The Domino Effect of Self-Betrayal

Have you ever built dominoes in long, winding lines—carefully arranging them in intricate patterns—just to watch them fall, one after another? I have. There’s something mesmerizing about it. One gentle nudge, and the rest collapse in a perfectly timed sequence. Our lives, in many ways, mirror that chain reaction. Every day, we make choices—some small, some significant. And like dominoes, each choice influences the next, shaping who we are and who we’re becoming.

In my marriage, like in most, disagreements are inevitable. When my husband and I don’t see eye to eye, I often find myself at a familiar crossroads. One path leads to peace, the other to conflict. Early in our relationship, I defaulted to the path of war. I didn’t yet know how to ask for what I needed with kindness or how to resolve conflict without feeling like I had to fight to be heard. So I did what I had seen growing up—I pushed the first domino of self-betrayal.

I believed that if I spoke loudly enough, stood my ground firmly enough, and asserted myself with enough force, I’d gain respect. That’s what my father modeled. It felt natural to mirror his approach: control the room, win the argument, protect yourself. I wanted to listen, to be kind, but again and again, I betrayed that better impulse. I turned my husband into an opponent—an obstacle rather than a partner, a problem to solve instead of a person to love.

That act of self-betrayal led to the next falling tile: self-justification. To make sense of the war I had chosen, I looked for reasons to validate it. I began to see the world through a distorted lens—one shaped by the past, by pain I hadn’t fully processed. I remembered the women from my childhood who wore shame and bruises beneath layers of silence and makeup. I remembered the children, my friends, who shrank in fear at the sound of footsteps in the dark. I remembered hunger, desperation, and the quiet suffering of those who lived under the mercy of men who failed them.

Those memories lit a fire in me—a conviction that I would never be one of those women. I needed to prove I was strong, that I could stand on my own, that no man could control me. So I fought harder. I watched for signs of dominance like a hawk, ready to defend myself at the slightest provocation. I confused protection with opposition. And even when the conflict left us both worn and weary, I found reassurance in believing I had won. I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t her.

In The Anatomy of Peace, Yusuf says, “A heart at war needs enemies to justify its warring. It needs enemies and mistreatment more than it wants peace.” My heart had gone to war to protect itself, but it came at a cost—distance, mistrust, and moments of disconnection with the person I love. Yet surrender felt like vulnerability, and vulnerability, I feared, would take me back to a past I had vowed to escape.

I carried with me my father’s words:
“Lala, you are better than all these women. You will go to school, earn a degree. The first time your husband lays a hand on you will be the last. You will take care of yourself and your children. You will never depend on a man.”

Those words were meant to empower me. And in many ways, they did. But they also rooted a fear in me so deep that I became overly guarded, even when no threat was present. I needed to be strong. I needed to be in control. I needed to never, ever feel helpless.

For years, I believed I had only one choice: win. Win the argument. Win the independence. Win the image of strength. But Viktor E. Frankl reminds us in Man’s Search for Meaning:
“Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

I had forgotten that I always have a choice—not just the choice to fight, but also the choice to forgive, to trust, to love. To build rather than break. As Elder David A. Bednar said, “We are agents to act, not objects to be acted upon. We can overcome and be healed because of Christ’s Atonement.”

The lessons I’ve reflected on recently reminded me of this powerful truth. I am capable of choosing a better way—not the way of fear or defensiveness, but of hope, healing, and connection. I don’t have to let one act of self-betrayal set off a chain reaction. Like a line of dominoes, I can pause the fall. I can rebuild.

My husband and I are imperfect. We are not objects or opponents. We are two human beings—capable of growth, grace, and deep love. And every day, I get to choose whether to feed fear or to nurture that love. I can choose peace. I can choose to listen to the goodness in me—and let that be the first domino to fall.

- BYU Worldwide Family and Human Relations Homework -