Lisa Mitchell Facebook ad: “Which Woman of the Bible Are You?”

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I was completely invisible in my marriage and I can't talk to anyone about it I couldn't sleep again last night. It's 3 AM. I'm lying here in the dark. My husband is asleep next to me. We're touching — our shoulders barely an inch apart. But I've never felt more alone in my life. I'm thinking about leaving. But here's the thing that keeps me up: I don't even know if I want to leave. I just know I'm drowning. This morning he left for work without looking at me. Not angry. Not cold. Just... didn't look at me. I was standing in the kitchen. He walked past. I said good morning. He grabbed his coffee and said "see you tonight" to the wall behind me. It's such a small thing. A look. But I realized: he doesn't see me anymore. He hasn't for a long time. It's not like we fight. It's worse than fighting. We exist in the same space like ghosts passing through each other. Last week my doctor found something in my blood work. I needed to talk to him about it. I waited until dinner. He was on his phone the whole time. I finally said it out loud: "I might have thyroid problems." He said "hmm" and kept scrolling. I sat there thinking: My health could be falling apart and my husband can't even put down his phone long enough to look at my face. That's when I knew something was broken. Really broken. But I didn't know if it was him or me or us or if I was crazy for being so hurt by a man who just... doesn't look at me anymore. Everyone tells you what you should want. You should want your marriage to work. You should pray harder. You should submit more. You should be more patient. You should love better. You should remember your vows. The pastor says it from the pulpit. My mother says it over coffee. My best friend from church says it with that look in her eye — the one that says I'm letting down not just my husband, but God Himself. But the pain underneath? That's something you keep secret. Like how you're crying in the shower so he doesn't hear you. Like how you've stopped trying to talk to him because the silence that comes back is worse than fighting. Like how you can feel yourself becoming smaller every day — your voice quieter, your needs quieter, your existence quieter — because at least if you're small enough, maybe he'll stop ignoring you. Except he still ignores you. And now you're so small you can barely see yourself. Nobody tells you that this is what happens to a wife nobody looks at. That you'll start to believe you're not worth looking at. That you'll give up asking for things because you know the answer will be a blank stare. I started researching divorce online. Midnight scrolling. Deleting my browser history. My heart racing every time my husband came home like he'd somehow know what I was thinking. The guilt would hit immediately. I'm a Christian woman. I took vows. Divorce is a sin. What is wrong with me that I'm even thinking this? But the wanting-to-leave feeling wouldn't go away either. So I was stuck. Caught between what I was supposed to want and what I thought I might want. Except I didn't actually know what I wanted. It was all just... confusion. Day after day. Night after night. I'd be making dinner and suddenly feel like I couldn't breathe. I'd be at church and feel like a fraud. A woman who was breaking her marriage vows in her heart even if I hadn't yet in reality. The guilt was crushing. But so was the feeling that I was dying slowly, day by day, pretending to be someone I wasn't. And I couldn't tell anyone. Because I knew what they'd say. I tried to talk to my closest friend once. We were having coffee. I was vague about it — just said I was struggling, feeling lost, didn't know who I was anymore. She jumped straight to solutions. "Have you been reading your Bible? Are you praying enough? God will fix your marriage if you just have more faith." I wanted to tell her the real thing. That my husband doesn't look at me. That I can talk to him about nothing and everything and he just sits there, present but completely absent. That I feel invisible in my own marriage. That sometimes I think I'd rather be divorced and alone than stay married and be this alone. But the words wouldn't come. Because I could already see her face changing. The shift that happens when someone moves from sympathy to judgment. I know what she'd say: Well, you're not trying hard enough. Have you considered that you're not being a good wife? Maybe if you were more... something. Something I wasn't doing right. So instead I smiled and said "I'll pray more." And I went home and didn't tell anyone anything ever again. The Thing Nobody Talks About The worst part isn't the unhappiness. It's that I can't even tell anyone I'm unhappy. Because in our world — church, family, everything — a marriage crisis is something you fix quietly. You pray. You submit more. You try harder. You keep it private so you don't bring shame on your family. You certainly don't tell people that your husband makes you feel invisible. So I sit with it alone. I have friends at church. We text. We do coffee. We talk about kids and recipes and what happened at Bible study. And the whole time I'm dying inside. There's this thing that's killing me and I can't mention it. I went to my mother once. Just to test the waters. Said I was feeling disconnected from my husband. She closed her eyes like she was praying. Then she said: "Honey, every marriage has dry seasons. Your father barely spoke to me for years. But I learned to accept it. That's what being a wife is." I heard what she was really saying: Stop complaining. This is normal. Deal with it. So I didn't say anything else. And now when I talk to her, I talk about everything except the thing that matters. My best friend from church? She'd tell her prayer group. I know she would. Not to be mean. But to ask for prayer warriors. And then suddenly everyone would know. And they'd all be looking at me like I was the wife who wasn't trying hard enough. My sister? She'd say I was being dramatic. My pastor? He'd want to do marriage counseling and there's no way I'm sitting in a room with my husband and a man who will definitely side with him about how I need to be more submissive. So I have nobody. I'm living in a marriage where I feel completely alone. And the only way to get anyone to listen would be to tell someone. And I literally cannot tell anyone because every single person in my life would judge me for feeling this way. That's the part that breaks me. Not just the loneliness in my marriage. But the fact that I can't talk about the loneliness to anyone. I'm trapped alone inside a life where I'm supposed to be grateful. Six months ago, I hit a wall. I was sitting in my car in a parking lot. Just sitting. My hands shaking. And I realized something that terrified me: He doesn't look at me. He hasn't looked at me — really looked at me — in years. And I don't remember the last time I felt seen by him. We lie in bed together and he's a stranger. We eat breakfast together and he doesn't ask how I slept. I get my hair cut, lose weight, buy new clothes — and he doesn't notice. Some part of me keeps doing these things hoping he will. Hoping that somehow, someday, he'll look up and actually see me. He never does. And then I realized something worse: I don't just not know what I want about my marriage. I'm not sure I even know who I am anymore. I've spent so many years being invisible that I've disappeared. I don't know what I like. I don't know what makes me feel alive. I don't know if I have dreams or if I just exist. I have this vague feeling that something inside me died a long time ago, and I can't remember when. My husband doesn't see me. And after all this time, I don't even see myself. That's the darkest part. It's not that he doesn't love me. It's that I'm not even sure I exist. And I'm sitting in that car thinking: If I leave, I'll be alone. But I'm already alone. I'm alone right now, next to him, and I can't tell anyone because if I do, they'll tell me to try harder to make him love me. Like it's something I'm not doing right. I finally realized: I can't decide if I want to stay in this marriage until I know who I am. I can't figure out what I want when I've completely disappeared. I needed help. But I couldn't ask for it. I couldn't go to my therapist (I didn't have one — that wasn't done in my church circles). I couldn't go to my pastor. I couldn't go to my friends. I couldn't go to my mother. Everyone had already decided what the answer should be. And I needed to hear from me. Just me. Not filtered through anyone else's beliefs about what I should want. I was sitting alone in my kitchen one night. Scrolling. Just trying to quiet my brain. And I saw an ad. "Which Woman of the Bible Are You?" I almost skipped it. Looked like one of those silly internet things. But something made me stop. Maybe because it wasn't asking me about my marriage. It was asking about me. The questions were different than I expected. How do you handle losing yourself? What happens to you when you feel invisible? Who are you when no one needs you? What makes you feel alive? I sat there reading them and something cracked open inside me. Because nobody had ever asked me these questions before. Not my friends. Not my family. Not my husband. Nobody had ever asked me who I was underneath all the roles I was playing. I answered honestly. Not what I thought I should answer. What was actually true. My results came back: Leah. I didn't really know her story. But the description hit me like a punch. "The one who gives and gives, hoping it will finally make someone love her. The one who keeps knocking on a door that won't open. The one who forgot that she was already loved before she had to earn it." I read it and I started crying. Real crying. Because it was me. All of it. It was exactly me. I had spent my whole life giving. Trying to be good enough. Trying to be what everyone needed. Hoping that if I just tried hard enough, I'd finally feel... something. Loved. Seen. Real. And it never worked. They offered daily lessons based on my archetype. Short. Five or ten minutes each morning. Scripture about Leah. About her story. About what it meant to finally stop trying to earn love and start receiving it. The first lesson asked: Where in your life are you trying to earn love by giving? And what would happen if you stopped? My chest got tight. Because the answer wasn't just about my marriage. It was about everything. My marriage. My relationship with my mother. My friendships. My role at church. I was giving everywhere. Constantly. Exhausting myself. And underneath it all was this terror: If I stop giving, if I stop being useful, will anyone love me? Will I still matter? Another lesson was about Leah realizing something: God saw her when no one else did. Not because she was good enough. Just because she was his daughter. I read that and it broke something open. I had never felt that. I had never felt loved just for existing. I had only felt loved when I was doing something. Being something. Earning something. No wonder I was drowning. No wonder I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't even know what it felt like to want something just because I wanted it — not because it was the right thing or the good thing or what I was supposed to do. Finding My Own Voice Lesson by lesson, something shifted. It wasn't dramatic. But it was real. I started noticing: What do I actually like? Not what should I like. What makes me feel alive? I read a book I wanted to read. Not a Christian self-help book. A novel. I painted for an hour. Just for the joy of it. I went to lunch alone and didn't check my phone the whole time. Small things. But they were mine. And as I started to know myself again, something else happened: The confusion about my marriage didn't disappear. But it changed. Because I wasn't trying to figure out the "right" answer anymore. The answer the church wanted. The answer my mother wanted. The answer that made me a good Christian woman. I was starting to ask: What do I actually need? What do I actually want? What kind of life would let me be myself? And those were completely different questions. One of the lessons asked: What would change if you stopped trying to be what everyone needs and started being who God made you to be? And I realized: I don't know yet. But for the first time, I was asking myself that question. For the first time, I was listening to my own answer instead of everyone else's. The guilt is still there sometimes. The voice that says I'm being selfish. That I should want my marriage to work. That a good Christian woman wouldn't be questioning this. But it's quieter now. Because I'm finally hearing my own voice underneath it. And my own voice is saying: I don't know what I want yet. But I'm going to figure it out. And I'm going to figure it out for me, not for anyone else. I'm not rushing into a decision about my marriage anymore. I'm taking my time to become myself again. To understand what I actually need. To know what I actually want — not what I think I should want. Maybe that means staying and working on my marriage. Maybe that means leaving. I don't know yet. But for the first time, I'm at peace with not knowing. Because I'm finally listening to me. If You're Drowning in Confusion If you can't tell anyone what you're really thinking because you're afraid of being judged... If you don't know what you want, but you know something is very wrong... You don't need someone to tell you what choice to make. You need to find yourself. There's a quiz. Three minutes. "Which Woman of the Bible Are You?" It's not about fixing your marriage. It's about finding you. It shows you which biblical woman shares your soul. Then gives you daily lessons to help you understand yourself. Your patterns. Your gifts. What you were actually created for. Not what you were created to give. What you were created to be. Because here's what I know now: You can't make a decision about your life from a lost place. You can't know what you want when you've spent all your life being what everyone else needs. And you can't hear God's voice for your life when you're drowning out your own voice to listen to everyone else's. The lessons won't tell you whether to stay or leave. But they'll help you find yourself again. And maybe that's where the real answer starts. Take the quiz. Discover your spiritual archetype. Get your personalized daily lessons. Find out who God actually made you to be. Not for anyone else. For you. The link is below.

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