Weeds and the Work of Recovery
Recently, Joanna was reflecting on the experience of a couple impacted by betrayal and the inspiration of new life springing up in our garden. And it got me thinking about another landscaping metaphor.
You see, the other thing we’ve noticed in our planting beds this time of year—besides the new growth on the bushes and the budding signs of life—is the proliferation of weeds. Just like the fresh growth, the weeds come fast. It feels like we blink, and suddenly they’re everywhere, crowding out what we actually planted.
That picture hit me hard. Because for me, it’s a lot like the struggle I’ve had with sexual addiction.
Those destructive patterns didn’t care that I was trying to grow something beautiful in my life. They didn’t care about the dreams Joanna and I had for our marriage. The addiction wasn’t concerned with the kind of man I wanted to be. Like weeds, it grew fast, deep, and wild. And left untended, it choked out almost everything that mattered.
Twelve years ago, my choices nearly killed our relationship before it had a real chance to thrive. The pain I caused, the betrayals, the secrecy—all of it spread through our life like invasive roots. If you’ve ever tried pulling out weeds with strong root systems, you know it’s not a one-time job. It’s exhausting. It’s dirty. And if you’re not careful, it’ll grow back before you know it.
Recovery, both individually and relationally, has been about clearing that overgrowth again and again.
And here’s the hard truth: even after years of progress, I know how easy it would be to let down my guard. One distracted season. One patch of denial. One subtle decision to not address something I know I should. And those old patterns—those weeds—would love to creep back in.
What Weeds Look Like in Real Life
In my case, the weeds were the patterns of escape, entitlement, secrecy, and self-centeredness that fed my addiction. But weeds don’t just grow in the life of someone struggling with compulsive behaviors. They grow in all of us.
For some, the weeds look like uncontrolled anger or passive-aggression.
For others, it’s anxiety-fueled control or numbing out through work, food, or scrolling.
Some weeds are socially acceptable—like perfectionism or overachievement.
Others are more hidden—like self-loathing or silent resentment.
Whatever the form, they all have something in common: they keep us from the relationships and the life we actually want.
The Ongoing Work of Tending the Garden
I’ve had to accept that recovery isn’t about one big turning point. It’s about daily, even hourly choices to stay awake and aware. It’s about honesty, not just with my wife, but with myself and God. It’s about pursuing healing, not just for the parts that feel manageable, but for the roots that go deeper than I ever imagined.
One of the most helpful practices for me has been what I call “spot weeding”—the regular habit of noticing what’s starting to grow that shouldn’t be. For example:
When I feel tempted to hide something, even something small, I know it’s time to pause and ask what’s really going on.
When I sense distance in my relationship with Joanna, I check in: have I been emotionally unavailable? Is something left unspoken?
When I feel anxious or overwhelmed, I try to recognize whether I’m turning toward connection or escape.
What’s encouraging is that once the major clearing has happened—the deep, painful work of uprooting toxic patterns and rebuilding from the ground up—the maintenance takes less effort. It’s not that there’s no work at all, but the daily practices of honesty, connection, and self-awareness keep things from spiraling out of control again. Just like in a real garden, once the weeds are out and the soil is healthy, a little consistent care goes a long way. It’s not always glamorous, but it’s deeply rewarding.
Neuroplasticity—the brain’s ability to change—was one of the most hopeful things I learned early in recovery. But it’s also a double-edged sword. Just like we can build new pathways, we can just as easily fall back into the old ones if we’re not tending to them.
Staying Diligent for the Sake of Love
We talk a lot about safety in our work with couples. And for good reason—without safety, there can’t be real trust. And without trust, intimacy can't grow. That’s why my recovery matters—not just for me, but for us. For Joanna. For our children. For every couple we sit with in their pain.
If you’ve ever felt like your patterns are too strong or too entrenched to change, I want you to know: new life can grow. I’ve seen it in our marriage. I’ve seen it in my own heart. But the weeds don’t pull themselves.
So today, maybe just ask yourself:
What’s growing in the soil of my life right now?
What do I want to cultivate?
What needs to be cleared?
And if you’re in the thick of it, knee-deep in weeds, don’t give up. Find a guide. Join a group. Get honest. Do the next right thing.
There is still time for something beautiful to grow.
And when it does? You begin to taste the fruit of your effort—peace where there used to be chaos, real connection instead of shame, joy that doesn’t rely on escape, and the steady, quiet confidence that comes from living with integrity. You start to see growth in your marriage, in your family, in the way you show up to the world. And while it’s not perfect, it’s real. And real fruit is always worth the labor it took to grow it.