Betrayal cuts deep, doesn’t it? It’s like a rug yanked out from under you—leaving you flat on your back, staring at a ceiling of questions. How do I trust again? Can I forgive without feeling like I’m letting them off the hook? Is there even hope for something better after this? If you’re there right now, I see you. And you’re not alone.

I’ve been stewing on Psalm 34:18 lately: “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those whose spirits are crushed” (NLT). There’s something raw and real about that—God doesn’t just watch from a distance. He’s near, right in the mess with you. Betrayal might shatter your trust in people (maybe even yourself), but it doesn’t have to sever your anchor in Him. That’s where I’m reminding myself to get back to: not with forcing myself to trust humans again, but with leaning into the One who’s never walked away.

Forgiveness? Ugh. It’s not a one-and-done deal—it’s a process, and it’s okay if you’re not there yet. Jesus gets it. In Matthew 18:21-22, Peter asks how many times he should forgive—seven times? Jesus says, “No, not seven times… but seventy times seven.” That’s not about keeping score; it’s about persistence in forgiveness. Forgiveness doesn’t mean excusing what happened or pretending it didn’t hurt. It’s about freeing yourself from carrying their junk. Holding onto bitterness and betrayal will ultimately weigh you down and often do little to nothing that affects the other person.

Trust, though—that’s a whole other mountain to climb. After betrayal, it’s like your heart puts up a “Closed for Repairs” sign. Every step toward trusting again feels like handing someone a loaded gun and hoping they don’t pull the trigger. 

I get it—I’ve been there, second-guessing every word, every motive. 

Brené Brown nails this in her work on vulnerability. She talks about trust being a “marble jar”—it’s not some big, dramatic leap; it’s built in tiny, consistent moments. Someone shows up when they say they will. They listen without fixing. They own their stuff. Marble by marble, you start to feel safe again. But here’s the kicker: Brown also says we’ve got to trust ourselves first—our instincts, our boundaries. 

Betrayal can make you doubt your own radar, but God is still speaking through it. Proverbs 3:5-6 cuts through the noise: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart; do not depend on your own understanding. Seek his will in all you do, and he will show you which path to take.” It’s not about having all the answers—it’s about leaning on Him to guide you, one shaky step at a time. Maybe trust starts small: trusting Him to show you who’s worth the marbles, trusting yourself to say “not yet” when you need to. It’s slow, messy work, but it’s holy ground because you’re meeting God’s grace there.

And hope? Oh, friend, it’s not gone—it’s just buried under the rubble. Betrayal can make the future look like a blank lifeless wall, like nothing good could grow there again. But God is a gardener—He specializes in bringing life out of dead places. Romans 15:13 has been a lifeline for me: “I pray that God, the source of hope, will fill you completely with joy and peace because you trust in him.” That’s not a flimsy wish—it’s a promise with roots. Hope isn’t about pretending the pain didn’t happen; it’s about believing the story isn’t over. 

Suffering is never the end of God’s narrative, just a chapter. You’re in the thick of it, sure, but God’s already writing the next page. Think about Joseph in Genesis—sold out by his own brothers, left for dead. Years later, he tells them, “You intended to harm me, but God intended it all for good.” That doesn’t erase the hurt, but it reframes it. Hope is daring to believe that God’s still weaving something beautiful, even if you can’t see the threads yet. It’s not a quick fix—it’s a quiet, stubborn refusal to let betrayal define the end.

Cling to this: you’re not defined by what they did. You’re still here, still fighting for light. That’s no small thing.