the fact that he is not the same man from before.

Ignored the fact that he has a wife now.

A family.

A covenant.

A covering.

And I need to be honest.

That did not just frustrate me.

It scared me.

Because any situation that requires a man to step outside the respect of his marriage in order to see his child is not healthy.

That is not peace.

That is control.

And as his wife, I had to sit with that.

I had to sit with the anger of it.

The unfairness of it.

The helplessness of it.

The way it made me want to protect him, protect us, protect our home, and still not let my mouth become reckless.

That is a hard place to stand in.

Because you can know God is telling you to be wise and still feel like your flesh has a whole speech prepared.

And baby, mine did.

There were days my flesh had paragraphs.

Not sentences.

Paragraphs.

I wanted to say what was fake.

I wanted to say what was toxic.

I wanted to say what was manipulative.

I wanted to say how wrong it felt to watch confusion be created around Zeke’s identity, even down to his last name.

Because names matter.

Identity matters.

A child’s story matters.

And when things are done that create confusion around who a child is connected to, where he comes from, and who his father is, that is not small.

People can act like it is paperwork.

But it is deeper than that.

It is identity.

It is history.

It is belonging.

And I watched Dex have to carry that too.

I watched him carry questions he should not have had to carry.

I watched him sit with pain that did not have an easy place to go.

And I sat beside him, trying to be strong, while inside I was tired of being strong.

Then there was the letter.

The “Dear Nana” letter.

I do not even know how to explain what that felt like without sounding harsh, but I am going to tell the truth.

It felt wrong.

It felt uncomfortable.

It felt like a child’s voice was being used to carry adult emotion.

What type of delusion goes through one’s mind to make up emotions a child is not old enough to feel?

To actually write an emotionally driven letter to a woman you don’t know, who has the same last name she is refusing to give their son, like it is coming from a child.

That’s when I realized that there are mental health challenges.

Something in my spirit paused. Listen, something in your spirit pauses…

Because children should not be used as messengers.

Children should not be made to carry grown people’s pain.

Children should not be placed in the middle of adult tension and then dressed up as if it is innocent.

That kind of stuff is scary.

And I do mean scary.

Because toxic moments are not always loud.

Sometimes they come softly.

Sometimes they come in a letter.

Sometimes they come through a message.

Sometimes they come through someone acting concerned.

Sometimes they come through someone smiling.

Sometimes they come through someone watching you, reaching for you, harassing you, stirring, posting, sending, checking, repeating, and disturbing your peace in ways that are hard to explain unless you have lived it.

And I have experienced some things in this that made me feel watched.

I have endured things that felt like harassment.

I have had moments that felt like stalking.

I have felt the discomfort of wondering what would be said next, twisted next, carried next, sent next, or used next.

And that does something to you.

It makes you guarded.

It makes your nervous system tired.

It makes peace feel like something you have to protect with both hands.

It makes you want to defend yourself every time.

It makes you want to expose everything so people can finally understand why you are so tired.

Because sometimes people only see your reaction.

They do not see what kept poking you.

They do not see what kept pushing.

They do not see the private exhaustion.

They do not see the conversations you had to have with your husband at night.

They do not see the moments you cried because you were trying to be godly, but you were also human.

They do not see you asking God, “How do I keep my heart clean in something that keeps feeling dirty?”

That has been my prayer more than once.

God, how do I keep my heart clean in something that keeps feeling dirty?

How do I tell the truth without becoming toxic?

How do I speak honestly without letting bitterness write the whole story?

How do I protect my marriage without sounding defensive?

How do I support Dex without letting his pain become poison in me?

How do I love the children well when adults keep making the atmosphere heavy?

How do I not become hard?

Because that is the fear.

Not just that the situation is toxic.

But that the toxicity will change me.

That it will make me sharp.

That it will make me suspicious of everybody.

That it will make me rehearse offenses until I cannot hear God clearly.

That it will make me speak from pain and call it truth.

And I do not want that.

I do not want to become what hurt me.

I do not want to expose toxicity with toxic words.

I do not want to fight manipulation by letting manipulation shape my mouth.

I do not want to tell the truth in a way that leaves me feeling farther from God after I say it.

But I also do not want to lie.

I do not want to pretend this has been clean.

I do not want to dress it up and call it “challenging” when some parts have been messy, scary, draining, and deeply unfair.

So, this is me telling the truth with as much surrender as I can.

There has been Toxicity, Confusion. Manipulation (Not just manipulation outright schemes, witchcraft)

There has been information carried.

There has been disrespect toward our marriage.

There has been pain connected to access, identity, communication, control, and a child caught in the middle.

There have been moments that made me feel unsafe.

There have been moments where I wanted to respond from the rawest part of me.

But I am still here.

Still trying to let God have my mouth.

Still trying to let Him have my tone.

Still trying to let Him have the part of me that wants to say everything.

Not because I am weak.

Not because I do not know what happened.

Not because I do not have a right to be tired.

But because I know my words have power.

And after everything this situation has already taken from our peace, I do not want to give it my mouth too.

Proverbs 18:21 says:

“The tongue has the power of life and death, and those who love it will eat its fruit.”
— Proverbs 18:21

That scripture makes me sit back.

Because it reminds me that my words are not just words.

They are seeds.

Even when I am venting.

Even when I am tired.

Even when I feel justified.

Even when I am only talking to Dex.

Even when the children are not standing right there.

Something is being planted.

And I have had to ask myself, what do I want growing in my home?

Do I want peace growing here?

Do I want healing growing here?

Do I want wisdom growing here?

Do I want our children to feel safe here?

Do I want our marriage to feel covered here?

Or do I want to keep watering frustration until it becomes the loudest thing in the room?

That question has convicted me.

Because Dex is my safe place.

He is the person I want to tell everything to.

When something hurts, I want to go to him.

When something feels unfair, I want to sit beside him and process it.

When something happens with his son, I feel it too because I love him.

His pain does not stay on his side of the marriage.

I feel it in our house.

I feel it in his silence.

I feel it in the way he tries to keep going.

I feel it when he is tired but still trying to be strong.

And because I love him, sometimes my words come out ready to fight for him.

But God has been teaching me that fighting for my husband does not mean poisoning our home.

Supporting him does not mean feeding his pain.

Processing with him does not mean we have to keep replaying the same wound until both of us are heavy.

Sometimes loving him means helping us breathe.

Sometimes loving him means saying, “Let’s pause.”

Sometimes loving him means praying before I add my opinion.

Sometimes loving him means not handing him more fire when he is already carrying enough heat.

That has been hard.

Because I am protective.

I am honest.

I feel things deeply.

And when something touches my family, it touches me.

But Ephesians 4:29 says:

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen.”
— Ephesians 4:29

Only what is helpful.

That part gets me.

Not only what is true.

Not only what is deserved.

Not only what makes me feel better.

Not only what proves my point.

Only what is helpful.

And there have been times my words were true, but they were not helpful.

There have been times my feelings were valid, but my delivery was not surrendered.

There have been times I wanted to call it discernment, but really it was frustration.

There have been times I wanted to call it protection, but really it was fear.

There have been times I wanted to call it honesty, but really it was exhaustion talking.

And God has loved me enough to show me the difference.

Not to shame me.

To free me.

Because there is relief in not having to say everything.

There is relief in not letting every toxic moment pull a response out of me.

There is relief in knowing I can tell the truth and still leave room for God to be God.

There is relief in realizing I do not have to carry every accusation, every lie, every sideways move, every fake smile, every messy conversation, every confusing choice, every manipulative moment, and every painful detail in my mouth.

Some of it can go to God.

Some of it can go in prayer.

Some of it can go in tears.

Some of it can go in silence.

Some of it can go in boundaries.

Some of it can go in court documents.

Some of it can go in wisdom.

Everything does not have to become a reaction.

Everything does not have to become a post.

Everything does not have to become a paragraph sent from my flesh.

And that is where I feel the relief coming in.

Not because it is all fixed.

It is not.

Not because the situation suddenly makes sense.

It does not.

Not because everybody has owned their part.

They have not.

But because I am realizing I can put the weight down without pretending it was not heavy.

I can be honest without carrying hatred.

I can be tired without becoming toxic.

I can tell the truth without letting the truth take me under.

That feels like freedom.

Quiet freedom.

The kind of freedom that does not need to announce itself.

The kind that happens when you close your mouth, not because you are scared, but because God gave you peace.

The kind that happens when you look at your husband and say, “We are not letting this destroy us.”

The kind that happens when your home starts feeling like your home again.

The kind that happens when the children can walk in and not feel adult tension sitting on the couch.

The kind that happens when you realize toxicity may have touched your life, but it does not get to become your language.

That is what I want.

I want our home to be a place where truth can live without poison.

Where Dex can be honest about his pain without drowning in it.

Where I can be honest about my exhaustion without letting it rule me.

Where our children can feel protected from adult mess.

Where love is not fake, but it is also not reckless.

Where boundaries are clear.

Where peace is protected.

Where God is invited into the hard conversations before our flesh takes over.

Philippians 4:8 says:

“Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable — if anything is excellent or praiseworthy — think about such things.”
— Philippians 4:8

That verse does not tell me to deny what happened.

It does not tell me to pretend toxic things were not toxic.

It tells me what to let live in my mind.

And that matters because whatever lives in my mind eventually comes out of my mouth.

If I keep replaying the mess, the mess will speak.

If I keep rehearsing the hurt, the hurt will speak.

If I keep meditating on every disrespectful thing, disrespect will shape my tone.

But if I bring my mind back to God, peace has room to speak.

Wisdom has room to speak.

Self-control has room to speak.

Healing has room to speak.

And I need healing to speak louder than what hurt me.

I am not writing this because I have mastered it.

I have not.

I am writing this because I am still in it.

Still learning.

Still catching myself.

Still asking God to clean my heart.

Still asking Him to help me not become hard.

Still asking Him to help me tell the truth without bleeding on everybody who reads it.

Still asking Him to protect Dex.

Still asking Him to protect our son.

Still asking Him to protect every child connected to this from the parts of adulthood they should never have to carry.

Because the children matter more than the mess.

They matter more than the pride, more than who gets the last word, more than who can prove what.

They matter more than the people stirring the pot, more than the adults who refuse to heal.

And I want them to see something different.

I want them to see that truth can be spoken with grace.

I want them to see that boundaries can exist without bitterness.

I want them to see that you can be hurt and still choose healing.

I want them to see that you can be exhausted and still choose God.

I want them to see that toxic things can happen around you without toxicity taking root inside of you.

So today, I choose truth over toxicity.

Not a fake truth.

Not a cleaned-up truth that makes everybody comfortable.

Not a silent truth that pretends nothing happened.

A surrendered truth.

A truth that says, “Yes, this hurt.”

“Yes, this was messy and unfair.”

“Yes, this was scary.”

“Yes, this made me tired.”

But also, “No, it will not have my soul.”

“No, it will not have my marriage.”

“No, it will not have my home.”

“No, it will not teach my children how to speak.”

“No, it will not turn me into somebody God is trying to heal me from becoming.”

I choose truth over toxicity because I want relief.

Real relief.

The kind that comes from releasing what I was never meant to carry.

The kind that comes from telling the truth and then leaving it at God’s feet.

The kind that comes from knowing I do not have to be toxic to be understood.

I do not have to be loud to be honest.

I do not have to be cruel to be clear.

I do not have to let pain write the ending.

God can do more with my surrendered words than I can do with my sharp ones.

And that is where I am resting.

Tired, but still trusting.

Hurt, but still healing.

Honest, but still surrendered.

Exhausted, but finally learning how to breathe again.

Prayer

Father,

I am tired.

You already know that, but I need to say it.

I am tired of the confusion.

Tired of the mess.

Tired of the side conversations.

Tired of disrespect.

Tired of watching children get caught in things adults should have healed.

Tired of feeling like peace has to be fought for every single day.

But I do not want my tiredness to turn toxic.

I do not want my pain to become my language.

I do not want my frustration to shape my home.

I do not want my mouth to release what my spirit will later regret.

Help me tell the truth with clean hands and a surrendered heart.

Help me speak honestly without speaking harmfully.

Help me know when to talk, when to pray, when to pause, and when to let You handle what I cannot fix.

Cover every child connected to this situation.

Do not let them inherit adult confusion.

Do not let them become messengers.

Do not let them carry pain that was never theirs.

Do not let toxicity become the language of our family.

Give me relief, Lord.

Not because everything is perfect, but because I have placed it in Your hands.

Let our home breathe again.

Let our words plant life.

Let us all feel peace.

And when I am tempted to speak from the rawest part of me, remind me that I can be truthful without becoming toxic.

In Jesus’ name,
Amen.

I Declare: will speak truth and life over my child, not toxicity, fear, or frustration.

Where have you been carrying exhaustion that God is asking you to release before it becomes your language?