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?
