Light at the end of the tunnel

October.

It’s always been a special month to me. It’s my birthday month, after all. But more than that—it’s Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

A few years ago, I wrote about my own experience with domestic violence. I had been through it. Survived it. And I wanted to share my story. To bring awareness. To let someone out there—anyone—know they weren’t alone.

And do you know what happened? I got backlash.

People from my past reached out, concerned—not about what I had gone through, not about what had happened to me—but about how it made them look.

Imagine that.

People worried about their reputations over the reality of what I lived through. The nerve, right? But then again, should I have expected anything else?

Because that’s the thing about abuse—there are always enablers. People who choose to look the other way. People who make excuses. People who let it continue, because it’s easier for them to pretend it’s not happening than to confront the truth.

I took the post down. Not for them. Not because they asked me to. I took it down for me.

Because back then, I was still angry. I was writing from a place of anger, and that’s not how I wanted to tell my story. I wanted to share it from a mended place, from a place of strength, from a place where my words could help someone—not just serve as a release of my own pain.

I’ve had so many people tell me I should share it again. That I should talk about it. That it might help someone. So, here I am.

If even one person reading this finds the courage to take the first step—to reach out, to leave, to feel empathy—then everything I went through will have been worth it.

The Statistics That Break My Heart.

Globally, an estimated 736 million women have been subjected to domestic violence.

736. MILLION.

That number crushes me every time I see it. 1 in 3 women worldwide have been subjected to a form of abuse. And I never thought I’d be part of that statistic.

For a long time, I carried so much shame. I still do, sometimes. I ask myself the same questions over and over again.

Why me?
Why did I stay?
What could I have done differently?

And the answer is this: Nothing. It had nothing to do with me. And if you’re in an abusive relationship right now, if you’ve ever been in one, you need to hear this—it has nothing to do with you!

There is no action, no mistake, no flaw that justifies abuse. You are not the problem. I was the whole package—just at the wrong address. And so are you.

The Night I Left.

I can still feel the air that night. Cold. Crisp. Dewy. The sky pitch black, speckled with stars that blinked at me like tiny, knowing eyes. The stars in his small town were always so beautiful.

It was November 2018. And I didn’t know it yet, but I was finally going to leave. It had been two and a half years of living with a man who was nothing more than a mirage. A magician of manipulation. A master at playing the victim. Technically, I was married. But to me, that “wedding” was nothing more than a party I threw. I never say I was married, because in my heart, that wasn’t a marriage. That wasn’t love.

Looking back, I can’t even picture his face anymore. It’s blurred, like someone I once saw in a dream but can’t quite remember. But I do remember how I felt.

Heavy. Uneasy. Anxious. Scared. Embarrassed.

I was an empath. And narcissists? They thrive on people like me. They see our compassion and turn it into a weapon. They twist our kindness into something they can use to control us. In the beginning, he was charming. They always are. The love bombing, the obsession, the “I can’t live without you” and “Marry me!” declarations.

And then, slowly, the darkness creeps in.

Manipulation. Control. Isolation. Blame. Emotional abuse. Physical abuse. The apologies that mean nothing.

I made excuses. I told myself he was just damaged. That he didn’t mean to hurt me. That I could help him heal. I wish I could go back and shake myself. Tell myself to RUN.

But I didn’t. Because that’s what abuse does—it strips you of yourself. Of your confidence, your strength, your self-worth. It convinces you that this is all you deserve. And it took me way too long to realize that wasn’t true.

Statistically, it takes a woman seven attempts to leave an abuser.

Seven.

I finally left after two and a half years. I thought about leaving constantly. Even on the first official day I moved in. I couldn’t put my finger on it then—couldn’t see it clearly—but there was always something off. Something nagging at me, whispering in the back of my mind, warning me before I even understood what it was trying to say.

The night I left, I hadn’t planned it. I didn’t pack a bag. I didn’t map out a way to escape. There was no moment of strategy, no careful execution. It was like I got pushed. Like something—someone—grabbed me by the shoulders and shoved me out the door before I could change my mind. Like God Himself had decided enough was enough.

And still, to this day, when I hear a story that sounds too much like mine, when the memories creep in and I’m overwhelmed by the echoes of physical and emotional abuse, uninvited and unwelcome, pressing their weight against my chest, when I accomplish something I never thought I could.

I look up and whisper, thank you.

Through it all I lost everything. My money, my sense of self, my hope, material things. But I got out. And I am so damn grateful that I did.

To anyone still stuck in it, I know how hard it is. I know the fear. I know the shame. I know the way you convince yourself that staying is easier. That maybe they’ll change. That maybe this time will be different.

But it won’t. And you deserve so much better!

Love doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t hit. It doesn’t yell. It’s not anger, and it’s not fear.

That is not love.

Love is soft. It’s patient. It’s safe. It’s the deep breath after a long day, the warmth of a touch that never makes you flinch. It’s a voice that soothes, not one that shouts. It’s arms that hold, not hands that harm.

Love does not break you. Love does not leave bruises—on your skin or on your soul.

Real love heals. Real love chooses you and your well being—every single day.

And if it doesn’t? Then it’s not love.

Please—reach out to someone. Talk to a friend. A family member. A shelter. A therapist. Anyone.

You are not alone. You are not weak. You are not unlovable. You are strong. You are worthy. And you can get out.

It won’t be easy. It will hurt. There will be moments where you second-guess yourself. But I promise you—on the other side of this, life is beautiful again.

You loved the wrong person so much. Imagine how much you’ll love the right person. Imagine how much more you’ll love yourself.

And when you do leave—when you finally take that first terrifying, incredible step toward freedom—you will never regret it.

I am wholeheartedly rooting for you, you’ve got this!

Peace, love & strength. xoxo.

“At any given moment you have the power to say this is not how the story is going to end.” ― Christine Mason Miller

National Domestic Violence Helpline : 1(800)799-7233                

*For those in need of refuge check out your local Domestic Violence shelters. They will give you a place to stay, food to eat, clothes to wear, protection and guidance as you navigate your way through this. 

Peace, Love & Stand up for yourself xoxo