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I get DMs about this at least once a month: “I can’t stop thinking about my spouse’s past. I know they’ve repented, I know the Atonement covers it, but I can’t get these images out of my head.”

Sometimes it’s the wife who’s struggling with her husband’s sexual history. Sometimes it’s the husband who can’t stop asking questions about his wife’s past. And sometimes—this is the really painful one—it’s the spouse who makes comments about how things were different with previous partners.

But there’s another version of this message that comes just as often, usually late at night: “I’ve been married for 18 years. My husband doesn’t know I had a sexual partner before him. I repented. I talked to my bishop. I thought that was enough. But the guilt is eating me alive. Do I tell him now? Will it destroy everything we’ve built?”

This issue sits at the intersection of faith, anxiety, and intimacy, and it’s causing real pain in marriages from multiple angles. Let’s talk about what’s actually happening here and what you can do about it—whether you’re the one struggling with your spouse’s past or the one carrying a secret about your own.

Understanding What’s Really Going On

When you’re lying in bed next to your spouse and suddenly you’re wondering if they’re thinking about someone else, or when you’re in the middle of sex and you start comparing yourself to a person you’ve never met—that’s not really about their past. It’s about your present anxiety.

Your brain is trying to find certainty in an uncertain situation. You want a guarantee that you’re enough, that you’re the best they’ve ever had, that they’ve never experienced pleasure like this before. But no amount of information will ever give you that certainty. You could ask a thousand questions and still find something new to worry about.

Rachel found this out the hard way. Three years into marriage, she discovered her husband Josh had slept with two women before their wedding. He’d repented, talked to his bishop, done everything “right” according to church process. But Rachel couldn’t let it go. She’d ask him questions during dinner: “Was she prettier than me?” During sex: “Did you do this with her?” Before bed: “Are you thinking about them right now?”

Josh would answer honestly, trying to reassure her. But every answer just led to more questions. Because Rachel wasn’t really seeking information—she was seeking certainty that her anxiety couldn’t provide.

The rumination isn’t about his past. It’s about her present fear of not being enough.

The Comparison Trap

Now let’s talk about when your spouse makes comments about their past partners. This is where things get even more complicated because now you’re not just dealing with your own anxiety; you’re dealing with your spouse actively feeding your insecurities.

Trevor would bring up his past in ways that left his wife Diane feeling inadequate. When she’d express hesitation about trying something new sexually, he’d say, “Well, this hasn’t been the case with my past partners.” When she wasn’t in the mood, he’d mention, “I’ve been with women who were more spontaneous.” Sometimes he’d be more subtle: “I remember this one girl who used to…” and then trail off with a knowing smile.

Every comment landed like a small betrayal. Diane started feeling like she was competing with ghosts, and she was losing a competition she never signed up for.

When your spouse makes these kinds of comments, they’re doing a few things—none of them healthy. They might be trying to motivate you to change by making you jealous. They might be expressing frustration poorly. They might be trying to feel powerful by making you feel small. Or they might genuinely not understand how destructive these comments are.

But they’re definitely damaging trust and safety in your marriage.

The “Why Could You Do That With Them?” Question

There’s a particularly painful version of this that comes up: “Why could you do that with your ex but you won’t with me?”

Maybe your husband knows you were more adventurous sexually with a previous boyfriend. Maybe a wife knows her husband’s first marriage included things he’s not willing to do now. And the question sits there like a splinter: if you could do it then, why not now? What does that say about how you feel about me?

This question is loaded with so much pain and confusion. But the answer is almost never what the person asking fears.

When someone was sexual in a previous relationship—whether that was a boyfriend, girlfriend, or former spouse—and they’re less willing or less interested in certain things now, it’s usually not about comparison. It could be about growth, about learning what actually works for them, about understanding themselves better. It could also be that before they met you they were acting out of trauma or people pleasing and they are more in alignment now with who they want to be.

Vanessa had been married before. Her first husband was very demanding sexually, and she’d gone along with things that made her uncomfortable because she didn’t know how to set boundaries. When that marriage ended and she remarried, her new husband Keith discovered she’d done things with her ex that she wouldn’t do with him. He felt rejected, like she was holding back from him in ways she hadn’t held back before.

But that wasn’t what was happening at all. Vanessa had learned that just because she could do something didn’t mean she wanted to. She’d learned that saying yes when you mean no damages intimacy rather than building it. She wasn’t withholding from Keith—she was finally being honest about her own boundaries.

Or sometimes the opposite happens. Someone who kept strict boundaries in previous relationships finds that in their marriage, with the safety and commitment of that covenant, they’re able to explore and be more open. And their spouse wonders: “Why am I special? What’s different now?”

The answer is that you’re not competing with the past. The person you’re with has had different experiences, learned different things, and become a different version of themselves. That’s not about you being better or worse than anyone else. It’s about growth and context and the unique dynamics of your specific relationship.

When Previous Partners Were a Former Spouse

We need to talk specifically about when “past partners” means a former spouse, because this adds layers of complexity that are different from previous boyfriends or girlfriends.

When someone has been previously married and is now remarried, there are layers of complexity that are different from previous boyfriends or girlfriends.

That first marriage might have been a covenant relationship—sealed in the temple, meant to be forever. Or it might not have been. Either way, there’s history there, experiences that shaped them. The marriage might have ended in divorce, or it might have ended through death. There might be children involved, which means the ex-spouse is still present in some way in your lives, or there might be grief about a life that was cut short.

And sexually, that first marriage probably included years of learning each other, developing patterns, building a sexual relationship. That’s different from a shorter relationship or an isolated sexual encounter.

If you’re married to someone who was previously married, you might struggle with knowing they had this whole life with someone else. They made the same promises to that person that they made to you. They built intimacy with someone else in ways that were supposed to be reserved for marriage.

And if you’re the person who was previously married, you might struggle with guilt about that first marriage, grief about what was lost, or confusion about how to navigate your current spouse’s feelings about your past.

Gregory’s wife Anna had been married before. Her first husband had been unfaithful, and the marriage ended after five years. When Gregory and Anna got married, he knew intellectually about her past, but emotionally he struggled with it constantly. He’d see old wedding photos when they were at her parents’ house. He’d hear stories about “when Anna was married before.” He’d wonder if she compared him to her ex in bed.

What helped Gregory was realizing that Anna’s first marriage, as painful as it was, had shaped her into the person he loved. She’d learned things about herself, about relationships, about what she truly wanted. She’d become more resilient, more aware, more capable of choosing him fully. Her past wasn’t competing with him—it had prepared her for him.

Why This Happens in Faith Communities

In a church culture that emphasizes sexual purity before marriage, there’s often this unspoken expectation that if someone made mistakes, repented, and got married in the temple, the past should just… disappear. Like it never happened. Like those experiences don’t exist in their memory banks.

But that’s not how humans work. Repentance is real. Forgiveness is real. The Atonement is real. And none of that erases the fact that experiences shape us, including sexual experiences.

When someone has had previous sexual partners, those encounters don’t just vanish from their brain. They might not think about them often—or at all—but the experiences existed. And sometimes, in the middle of working through sexual issues in marriage, those memories might surface.

This creates a painful tension: you believe in repentance and the Atonement, but you’re also struggling with the reality that your spouse has a sexual history. And then you feel guilty for struggling because doesn’t your struggle mean you don’t really believe in forgiveness?

No. It doesn’t mean that at all.

Believing in the Atonement doesn’t mean you automatically feel nothing about your spouse’s past. It means you’re choosing not to hold their past against them as a moral failing. Those are two completely different things.

You can fully believe someone has repented and been forgiven by God while still working through your own emotional reaction to information about their past. Your feelings aren’t a referendum on the Atonement. They’re just feelings, and feelings need to be processed, not just believed away.

The Moral Superiority Problem

But let’s talk about something that happens sometimes that’s really destructive: when the spouse who kept the Law of Chastity uses that obedience as a weapon against the spouse who didn’t.

Even when someone has fully repented, even when you say you’ve forgiven them, even when you claim to believe in the Atonement—you might find yourself holding their past over their head. Sometimes you do this with words: using it to win arguments, bringing it up when you’re angry, making them feel perpetually indebted to you for “accepting” them despite their past.

But sometimes you don’t even have to say anything. It’s the energy you give off. The way you look at them when certain topics come up. The sigh when they talk about intimacy. The subtle withdrawal of warmth. The unspoken judgment that hangs in the air between you.

“Well, at least I was faithful to our marriage from the beginning.” “I saved myself for you, but you didn’t save yourself for me.” “After everything I’ve forgiven you for, the least you could do is…”

This is not belief in the Atonement. This is keeping a record of wrongs that’s supposed to have been wiped clean.

Isaiah had waited. He’d kept the Law of Chastity through his teenage years, through years of dating. When he married Lauren, he was proud that he could come to her without sexual sin in his past. But Lauren had made mistakes. She’d slept with her college boyfriend before breaking up with him and going through the repentance process.

Isaiah said he’d forgiven her. He said it didn’t matter. But two years into their marriage, it became clear that he was keeping score. When they’d fight about anything—money, in-laws, housework—he’d eventually bring up her past. “I’m not the one who made mistakes before marriage.” “Maybe if you’d made better choices before we met, you’d understand commitment.”

Lauren finally confronted him in a counseling session: “You say you believe in the Atonement, but you’re acting like Christ’s sacrifice wasn’t enough to cleanse me. You’re acting like you’re more merciful than God. Either you believe I’ve been forgiven, or you don’t. But you can’t keep using my past as ammunition.”

She was right. Isaiah had been using moral superiority as a way to maintain power in the relationship. He’d convinced himself it was righteous judgment when really it was just judgment.

The Rumination Cycle

Let’s get specific about what’s happening in your brain when you can’t stop thinking about your spouse’s past. This is important because understanding the mechanism helps you interrupt it.

Your brain perceives the unknown aspects of your spouse’s past as a threat. Not a physical threat, but a threat to your sense of security in the relationship. So your brain does what it’s designed to do with threats—it keeps bringing your attention back to them, trying to “solve” the problem.

The rumination feels productive. It feels like if you just think about it enough, if you just understand it completely, if you just ask the right questions, you’ll finally feel okay. But rumination doesn’t solve anxiety. It feeds it.

Every time you ruminate, you’re actually strengthening the neural pathway that tells your brain this is important, this is dangerous, this needs your attention right now. You’re training your brain to be more anxious, not less.

Jennifer would spend hours at night after her husband fell asleep, scrolling through his ex-girlfriend’s social media profiles from years ago. She’d study their faces, their trips together, trying to imagine what their relationship was like. She’d create elaborate stories in her mind about their sex life—stories she had no evidence for but that felt absolutely true in the moment.

The more she did this, the worse she felt. And the worse she felt, the more she needed to do it, like scratching an itch that only gets more inflamed the more you scratch it.

What the Person Who’s Struggling Can Do

If you’re the one who can’t stop thinking about your spouse’s past, you need to recognize that this is primarily your work to do. Yes, your spouse needs to support you and set appropriate boundaries, but the rumination is happening in your brain, which means you’re the one who needs to learn to manage it.

First, stop asking questions. I know this feels counterintuitive. Your brain is screaming that you need just one more piece of information, one more detail, and then you’ll be able to relax. But that’s not true. Every question you ask gives you temporary relief followed by more anxiety.

Instead, when the urge to ask a question comes up, notice it. Name it: “I’m having the urge to ask about his past again.” And then make a different choice. Go for a walk. Text a friend. Do literally anything except ask the question.

Second, interrupt the rumination with something called “cognitive defusion.” When you notice yourself spiraling into thoughts about your spouse’s past, try this: Say the thoughts out loud, but add “I’m having the thought that…” in front of them.

Instead of “He’s probably comparing me to her right now,” say “I’m having the thought that he’s probably comparing me to her right now.” This tiny shift creates distance between you and the thought. It reminds you that thoughts are just mental events, not facts.

Third, build your own sense of security that isn’t dependent on being “the best” your spouse has ever had. This is deep work, and it might require working with a coach or therapist, but it’s essential. Your worth isn’t determined by comparison. Your value in your marriage isn’t measured by whether you’re better in bed than someone from your spouse’s past.

Connor spent six months working on this. Every time he felt the jealousy rising about his wife’s previous relationship, he’d write down three things he knew were true: “She chose to marry me. She shows up for our relationship every day. She’s building a life with me, not with him.” Over time, these truths started to feel more solid than his anxious questions.

What the Person Being Questioned Can Do

If you’re the spouse with the sexual history and your partner keeps asking questions, you’re in a difficult position. You want to be honest and transparent, but you’re also watching your attempts at honesty fuel more anxiety.

You need to set boundaries around these conversations. Not because you’re hiding something, but because answering endless questions doesn’t actually help your spouse heal—it makes the problem worse.

You can say something like: “I love you and I want you to feel secure in our marriage. I’ve answered your questions honestly because I want to be transparent with you. But I’m noticing that the more we talk about this, the more anxious you seem to get. I think we need to take a break from these conversations and maybe get some help working through this together.”

This isn’t shutting down communication. It’s redirecting it to something more productive than feeding the anxiety cycle.

You also need to be extremely careful about any comments that could be construed as comparison. Even if you think you’re being subtle, even if you think you’re just sharing a memory, any reference to past sexual partners is likely to land wrong.

When Your Spouse Makes Comparisons

If your spouse is making comments about how things were different with past partners—that’s a different situation entirely. That’s not just their past causing you anxiety. That’s them actively undermining your security in the relationship.

This needs to be addressed directly and immediately.

You can say: “When you make comments about how things were with your past partners, it makes me feel like I’m failing at being your spouse. It damages my trust in you and makes me not want to be sexual with you. I need you to stop making these comparisons, period.”

If they push back with something like “I’m just being honest” or “You’re too sensitive,” that’s a red flag. Honesty doesn’t require comparison. You can be honest about what you want sexually without referencing past partners.

If they continue after you’ve set this boundary clearly, that’s not just a communication issue—that’s a respect issue. And it might be time to bring in a marriage coach or therapist who can help them understand why this behavior is so destructive.

Stephanie’s husband kept saying things like “Well, my college girlfriend never had a problem with this.” Finally Stephanie said: “I need you to hear me. Every time you compare me to her, you’re telling me I’m not enough. And if you keep telling me I’m not enough, eventually I’m going to believe you, and this marriage is going to be in serious trouble. This stops now.”

He finally heard her. And he stopped. Because she made it clear this wasn’t a small issue—it was a make-or-break boundary.

But What If You’re on the Other Side?

Now let’s flip this entirely. What if you’re not the one struggling with your spouse’s past—what if you’re the one who has a past you never disclosed? What if you’re carrying a secret that’s eating you up inside?

Most people who don’t tell their spouse about previous sexual partners aren’t trying to be deceptive. They’re operating from a specific understanding of how repentance works in our faith tradition.

You went to your bishop. You repented sincerely. You felt the weight lift. You experienced what you believe was God’s forgiveness and the power of the Atonement making you clean. And somewhere in that process—maybe from the bishop, maybe from church culture, maybe from your own understanding—you absorbed the message that once you’ve repented, the past is erased. It’s as if it never happened. Why would you need to tell your spouse about something that’s been washed away?

Christina was 19 when she slept with her boyfriend. The relationship ended badly. She spent months working through repentance, feeling like she’d never be worthy again. When she finally felt forgiven, she made a promise to herself: she would never let that mistake define her. When she met Michael two years later, she didn’t tell him. Not because she was trying to hide something, but because she genuinely believed that bringing it up would be giving power to something God had already wiped clean.

They got married. Had kids. Built a life. And for 15 years, she barely thought about it. Until recently, when her teenage daughter started dating and Christina found herself giving advice about intimacy and boundaries. Suddenly, the secret felt heavy again. She’d built a marriage on what felt like a foundation of honesty, except for this one thing she’d never said.

What You’re Really Afraid Of

If you’re sitting on this secret right now, let’s be honest about what you’re actually afraid of. Because understanding your fears helps you think more clearly about what to do.

You’re afraid they’ll feel betrayed. That they’ll say you lied to them, that your whole marriage was built on deception. You’re afraid they’ll look at you differently, like you’re not the person they thought they married.

You’re afraid they’ll start asking questions you don’t want to answer. Who was it? When? How many times? Details you’ve worked hard to put behind you suddenly being dragged back to the surface.

You’re afraid they won’t believe the repentance was real. That they’ll think if you really repented, you would have told them before you got married.

You’re afraid they’ll compare themselves to your previous partner and feel inadequate. Or worse, that they’ll feel like they were your second choice, your backup plan.

And underneath all of that, you’re afraid they’ll leave. That this information will be the thing that breaks your marriage.

Brian carried his secret for 22 years. He’d had two partners before his wife Claire, both before his mission. He’d been through the repentance process, felt resolved about it, and made what he thought was a faithful decision not to burden Claire with information about a past that no longer mattered. But as the years went on, the secret started to feel less like faith and more like a lie. Every time Claire would talk about how grateful she was that they were each other’s only sexual partners, he’d feel his stomach drop. He wanted to tell her. He was terrified to tell her.

The Weight of Secrets

Secrets have a particular kind of gravity. They pull at you. They require energy to maintain. And the longer you keep them, the heavier they get.

When you’re carrying a significant secret from your spouse, you’re not just hiding information. You’re creating distance. Every time they say something about your shared history, about how well they know you, about the trust between you, there’s this tiny moment of disconnection where you know there’s something they don’t know.

Over time, these tiny moments accumulate. The secret becomes a filter through which you process parts of your relationship. It affects how you show up sexually because you’re aware of the comparison your spouse doesn’t know exists. It affects how you respond when topics about past relationships come up. It affects how close you can actually let yourself be.

Melanie described it as carrying a pebble in her shoe. Most of the time she didn’t notice it. She’d go days, even weeks, without thinking about the fact that her husband Nathan didn’t know about her past. But then something would happen—a conversation, a movie, a question from their kids about how they met—and she’d feel it again. That small, sharp discomfort that reminded her she was hiding something.

After 12 years of marriage, she realized the pebble had worn a blister. The secret wasn’t neutral anymore. It was causing damage.

What You’re Hoping to Achieve by Not Telling

If you’ve decided not to tell your spouse, or if you’re leaning toward continuing to keep it private, what are you hoping to accomplish?

Maybe you’re hoping to protect them from pain. You’re thinking: why hurt them with information about something that happened before we even met? They’re happy now. We have a good marriage. Why introduce suffering where there isn’t any?

Maybe you’re hoping to protect your marriage. You’re afraid that disclosure will create problems that don’t currently exist. Your sex life might be fine. Your emotional connection might be strong. Why risk all of that?

Maybe you’re hoping to protect yourself from shame. Telling means facing their reaction, watching them process their hurt, sitting with the fact that you’ve been carrying this secret. It means dealing with the fallout instead of continuing to manage it quietly on your own.

Or maybe you’ve genuinely made peace with the decision not to tell. You’ve decided that what happened before your marriage belongs to you and God, that your spouse has no inherent right to every detail of your past, and that this is information that would cause harm without providing any benefit.

Some people make that choice thoughtfully and live with it fine. But if the secret is taking up more space in your life than you want it to, if you’re not at peace, you need to make a decision about what to do.

If You’re Considering Disclosure

Let’s say you’re leaning toward telling your spouse. Before you do, you need to get really clear on why. Not just “I feel guilty” but specifically what you’re hoping will happen after you tell them.

Are you hoping they’ll absolve you? That they’ll say it’s fine and you can stop carrying this burden? Because that might not happen. They might need time to process. They might be hurt. Your relief might come at the cost of their temporary pain.

Are you hoping for deeper intimacy? That telling this truth will create a new level of honesty between you? That’s possible, but it’s not guaranteed. Some couples do experience this. Others find that the disclosure creates complications that take years to work through.

Are you hoping to stop the distance you feel? The sense that you can’t be fully known because there’s this one thing you haven’t shared? This is perhaps the most legitimate reason for disclosure, but you need to be prepared that it might get worse before it gets better.

Tyler decided to tell his wife after 16 years of marriage. He wasn’t doing it to ease his guilt—he’d mostly made peace with his past. He was doing it because he wanted his wife to fully know him. He wanted the intimacy of being completely honest about who he’d been and who he’d become.

He planned carefully. He talked to a coach first to work through his own feelings and prepare for possible reactions. He chose a time when they could talk without the kids around. He was clear about his intentions: “I want to tell you something about my past. Not because I need your forgiveness—I believe God has already forgiven me—but because I want you to know all of me.”

Her reaction was complicated. She was hurt that he’d waited so long. She was confused about whether his earlier repentance “counted” if he’d kept it from her. She needed time to process. But eventually, after some hard conversations and couples coaching, they came through it. She appreciated that he told her even though it was difficult. The marriage got stronger, but it took work to get there.

How to Tell Them (If You Decide To)

If you’re going to disclose, how you do it matters enormously. This isn’t a conversation to have casually or in the middle of a fight. This requires intention and care.

First, do your own work first. Talk to a coach or therapist about your decision before you talk to your spouse. Get clear on your motivations and expectations. Make sure you’re not just transferring your guilt onto your spouse.

Second, prepare them that you have something serious to discuss and ask when would be a good time to talk. Don’t ambush them. Give them the dignity of being able to prepare emotionally for a serious conversation.

Third, be direct but not graphic. You can say “I had a sexual relationship before we met” without providing details they didn’t ask for and probably don’t want. Let them lead with questions if they have them.

Fourth, own it completely. Don’t minimize it (“it was no big deal”), don’t blame them (“I didn’t think you’d want to know”), and don’t make excuses. Take full responsibility for both the past choice and the decision not to disclose earlier.

Fifth, be prepared for a range of reactions. They might be calm. They might cry. They might get angry. They might shut down. They might need time. Don’t expect them to immediately reassure you that it’s okay. This is their information to process now.

Sixth, offer to answer questions but maintain appropriate boundaries. They have a right to understand the general context, but they don’t have a right to every graphic detail. You can say something like: “I’ll answer questions you have about when this happened and the context around it, but I’m not going to share intimate details that I don’t think would help either of us.”

If They Don’t Handle It Well

Let’s be realistic: there’s a good chance your spouse won’t handle this easily. This is hard information to receive, especially if you’ve been married for years or decades.

They might feel betrayed by the lack of disclosure more than the actual past. They might feel like they didn’t get to make an informed choice about who they were marrying. They might spiral into jealousy and comparison.

They might say things in the heat of their hurt that are really painful. “I would never have married you if I’d known.” “How can I ever trust you again?” “Who even are you?”

Some of these reactions are understandable but temporary emotional responses. Others might indicate deeper issues in how they handle difficult information. You need to be able to tell the difference.

If they need time and space to process, give it to them. If they need to talk about it multiple times before they can let it settle, be patient with that. But if they use this information as a weapon to punish you indefinitely, that’s not okay. If months go by and they’re still bringing it up in every fight, using it to justify their own bad behavior, or refusing to engage in any kind of healing process, you might need professional help to navigate it.

Jenna told her husband after 20 years. He reacted badly. Really badly. He moved out for two weeks. He told their adult children before she was ready. He posted vague, bitter things on social media. It was awful.

But then he came back. He apologized for his reaction. They started coaching. It took almost a year, but they rebuilt. He later told her that the initial reaction was panic—he’d built his whole understanding of their relationship on certain assumptions, and having one of those assumptions shattered felt like the whole foundation was crumbling. But it wasn’t. The foundation was still there. It just looked different than he thought.

If They Do Handle It Well

On the other hand, your spouse might surprise you. They might be hurt, yes, but they might also be compassionate. They might see that you were trying to do the right thing by repenting and moving forward. They might appreciate that you’re telling them now even though it’s difficult.

Some spouses respond with remarkable grace. They recognize that people are complex, that everyone has a past, and that the person they married is still the person they married—they just know more about them now.

This doesn’t mean there won’t be any processing or adjustment. Even the most gracious response still includes working through feelings. But some couples find that this disclosure, handled well on both sides, actually deepens their trust and intimacy.

When Nicole told her husband Sam after 14 years, he cried. But he cried because he hurt for her—for what she’d carried alone all those years. He told her he wished she’d felt safe enough to tell him sooner. They talked for hours. He asked some questions. She answered what felt appropriate. And then he said something that changed everything for her: “I love you. I loved you yesterday when I didn’t know this, and I love you today now that I do. You’re still the same person.”

The disclosure brought them closer because it removed a barrier Nicole hadn’t fully realized was there.

If You Decide Not to Tell

Not everyone decides to disclose, and that’s a choice too. Some people, after careful thought and maybe professional guidance, decide that the harm of disclosure would outweigh any benefit.

If you make this choice, you need to really make it. You can’t hold onto the guilt while also keeping the secret. You need to work through your feelings about it—perhaps with a coach or therapist—and come to genuine peace with your decision.

This means stopping the rumination about whether you should tell. It means accepting that you made what you believed was the right choice about repentance and disclosure, and trusting that you can live with this boundary. It means not using the secret as a barrier to intimacy in other ways.

Some people do this successfully. They process their past, make peace with their decision not to disclose, and move forward in their marriage without the secret creating ongoing distance. They’ve decided that the past is truly between them and God, and their spouse doesn’t need to carry knowledge of it.

But if you can’t get to that place of peace, if the secret continues to create distance and guilt, then you haven’t really made a choice. You’re just avoiding one.

The Repentance and Atonement Question

Throughout all of this—whether you’re struggling with your spouse’s past or carrying a secret about your own—there’s this underlying faith question about how the Atonement works.

Is repentance real if you didn’t tell your spouse? Does struggling with your spouse’s past mean you don’t believe in forgiveness?

Let’s separate some things that often get tangled together. Repentance before God and honesty in your marriage are related but not identical. The Atonement covers sin and that’s between you and God. Your spouse’s knowledge of your repentance doesn’t affect its validity.

But separately, you can be honest or not honest with your spouse about your history. That’s about the foundation of your marriage and how you’ve chosen to build trust.

Both things matter. Both things are real. But they’re not the same thing.

And for those struggling with a spouse’s past: believing in the Atonement doesn’t mean you automatically feel nothing about your spouse’s history. It means you’re choosing not to hold their past against them as a moral failing. Those are two completely different things.

You can fully believe someone has repented and been forgiven by God while still working through your own emotional reaction to information about their past. Your feelings aren’t a referendum on the Atonement. They’re just feelings, and feelings need to be processed, not just believed away.

Paul repented deeply for his choices before marriage. He’d worked through it with his bishop, felt God’s forgiveness, and moved forward with a clean conscience. But when his fiancée Amber found out about his past a month before their wedding, she struggled. She believed he’d repented. She believed God had forgiven him. And she still felt anxious and hurt.

She felt terrible guilt about her feelings, like she was judging him even though she knew he’d been forgiven. A wise therapist told her: “God’s forgiveness of Paul doesn’t obligate you to have zero emotional reaction. You’re allowed to have feelings while still believing in the Atonement. Give yourself permission to work through this.”

Creating a Path Forward

If this issue is active in your marriage right now—from either direction—you need a plan. Both of you. Because this doesn’t get better by accident.

For the person struggling with their spouse’s past: commit to stopping the rumination. No more questions. No more digging. No more late-night social media stalking. When the thoughts come—and they will—notice them, name them, and redirect your attention. Get professional help if you need it. This is worth investing in.

And if you’ve been using your moral superiority as a weapon, stop. Right now. If you truly believe in the Atonement, then you need to let your spouse’s past stay in the past where Christ has already put it. Holding someone’s repented sins over their head isn’t righteousness—it’s cruelty.

For the person with the sexual history that’s known: be patient with your spouse’s process while also maintaining boundaries around how much you’ll engage with repeated questions. Be scrupulous about never comparing your spouse to past partners, even in your own mind. Focus on building the life you’re creating together now.

And if your spouse asks why you could do something with a previous partner but won’t with them, be honest: “I’m not the same person I was then. I’ve learned more about myself and what I actually want. This isn’t about you being less than anyone else—it’s about me being more honest with myself and with you.”

For the person carrying a secret: make a decision. Get help thinking it through if you need to. But stop living in this painful liminal space where you’re neither at peace with keeping the secret nor moving toward disclosure. Choose a path and commit to it.

And for all of you: work on building security in your relationship that isn’t based on being each other’s only sexual experience. Build it on trust, on showing up consistently, on choosing each other every day. That’s stronger than any fantasy of sexual exclusivity anyway.

Brandon and Lisa did this work. It took them almost a year. There were setbacks—times when Lisa would spiral back into questioning, times when Brandon would get defensive. But they kept coming back to their commitment to move forward together. They got help from a professional. They learned to recognize the anxiety patterns and interrupt them. They built new, healthier ways of talking about their relationship.

Now, three years later, Lisa barely thinks about Brandon’s past. Not because she forced herself to stop, but because she built a sense of security that wasn’t dependent on him having zero sexual history. She built it on the actual evidence of their marriage: his consistency, his presence, his choice to build a life with her.

That’s what’s available to you too. Not perfection, but progress. Not the erasure of the past, but the building of a future together that matters more.

Alright my friends, that’s all I have for you today. Remember, love is a journey, not a destination. Stay committed, stay passionate, and stay connected. I’ll see you next week…ba-bye.