I don’t talk much about the life I had before I met my husband. Not because I’m ashamed—though, for a long time, I was—but because some chapters are so painful they become hard to put into words.
Before motherhood, before love, before safety, I spent years in a relationship defined by abuse. It was a life built around fear, silence, and survival.
There were times I had to hide bruises, lie about broken bones, and force a smile when I felt like I was falling apart inside. The physical pain was real, but it was the emotional and verbal abuse that cut deeper. Being constantly belittled, manipulated, and made to feel worthless wears you down in a way that lingers long after the bruises fade. I started to believe what I was told—that I didn’t deserve better, that no one else would want me, that this was love.
What made things even harder was that I was in grad school at the time, studying in a highly demanding program. I was already exhausted—mentally, emotionally, physically—and the person who was supposed to support me was the one hurting me.
To make it worse, my partner was in the same program. Leaving him didn’t just mean walking away from the relationship—it would have meant giving up the future I was working so hard to build. I felt trapped in every direction. And though I did my best to hide the abuse, people around me knew. They saw the signs. They sensed the shifts in my personality. But knowing doesn’t always lead to action—not from them, and not yet from me.
Here’s what I rarely admit out loud: I didn’t leave. The relationship ended. I wish I could say I found the strength to walk away, but the truth is, he left first.
Why he did, I’ll never fully understand. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was something else. But one day, it was over—and I didn’t have to go back. That moment should have felt like freedom, but instead, I felt numb. When you’ve lived in survival mode for so long, peace can feel unfamiliar—almost unsafe.
And the truth is, I haven’t completely healed. I still have moments when fear grips me in ways I can’t predict. Sometimes I scream if someone approaches me unexpectedly. I still can’t relax when I’m home alone at night. I’ve come a long way, and things have gotten better, but trauma doesn’t vanish. It lingers.
Healing isn’t a straight line—it’s a slow, uneven road with good days and setbacks.
Eventually, I met someone new—my husband. He was kind and gentle in ways I didn’t know were possible. At first, I didn’t trust it. I didn’t know how to be loved without fear. But over time, he showed me what love should feel like: steady, respectful, safe. He never asked me to forget what happened—he simply stayed beside me while I worked through it. That quiet, constant presence helped me begin to believe in peace again.
Now, as a mother, I carry my past not as a burden, but as a reminder. Every silly dance in the kitchen, every bedtime story, every scraped-knee kiss is something I never imagined I’d get to experience. But I also know that far too many women are still where I once was—trapped, afraid, and unsure if help will ever come.
This isn’t just a personal story. It’s a systemic one, too. In Connecticut, domestic violence shelters are overwhelmed. In 2024, shelters operated at 129% capacity—a dramatic increase from just two years earlier. There aren’t enough safe places for survivors to go.
The average length of an emergency shelter stay has risen to 53 days, and the number of children needing shelter has climbed nearly 16%. These aren’t just numbers—they’re families. They’re women like I was, and children like mine.
To respond to the crisis, Connecticut created Safe Connect—a 24/7 centralized hotline (1-888-774-2900) that connects survivors to emergency shelter, counseling, legal advocacy, and transitional housing. Agencies are working together to meet the need, even using hotel placements when shelters are full. Still, demand outpaces resources. Survivors shouldn’t have to choose between homelessness and staying with their abuser—but too many still do.
I didn’t escape because I found a perfect plan. I got out because the relationship ended. But I was lucky—I had the support, time, and space to begin again. Not everyone does. That’s why I’m sharing this. Not for sympathy, but for someone out there who might be reading this in secret, wondering if life can ever feel safe again.
It can. You are not crazy. You are not weak. You are not alone. And you are absolutely worthy of a life filled with peace, safety, and love.
I look at my children today and know they will grow up in a home where love doesn’t hurt, and trust is never weaponized. That, to me, is the real victory—not just surviving what happened, but continuing to heal, even on the hard days, and raising a generation that won’t have to recover from what I did.
