Prayer for a Struggling Marriage Hers

God, I am so tired of this marriage. And I feel guilty for even saying that. Because I'm supposed to fight for it.

I'm supposed to pray harder. Submit more. Be more patient.

But I have been patient. I have been patient for years. And patience without change is just endurance.

He doesn't see me. He sees the house running. He sees dinner on the table.

He sees the kids' lunches packed. But he doesn't see me. The woman behind all of it.

I have been disappearing inside my own home. I initiate every hard conversation. Every single one.

And when I do, he shuts down. Or he gets defensive. Or he says he'll try and then nothing changes.

I am tired of being the only one who notices that we're drowning. Some days I fantasize about leaving. Not because I don't love him.

Because I'm starving. Emotionally starving. And I don't know how many more years I can feed everyone else while no one feeds me.

I don't want to be a martyr. I don't want to be the strong one anymore. I want to be held.

I want to be asked how I'm doing and have someone actually wait for the answer. Psalm 51 says you desire truth in the inward parts. Here is my truth, Lord.

I am lonely inside my own marriage. And I need you to meet me here because I cannot keep doing this alone. "Create in me a clean heart, O God."

Clean. Not angry. Not resentful.

Not keeping score. Clean. I don't know if I can get there, Lord.

Because the resentment is deep. It's layered. Years of small disappointments stacked on top of each other until they became a wall.

And I built some of that wall too. I know that. I stopped telling him what I needed because he never responded when I did.

So I learned to need less. Or to need quietly. And that's not fair to either of us.

Lord, I don't want to leave this marriage carrying bitterness. Whether I stay or whether I go, I want to be free of the poison. Heal the parts of me that have gone numb.

Wake up the parts of me I buried to survive. If this marriage can be rebuilt, show me something worth rebuilding toward. Not the old version.

The old version is what broke. Something new. Something where I don't have to shrink to fit.

And if he's willing, Lord, open his eyes. Not to my demands. To my loneliness.

That's all I've ever wanted him to see. I give this to you tonight because I cannot carry it one more day. Take the weight.

Create something clean in the wreckage. Amen.