Is it normal to feel lonely in a marriage even when your partner is present?

Yes, based on my own experience and on walking with others, it is possible to feel deeply lonely in a marriage even when your spouse is physically present. That reality can be confusing and painful, especially because marriage was created by God to address loneliness, not merely to eliminate physical solitude. From the beginning, God said, “It is not good that man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18, NKJV). That loneliness isn’t solved simply by sharing space, but by meaningful companionship. Scripture reminds us that “two are better than one” because they lift one another up, keep one another warm, and stand together when one falls (Ecclesiastes 4:9–12). Implicit in that passage is a sobering truth: when those things stop happening—when support, warmth, and mutual care erode—loneliness can exist even within marriage. 

I’ve learned that loneliness in marriage often grows quietly. It rarely starts with betrayal; it usually begins with disconnection. When communication fades, when compliments disappear, when flirting stops, and when affection is no longer expressed, something subtle but dangerous happens. One or both spouses may begin to internalize the silence. We start asking ourselves whether something must be wrong with us, because surely, if nothing were wrong, our spouse would still see us, pursue us, and speak life into us. This is one of the reasons adultery so often begins not with lust, but with loneliness. When a spouse feels unseen or undesired for long enough, self-worth can erode. Scripture calls husbands and wives to render affection to one another and not withdraw without care and intentionality (1 Corinthians 7:3–5), precisely because emotional and physical neglect creates vulnerability. When that vulnerability goes unaddressed, someone else’s attention, someone else’s listening ear, or kind words can feel like oxygen to a starving heart. 

Biology and season of life often complicate this further, especially in long marriages. For many women, childbirth and motherhood bring profound physical changes. A husband may not intend harm, but if he stops flirting with the mother of his children, if he becomes inattentive or emotionally distant, his wife may quietly conclude that she is no longer desirable. Often, he doesn’t realize the impact of his silence, but the loneliness is still real. Men face their own quiet battles. Middle age brings changes in energy, drive, and physical confidence. When a husband begins to feel diminished, and his wife, perhaps because of her own exhaustion or unmet needs, no longer responds as she once did, insecurity can take root. Again, this is not universal, nor is it inevitable, but it is common enough to deserve honest acknowledgment. Loneliness often grows where vulnerability is met with silence instead of reassurance. 

Scripture does not excuse betrayal, but it does explain the terrain where temptation flourishes. That’s why husbands are called to love, nourish, and cherish their wives as their own bodies (Ephesians 5:28–33), and to live with them “with understanding” (1 Peter 3:7). Marriage requires intentional emotional presence, not just fidelity in action. Without that presence, two people can remain covenantally bound and still feel profoundly alone. What I’ve learned is that loneliness in marriage is often a signal, not a verdict. It points to something that needs attention, gentle conversation, renewed affection, humility, and sometimes help from outside the relationship. Scripture calls us to esteem one another above ourselves (Philippians 2:3–4), to be “swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath” (James 1:19), and to “bear with one another in love” (Ephesians 4:2–3). Those practices rebuild connection where distance has formed. 

Marriage is honorable and good (Hebrews 13:4), but Scripture is also honest that it brings struggle (1 Corinthians 7:28). The question is not whether seasons of loneliness will come, but whether we will respond to them with withdrawal or with courage, honesty, and renewed commitment to one another. So yes, it is normal to feel lonely in marriage at times, even with your spouse present. But that loneliness does not have to be the end of the story. Often, it is an invitation to turn toward one another again, to speak what has gone unspoken, and to remember that marriage is sustained not by proximity alone, but by intentional love, mutual pursuit, and daily care. 

How do you realise and appreciate the hard work your parents did to provide for you?

From a parenting and pastoral counseling perspective, I’ve learned that we don’t usually realize or appreciate our parents’ hard work all at once. My own children rarely appreciated what their mother and I accomplished for them until they were well into their late 20’s. For most of us, and I am speaking of myself here, that appreciation grows with time, maturity, and responsibility. Scripture frames this clearly: honoring our father and mother is not merely an emotional posture but an active, lifelong calling with real consequences and blessings attached (Exod 20:12; Eph 6:1–3; Deut 5:16). Honor, in the biblical sense, means recognizing the weight, value, and cost. It means acknowledging that who we are did not emerge in a vacuum but was shaped by years of unseen sacrifice. 

I’ve found that appreciation deepens when we begin to understand what our parents carried. As we step into adulthood and face bills, stress, exhaustion, and responsibility ourselves, we start to see the quiet decisions they made, working jobs they may not have loved, stretching limited resources, setting aside their own desires, and showing up day after day anyway. Scripture invites us not to discard their wisdom once we’re independent, but to bind their instruction to our hearts so that it continues to guide us, protect us, and speak to us throughout life (Prov 6:20–22). Their labor was not only about provision; it was about formation. 

The Bible repeatedly teaches that parental instruction is meant to shape character, not just behavior. A father’s instruction and a mother’s law are described as a graceful ornament and a protective chain, something that distinguishes us and guards us, not something that confines us (Prov 1:8–9). When we begin to live out those values, integrity, diligence, faithfulness, and perseverance, we are honoring the work they poured into us. In that sense, gratitude becomes embodied rather than merely spoken. 

Scripture also reminds us that appreciation does not expire when parents age or can no longer provide for their children. We are commanded not to despise our parents when they are old, but to listen, care, and show reverence even when the roles begin to reverse (Prov 23:22; Lev 19:3). Paul echoes this by teaching that caring for one’s parents is an act of godliness and something pleasing to God (1 Tim 5:4). Honoring them later in life is not repayment born of guilt; it is the natural continuation of a relationship built on love and sacrifice. 

Throughout Scripture, we see this lived out in real lives. Joseph honored his father by providing for him and his entire household during the famine, using the position God gave him to protect the one who once protected him (Gen 47:11–12). Ruth’s devotion to her mother-in-law was publicly recognized as costly, faithful love, and God honored that sacrifice (Ruth 2:11–12). These examples remind us that honoring parents often involves tangible action, not just internal appreciation. 

I’ve also learned that gratitude grows when we speak it. Saying out loud what we noticed, asking our parents about their struggles, listening to their stories, and acknowledging what they gave, even imperfectly, brings clarity and healing. Scripture warns strongly against contempt, mockery, or neglect toward parents (Prov 20:20; Prov 30:17), not because God is harsh, but because contempt corrodes the soul. By contrast, a wise son or daughter brings joy to their parents by living wisely and receiving instruction with humility (Prov 15:20; Prov 13:1). 

Ultimately, we realize and appreciate our parents’ hard work most deeply when we become the kind of people their sacrifice made possible, people who value wisdom, carry responsibility well, and pass on what we were given. Children’s children are called a crown to the aged, and a parent’s glory is seen in the lives their children go on to live (Prov 17:6). When we honor our parents in word, action, and character, we honor not only them, but the God who used their imperfect faithfulness to shape our lives. 

It’s also important for us to acknowledge, honestly and gently, that not all of us grew up under ideal or even safe circumstances. I include myself in that. Because of the abuse I experienced, my early perspective was shaped more by pain and survival than by gratitude. For a long time, I could not see my adoptive parents clearly, let alone appreciate what they had done for me. It wasn’t until I was in my mid-thirties, after significant healing and reflection, that my perspective began to change. With that change came the ability to separate sin from struggle, brokenness from intent, and failure from effort. 

As my understanding deepened, I was finally able to see my parents as whole people, imperfect, wounded, limited, yet still used by God in real and meaningful ways. I began to recognize the challenges they faced, the resources they lacked, and the burdens they carried, often without support. Even in the midst of those challenges, God was at work. In ways I could not see at the time, He was using their provision, discipline, and presence, however flawed, to shape my life toward what would ultimately be pleasing to Him. That realization did not excuse the harm that was done, but it did redeem the story. 

Because of that shift, gratitude became possible, not rooted in denial, but in truth. I can now say with sincerity that God used my parents, even through their brokenness, as His hands in forming me. For that redemptive work, I am eternally grateful. 

How can a person who loves God fall into sin?

When I am asked how a person who loves God can still fall into sin, I do not have to look far. I look inward. I see the same struggle the apostle Paul described when he said, “For what I am doing, I do not understand… For the good that I will to do, I do not do; but the evil I will not to do, that I practice… O wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” (Romans 7:15–25, NKJV) That passage is not abstract theology to me. It is an autobiography. I love God. I desire to obey Him. Yet I still feel the pull of my flesh. I still see pride rise in me. I still see selfishness, fear, and old patterns trying to reclaim ground. The tension is real. Loving God does not remove my capacity to sin; it exposes the war that is already inside me. 

Scripture is painfully honest: “If we say that we have no sin, we deceive ourselves, and the truth is not in us” (1 John 1:8–10, NKJV). My greatest danger is not weakness — it is pretending I am strong. “Therefore let him who thinks he stands take heed lest he fall” (1 Corinthians 10:12, NKJV). The moment I trust my own heart, I step onto unstable ground, because “the heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked” (Jeremiah 17:9, NKJV). Sin rarely crashes into my life all at once. It grows quietly. James explains the progression: “Each one is tempted when he is drawn away by his own desires and enticed. Then, when desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, brings forth death.” (James 1:13–15, NKJV) 

I see that process in myself. It begins with a thought I entertain too long. A resentment I rehearse. A compromise I excuse. Scripture warns me to guard my interior life because “out of it spring the issues of life” (Proverbs 4:23, NKJV). When I neglect that vigilance, I drift. And drift is dangerous. “We must give the more earnest heed… lest we drift away” (Hebrews 2:1, NKJV). Even the strongest men in Scripture were not immune. David loved God, yet he fell into adultery when he stopped watching his heart (2 Samuel 11:1–4). Solomon began with wisdom and ended with divided loyalty (1 Kings 11:1–4). Their stories are not there to shame me; they are there to warn me. Pride truly does go “before destruction” (Proverbs 16:18, NKJV). 

The flesh is not passive. Paul tells me plainly: “The flesh lusts against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh… so that you do not do the things that you wish” (Galatians 5:16–17, NKJV). That conflict does not mean I do not love God. It means I am still in the process of being transformed. But here is the mercy: the Christian life is not defined by falling — it is defined by returning. When I sin, I am not cast away. I am called back. “If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9, NKJV). I come to Christ not as someone pretending strength, but as someone admitting need. Scripture invites me boldly: “Let us therefore come boldly to the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:15–16, NKJV). 

Even Peter — who loved Jesus deeply — denied Him. Yet Christ prayed for him: “I have prayed for you, that your faith should not fail; and when you have returned to Me, strengthen your brethren” (Luke 22:31–32, NKJV). After Peter failed, Jesus restored him (John 21:15–17). That restoration is my hope. Failure is not the end of the story when repentance follows. So my task is not pretending to be sinless. My task is vigilance and dependence. I must watch and pray (Matthew 26:41, NKJV). I must submit to God and resist the devil (James 4:7, NKJV). I must discipline my body (1 Corinthians 9:27), hide God’s Word in my heart (Psalm 119:11), flee temptation (2 Timothy 2:22), and put on the whole armor of God (Ephesians 6:10–18). And yet even with all of that effort, my ultimate confidence is not in my discipline. It is in grace. “Sin shall not have dominion over you, for you are not under law but under grace” (Romans 6:12–14, NKJV). 

I fall because I am human. I rise because Christ is faithful. A person who loves God can fall into sin because love does not erase the battle with the flesh. But love does change what happens after the fall. I grieve my sin. I confess it. I return. I run again with endurance, “looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith” (Hebrews 12:1–2, NKJV). That cycle — fall, confession, restoration, growth — is not proof that I do not love God. It is evidence that His Spirit is still working in me. And I thank God — through Jesus Christ our Lord — that the story does not end with my weakness. It ends with His mercy.