How did I get here?

If you had asked me a few years ago how life was going, I would have naively told you that things were great—maybe even amazing.

I’d look around at what some of my friends and family were going through and think, I’m glad that’s not me.

I was grateful to have made it into adulthood seemingly unscathed from the trauma I experienced as a child.

If I’m being honest, I kind of thought I had it all figured out.

I was a homeowner—living in what my husband called his dream house.
I was pregnant with my second child.
I was steadily climbing the ladder at work, collecting promotions and pay increases.
I was traveling the world—Australia, Spain, Hawaii, and more.

Life was good—or so I thought.

Now, as I sit in the debris of the “ideal life” I believed I was living, I find myself asking: How did I get here?

And the answer? It’s obvious. So obvious, I’m not sure how I ever believed that a few years of therapy, some basic understanding of CBT, and forgiving my mother would be enough to erase the decades of physical and emotional abuse I endured.

That was only the tip of the iceberg.

Looking Back

For a long time, I couldn’t cry. Maybe I wouldn’t cry.
But now, as I reflect on my past and write this, tears spill over almost instantly.

When I was around 12 years old, I pulled my mother aside to tell her something I had been dreading for years: I was being abused by a family member.

I was so young when it started that I can’t even pinpoint the age or how it began. But by 12, I knew I couldn’t keep quiet any longer.

I was born in Cleveland, Ohio, where all of my extended family lived. But when I was very young, my mom met a man, got married, and moved us to Charlotte, North Carolina.

The abuse started before the move—possibly even before the wedding.

I have a faint memory of telling my mom what was happening back then, but no action was taken. I don’t know what excuse he gave—or if he was even confronted. All I know is that life went on… and so did the abuse.

When I look back on those years, my chest tightens. I feel fear. I’m back in that room—nervous, anticipating the violation.

There came a moment when I realized something terrifying: the “bad” was about to get worse. And I knew I had to protect myself.

Step one was telling my mom, trusting she would keep me safe. But instead of shielding me, she confronted him—with me at her side. And when he denied it, she believed him.

That betrayal still haunts me.

But I wasn’t done. I couldn’t be.

Step two: I told a trusted adult at school—a secretary. The details are foggy, but I know she saved me. She called the authorities. He went to jail.

And my mother stayed married to him.

She stayed married while he was incarcerated. She stayed married after he got out. By the time I was in high school, he was living in our home again.

I had to face my abuser daily for years—pressured to forgive, to “get over it.”

So I buried the betrayal, the fear, the pain. I carried them all inside, quietly.

Then and Now

So yeah… when I looked at my life—college educated, married with beautiful sons, a lovely home, a successful career—I told myself I was unscathed.

But the truth is: I didn’t understand the impact those experiences had on me.

I’ve only begun to unpack and recover.

This is just the beginning of my healing. I share it here—not because I’ve figured it all out—but because I’m finally choosing truth over illusion. Healing over hiding.

Journal prompts

Reflect on the key experiences, choices or beliefs from your past that may be influencing your current emotions, habits or relationships.

• What patterns do you notice?

• What parts of your past have you never fully unpacked or processed?

• How do you see those moments showing up in your present behavior, boundaries or self-worth?

• Are there any painful experiences you’ve labeled as ‘dealt with’ that might still need space to breathe, feel, or heal? If so, what are they?

• How are those unspoken pieces influencing your current life?

Reclaiming my time

I’m currently standing in a two-bedroom basement apartment, cooking breakfast for myself and my three children.

I walked away from my home and marriage about 18 months ago, once I realized that staying would be… dangerous—both emotionally and physically.

I had to save myself. Again.

The same way I had to save myself as a child, when I realized the abuse I was experiencing was about to get worse. The day I decided to leave felt like déjà vu. The setting and supporting characters were different—but that feeling? It was exactly the same.

I had noticed shifts in the last few years of my marriage. Tension had become the norm. We ricocheted between toxic arguments and intentional silence.

Earlier that day, we had taken a short trip to visit one of his friends in a nearby city. My soon-to-be-ex-husband was playing in a parents-vs.-kids flag football game, and the kids and I came along to watch.

The children playing were—as expected—young, agile, and full of energy. The men? Full of ego and nostalgia. Predictably, they got slammed—pulled muscles, twisted ankles, and bruised egos. As the dads limped off the field, their wives rushed to their sides, doting on them with concern.

I, however, stayed put.

When my husband sat on the sidelines panting and exaggerating an injury, I didn’t flinch. I wasn’t moved. A few of the wives made comments, joking about how we must’ve been married a long time or that I was “too cool” to care.

I smiled politely and said I was keeping an eye on the kids—1, 3, and 13 at the time. That wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

The truth?
I didn’t like him anymore.

After years of what I now recognize as verbal, emotional, and financial abuse, I couldn’t even fake concern. There was nothing left to give.

On the drive home, we got into a huge argument. I don’t remember every detail, but it stemmed from a conversation about our oldest son. My husband frequently projected his own childhood experiences onto him, assuming their journeys would be the same. I disagreed. They are not the same. Their stories, personalities, and hearts are different.

A small disagreement spiraled into something much bigger. And that escalation… that night... was the beginning of the end.

I’m not proud of how things unfolded. I’m not proud of what my children witnessed. I’m not proud of what our marriage became.

The very next day, I started looking for apartments.

I went from 3,400 square feet to 1,150.

I chose something that felt temporary. I told myself this was a break—space we needed to reset and rebuild.

But I didn’t know then:
That “break” was actually a beginning. Not of repair, but of release. Not of returning—but of reclaiming.

Journal prompt

• What moment in your life forced you to choose yourself, even when it felt impossible?

• What shifted in you after that choice

• What did it cost or free you from?

Redefining Failure

When I initially left, I was completely heartbroken. I felt ashamed—like a failure. I believed I had let down my husband, my children, and the family unit we had built together.

After all, I was the one who pulled the trigger. I walked away.

When I got married, I knew my husband wasn’t perfect—neither was I. That became my silent mantra. I’m not perfect, so how can I expect him to be?

That mindset gave both of us endless grace and forgiveness. I extended him the same grace I so desperately wanted in return.

I didn’t label his behavior as abusive. The cruel words, the emotional manipulation, the financial irresponsibility; I convinced myself they weren’t that bad. He reminded me often: they were just words.

There were no black eyes. No bruises. So the idea of breaking up my family felt dramatic and selfish.

I had no answers, only a deep sense of loss. I’d tried everything to fix us: couples therapy, avoiding sensitive topics, being more agreeable, initiating more intimacy.

Nothing worked. And so, for the first time in my life, I felt like I had failed.

Despite an abusive childhood, I had accomplished a lot. I earned my bachelor’s and master’s degrees. I built a strong corporate career with great pay, benefits, and opportunity. On paper, I was doing everything right.

But there is no map, no formula, no checklist for succeeding in a marriage where your needs go unmet and your pain goes unheard.

Over the past year and a half, I have cried more than I ever have in my entire life. I’ve faced challenges I never imagined I would. And yet, despite the heartache, despite the grief, I wouldn’t take it back.

Today, I can finally say this out loud: I failed at marriage.

I was ill-equipped to succeed in that environment. But failure isn’t always the end; it can be the beginning of something better. I believe that within every failure lives a lesson, a deeper truth meant to shape us.

So now, I’m searching for the lessons. I’m growing and working to become a better version of myself.

One day, I hope to look back at those years, not with bitterness, but with clarity; grateful for what they taught me and for who I’ve become.

Journal Prompt

• Where in your life have you labeled yourself a failure?

• What lesson might actually be hidden in that experience?

• What beliefs about success, relationships, or self-worth are you ready to rewrite?

When Red Flags Look Pink

Merriam-Webster defines a “red flag” as a warning of danger.

After a recent therapy session, I had to come face-to-face with the red flags I ignored throughout my relationship. And beyond identifying them, I had to ask myself an even harder question: Why did I ignore them?

I’ve joked with friends before that when you really like someone, those red flags don’t look red at all. Sometimes they look pink. Or burgundy. Faded. Less urgent. Easy to excuse.

In the moment, overlooking them feels better than facing the truth. Especially when those red flags haven’t yet touched you personally. Maybe they show up in how someone treats others or mishandles situations. I convinced myself—he wouldn’t treat me that way.

It’s so tempting to focus on the positives. To remind yourself that no one is perfect. That every relationship requires compromise. That love means patience and grace.

But the truth is: red flags don’t fade—they intensify. And love isn’t meant to blind you to yourself.

I’m still unpacking my rationale. Still trying to understand why I allowed things that didn't sit right with me to slide for so long. But part of that work means turning inward and looking at my history, my patterns, my upbringing, and my fears.

More importantly, it means defining what my red flags are. Not just the textbook examples, but the things that make me feel unsettled, unsafe, unheard. Instead of rationalizing or minimizing, I’m learning to honor my discomfort. To walk away when something doesn’t feel right, no matter how charming the package is. Because I finding that I’m worth protecting.

I’ve come too far and survived too much to ignore my intuition again. And while I still want to be open to connection, I now know that openness means nothing without boundaries for any relationship.

At this point in my life, I can’t afford to carry one more invisible wound. So I’m choosing to move forward with discernment, self-trust, and a vow to never confuse red for pink again.

Journal Prompts

• What red flags have you overlooked in past relationships?

• What did they cost you?

• Where do you feel discomfort in your body when something doesn’t feel right?

• What can that sensation teach you about your boundaries?

• How can you create a personal list of red flags—based on your values and needs?