Life After Abuse: A Story of Hope and Healing

TRIGGER WARNING: This post deals with an account of domestic violence and may be triggering to some.

Growing up, I learned early on how to be aware of the little things that spoke volumes. My mom wasn’t just an alcoholic; she was also bipolar, and I never knew if I’d come home to a mom who was cheerful and loving or to one who would say hurtful things and obsess over cleaning.

I grew up in AA, surrounded by people trying to rebuild their lives. My parents were both recovering alcoholics, and while I didn’t fully understand it at the time, it made sense later in life. The environment made it easier for me to fall into drugs.

When I was fifteen, my first experience with meth came at the hands of adults who, in hindsight, should have known better. At the time, I couldn’t understand why they would lead me down that path. However, as I’ve gone through my healing journey, I’ve come to realize that those individuals were deeply broken themselves. They were trapped in their own struggles, in a place of darkness and pain, and they simply didn’t know any better.

For six years, meth controlled my life. My addiction led me into a toxic, abusive relationship with my now ex-husband.

He was supposed to save me. He was my knight in shining armor, my prince, the person I thought would protect me, love me, and help me heal. He was once my best friend, someone I trusted more than anyone else. But all of that changed.

I remember the first time he hit me. It was a moment I’ll never forget. I had broken his picture on purpose, trying to send some sort of message, trying to make him feel the anger and hurt I had inside me. But in return, he punched me in the face.

I went down, stunned, but then I got up. I hit him back. He hit me again, and I got up again, hitting him back in an attempt to defend myself. This went on a few more times before I couldn’t get back up anymore. He stood over me, telling me, “Stay down, stay down,” and in that moment, I felt broken.

It was the first time I truly saw how deeply our relationship was damaging me, but even then, I couldn’t see a way out. There was something inside of me that had already started to shatter, piece by piece. It was as if the very foundation of who I was was crumbling, but I couldn’t figure out how to rebuild it. I had spent so much time in survival mode that I couldn’t recognize the destruction.

The abuse had taken its toll on me, eroding my sense of self, and I didn’t know how to escape the cycle. I had once believed in this person, believed that he would protect me, but in that moment, I saw that he was the very one hurting me. Yet, I was still stuck in the relationship, still hoping for a change that would never come.

Trauma has a way of blurring the lines between love and pain, and in that moment, I couldn’t see that the person who was supposed to be my protector had become my abuser.

It was a crushing realization, but at that time, I didn’t know how to fight my way out. I was trapped in a world of emotional and physical turmoil, and it felt like a prison I couldn’t escape from.

I don’t know why I ever allowed it. I know that the person in that relationship was not me. The things I did and the things I allowed were not who I truly was. I was not weak because I was in that relationship, and I was not weak because I stayed.

Abuse and trauma do things to you that you would never imagine. It’s not just the emotional scars that leave a mark—it’s physical, too. Your body becomes so attuned to constant stress, to the fight or flight that never stops, that it begins to break down.

The tension, the fear, and the anxiety all build up and stay with you. Your heart races, your muscles tighten and stay that way, your sleep is restless, and your body is in a constant state of exhaustion. Trauma doesn’t just affect your mind; it takes a toll on your body, making you feel physically sick, tired, or overwhelmed without knowing why.

You are so broken down, piece by piece, that you are just stuck. Every part of you—your body, your mind, your soul—becomes conditioned to expect pain. Your sense of self diminishes, and you start to believe that this is the way things will always be.

But it’s not weakness. That’s strength. That is survival. The strength to keep going, even when every part of you is begging to give up.

Trauma rewires you. It changes how you see the world and how you see yourself. It takes away your ability to trust, to feel safe, to love without fear. It leaves you questioning your worth, but deep down, there is a flicker of strength, a small voice telling you that you are more than the broken pieces. It tells you that you are worthy of healing, worthy of peace. And eventually, you start to listen to that voice, even though it feels so small. That voice, that strength, is what ultimately pulls you out of the darkness.

Our relationship was destructive on both sides. His hands were violent, and my words were sharp, cutting deep into both of us. It wasn’t just the abuse—it was the shame, the hopelessness, and the feeling that things would never get better. But there were also moments of love, moments that reminded me of the three beautiful kids we brought into the world. They were my light, the reason I kept going even when everything around me seemed to be falling apart.

I couldn’t bear the thought of them growing up in that environment, witnessing violence, and believing that it was normal. My son, only eleven, had to hit his dad with a broom to get him off me—it hit me harder than anything. It wasn’t just about me anymore; it was about their futures.

If I stayed, I knew my daughters were going to experience the same kind of abuse. They would believe that they deserved it, that this was what love looked like. And my son—he was learning that this was how men treat women. The cycle was being set. It was a terrifying realization, and I couldn’t let it happen.

That day, when my son stood up for me, it was as if I saw the future laid out in front of me—a future where my children, like me, would be broken.

That was the moment I knew I had to leave. I knew that getting out was the only way I could protect them—and heal myself in the process. If I didn’t, I would be condemning them to the same broken, destructive life I had lived, and I couldn’t allow that. They deserved better, and so did I.

We stayed together for twelve years, but eventually, my ex took the kids. I was too scared to fight for them, too broken to believe I could do better. For a long time, I carried the weight of that loss, feeling like I had failed them. But I’ve spent the years since working to repair the damage, to rebuild the trust, and to be the best mom I can be for them.

After my ex took the kids, I spiraled into a place darker than I ever thought possible. My heart ached, not just from the loss of my children, but from the emptiness that consumed me. I turned to alcohol, a familiar crutch that numbed the pain for a little while. But the numbness never lasted, and the deeper I sank, the more I made terrible choices. My life became a series of bad decisions, one after another, and every one of them felt like a reflection of how broken I was inside.

My ex-husband used my kids to hurt me. He told them I didn’t want them, twisting the truth to create more distance between us. He took any money I sent them, using it to make me feel powerless, like I had no control over anything, not even the small ways I tried to help.

When they called to talk to me or I called them, the name “incubator” was what they saw on the phone—it was the name my ex had saved for me. Every time they called, or I reached out, I was reminded of how little I seemed to matter, how distant and cold I had been reduced to in his eyes.

For a long time, I only saw my kids for six weeks in the summer. The summers were nice, but I didn’t have a car or money, and I couldn’t offer them experiences or fun. I wish I could’ve done more; I wish I could’ve been better for them. I wanted to give them everything, but I couldn’t. It was heartbreaking, knowing I was limited in so many ways, knowing my kids deserved so much more. I felt like I was failing them every single day.

I finally reached a point where I couldn’t just keep wishing I had done better. I had to take action. I knew I had to work to rebuild the relationship with my kids and show them that, despite all the mistakes I made, I could still be there for them. I started finding ways to improve, to create a stable life, even if it meant small steps forward. I realized that as long as I was trying, I wasn’t lost. And if I could get myself to a place where I was better for them, then that was all that mattered.

I was diagnosed with complex PTSD, and dealing with it has been a long and painful journey. I still deal with flashbacks and nightmares that take me back to moments I wish I could forget. There are times when I still don’t feel like I can make my dreams come true. I struggle with the feeling that I don’t deserve it, that I’m not worthy of a life beyond the pain I’ve known. Sometimes, I continue to live in fear, afraid of failing, of being stuck, of letting the past define me.

But I don’t give up. I keep pushing forward. I started with therapy. I began looking inward, facing the things I’d been avoiding for so long. But therapy wasn’t enough. It wasn’t until I started seeking something deeper, something spiritual, that I began to feel like I was truly healing.

I began exploring meditation, shadow work, and candle work, and these practices began to offer me more than just a temporary escape. They became tools to reconnect with myself in ways I had never imagined.

Healing wasn’t just about working through the pain—it was about building a deeper connection to something beyond the physical. It was about tapping into a power greater than myself, learning to trust it, and surrendering to the process.

These spiritual practices helped me find peace and clarity, but more than anything, they helped me rebuild my sense of self-worth.

For so long, I thought I was just a broken, empty shell of a person. But I wasn’t. I was a strong, loving, and amazing person. I just had to find her again. And that’s what I’ve been doing—slowly but surely. It hasn’t been easy, and it hasn’t been quick, but with each step, I’ve been reconnecting with the woman I was always meant to be. And through it all, I’ve realized that I am enough, just as I am.

I worked for years, digging into the deep, dark stuff. I thought it all stemmed from my broken marriage, but I soon realized it was much deeper than that—it was rooted in a lifetime of struggles, traumas, and wounds.

It was years of healing, and there were times when I wanted to quit. The weight of it all felt suffocating, and the journey seemed too long to keep going. But I couldn’t quit. I had to heal for others—more than for myself. I had to show my kids that we could overcome anything, that we could build a new life despite everything we’d been through.

And as I healed, I also worked on healing my relationship with my kids. I knew I had to be present for them, not just in the physical sense but emotionally and mentally as well. I made sure to show up as the mom they deserved, someone who could be there to listen, to support, and to love them unconditionally.

The spiritual practices I had learned gave me the tools to create these deeper connections with my children, helping me become the mother I had always longed to be. With time, the bond between us grew stronger, and I began to see that the love we had for each other was unbreakable, no matter what had happened in the past.

I got a job. I started paying my own bills. I dug myself out of the hole that I had created, a hole that was shaped by both my actions and what I had allowed to be done to me.

It wasn’t easy, and it didn’t happen overnight. But each day, I became a little more independent, a little stronger. I took responsibility for my life, for my choices, and for the changes I needed to make. And though I still have moments where I struggle, I know I’ve come so far, and I’ve proven to myself that I can rebuild.

And then, I went back to school. I knew I had finally figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I started working toward a degree in psychology, a field that had always fascinated me and a way I could help others the way I had helped myself.

I realized that my own healing journey had sparked something inside me. It wasn’t just about recovering from my past; it was about using my experiences to make a difference in the lives of others. I knew this was my path, and it felt like everything I had been through had led me here.

I will continue to work on myself, healing the parts of me that still need to be healed. We are always working to be better, always continuing to heal, and we are not alone in this world. So many people have stories like mine, stories of pain and survival, and I know we can all rise above it together.