Reclaiming my time

I’m cooking breakfast for my three kids in a two-bedroom basement apartment—a space I once saw as temporary, but now see as the beginning of everything. Eighteen months ago, I walked away from my home and my marriage. At the time, I didn’t know where I was going. I just knew I couldn’t stay. Staying would’ve been dangerous, emotionally and physically.

I had to save myself. Again.

The first time I saved myself, I was just a child navigating abuse and learning far too early that no one was coming to my rescue. That same familiar feeling, the knowing that it was up to me, washed over me again the day I decided to leave my marriage.

Different setting. Different supporting characters. Same instinct.

There had been warning signs for years. The tension had become constant. We were stuck in a cycle of toxic arguments followed by long, acting ‘normal’. I kept telling myself things would get better… until it was impossible to ignore the truth: they weren’t going to.

Our home had become a field of emotional landmines. One day, he’d explode because I didn’t ask before inviting my nephews over. The next, he’d get angry because I did ask—insisting I didn’t need to. His moods were unpredictable, and I lived in a constant state of bracing for impact. I knew that living separately would minimize the chaos, and even in my heartbreak, I was grateful for a reprieve.

I remember one day in particular. We’d taken a short trip to visit one of his friends in a nearby city. He was playing in a parents-vs.-kids flag football game, and the kids and I came along to watch. The children, full of energy and excitement, ran circles around the dads. The men, of course, played like they had something to prove… and paid for it with pulled muscles, twisted ankles, and bruised egos.

When my husband limped to the sideline, panting and exaggerating an injury, I didn’t flinch. I didn’t even look up. A few of the other wives laughed, saying things like “you must’ve been married a long time,” or “you’re too cool to care.”

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

The truth? I didn’t like him anymore.

After years of what I now recognize as verbal, emotional, and financial abuse, I had nothing left to give. Not empathy. Not irritation. Not even eye contact. Just silence.

Later that day, on the drive home, we got into a huge argument. I don’t remember every detail, but it started with a disagreement about our oldest son. My husband often projected his own unresolved trauma onto him, assuming their paths would be the same. I pushed back. They’re not the same. They have different personalities, different hearts, different needs.

What started as a conversation quickly spiraled into something ugly. The escalation that night marked 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.

But I am proud of what I did next.

The very next day, I started looking for apartments.

I went from 3,400 square feet to 1,150. From a family home to a space that felt like a layover.

At first, I told myself it was temporary. A break. A reset. I even hoped that time apart would give us space to heal individually and come back stronger. I thought maybe marriage counseling could still be a path forward.

But deep down, I feared it wouldn’t work. That the break would become permanent. That I wouldn’t go back.

And I was right.

In the months since, I’ve slowly begun reclaiming my time—not just on the clock, but in my body, in my voice, in my healing.

I go to therapy. I go to the gym. I’m prioritizing my health and showing up for myself in ways I forgot I could. I’d lost my connection to my body—my strength, my power, my reflection—and I’ve loved rediscovering it.

I’m also being honest with the people in my life. When someone asks if I’m okay, I don’t say “I’m fine” anymore if I’m not. I say “no”—and I let them show up for me. That’s new for me. I’ve spent so much time internalizing pain that most people didn’t even know when I was suffering. That silence protected me once. But now? It’s become a barrier I’m learning to take down.

And when it comes to my kids, I give them room to feel and be heard. I answer their questions honestly and encourage them to speak up when they’re upset or confused. I’ve also gotten them started with therapy—because I know firsthand how important it is to have a safe, unbiased space to work through big feelings.

This is what reclaiming looks like for me.

It doesn’t mean I’m healed. It means I’m healing. It means I’m no longer waiting to feel better before I begin again. It means I’ve stopped trying to rewind—and started trying to rebuild.

That “break” was actually a beginning.
Not of repair—but of release.
Not of returning—but of reclaiming.
Reclaiming my time. My peace. My self.

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?