“Don’t you know you’re being abused?”
That question was asked to me four years ago, and it still lingers in my mind. At the time, my answer was a very loud and honest “No.”
Why hadn’t I seen the signs? The red flags?
That one question sent me spiraling into my own head, questioning everything I thought I knew about my relationship—and myself. I had never been hit. No bruises. No broken bones. No hospital visits. No made-up stories to hide the truth.
But here’s the thing: psychological, emotional, and verbal abuse can leave scars that no one can see—and sometimes those wounds run deeper than any physical injury.
Realizing I was being abused wasn’t a single moment of clarity. It was a slow, painful awakening.
Second-guessing myself.
Rationalizing his behavior.
Making excuses for him.
Believing things would get better if I just tried harder.
It was an endless loop of confusion.
Now, four years later, the fog has finally lifted. It wasn’t quick, it wasn’t easy, and it was never “fun.” But the healing was necessary—and it saved me.
For those who have never experienced this kind of relationship, it’s easy to ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?”
Here’s why:
If you drop a frog into boiling water, it will jump out immediately. But if you place that frog in cool water and slowly turn up the heat, it will stay until it’s too late.
Abuse works the same way. It starts subtly. The person isn’t cruel from day one—they ease into it, slowly turning up the heat until you don’t recognize the danger you’re in. By the time you do, your sense of reality has been twisted, your self-worth chipped away, and your mind trained to adapt to the pain.
On average, a survivor will leave an abuser seven times before it sticks.
So, if you know someone in an abusive relationship—be patient. Be kind. Don’t shame them for not leaving sooner. Just listen. Support them. Believe them.
They will see it—when their mind is ready, not when you think they should.
When the Silence Isn’t Quiet
Some days, the loneliness is loud. Deafening, even.
I wake up, and there’s no one reaching out. No texts. No missed calls. Just the four walls of this apartment and the weight of another long day. No car to escape with, nowhere to go even if I did. My thoughts race, my chest tightens, and anxiety sets in before my feet even hit the floor.
Sleep—sleep is the only peace I get sometimes. The only escape from the echo of isolation.
It’s strange, how I actually look forward to going to work. Not because I love it, but because it gets me out. Around people. Out of my own head. Out of the silence.
So I write. I pray. I clean. I put on music until the wrong song shatters whatever calm I managed to build. I keep the TV on for background noise just to feel like someone else is in the room. And I try not to cry.
Starting this blog has been a leap of faith. A small act of hope that maybe—just maybe—someone out there will read my words and feel seen. Or maybe someone will see me and want to connect. So far? Nothing. But still I write.
It’s not him I miss. Let me be clear about that. It’s not him. It’s the feeling I had when I believed in the illusion. When I thought I had found my forever person. I was happy then. I was silly. In love. Hopeful. I miss her—the version of me who felt safe and loved. I miss being in love. Because when I love, I love big. All in. With everything I’ve got.
But now, I’m learning to turn that love inward. To fall in love with the woman I am. Because I am a good person. I’m loyal, forgiving, weird in the best ways, smart, funny, and honestly—some days I look pretty damn good. I know I’d make an amazing wife, friend, and partner. I know what I bring to the table. And I refuse to let anyone make me question my worth again.
The truth is, the real blessing is that I am no longer with him.
And still—I hold out hope. For love. For connection. For someone who sees me, really sees me, and stays.
So I’ll leave you with the words of Andra Day, because they echo in my soul:
“I’ll rise up, In spite of the ache.
I’ll rise up, And I’ll do it a thousand times again.
When the silence isn’t quiet
And it feels like it’s getting hard to breathe
And I know you feel like dying. But I promise we’ll take the world to its feet And move mountains”