“Young, wild, and free.” That phrase perfectly captured who I was at 19. I had just finished a year of Bible school, was working part-time, enjoying my friends and family, and dreaming about what the future could hold. Growing up in a Christian household, I felt grounded with values, faith, and a vision for my life. Everything seemed possible—the world truly felt like my oyster.
It was during this season that I met him—my so-called prince charming. I was drawn to his charisma, his adventurous spirit, and his charm. We were both Christians, shared similar dreams, and believed we were on the same path. A few years later, we married, and I embraced what I thought would be the adventure of a lifetime. But almost immediately, the reality of our marriage began to shift. What started as subtle disrespect slowly escalated. Name-calling grew more frequent and vulgar, secrecy and restrictions became routine, and his temper was constant. He played mental games and always positioned himself as the victim. One of the most painful things he ever said to me was, “You should feel lucky to be with me and that I love you because no one else would.” Those words burned into my heart, and with time, I believed them. My first year of marriage wasn’t simply “rough”—it was hell.
Over the five and a half years we were married, my mental health, self-esteem, and sense of worth were slowly eroded. By our fifth anniversary, the emotional abuse had become relentless: daily yelling, blame-shifting, gaslighting, isolation from family and friends, threats of divorce, and discovering his inappropriate relationships with other women. Emotional and verbal abuse leaves deep, invisible scars. I remember him screaming at me, “You are the reason I have to take medication!”—words that made me feel broken, worthless, and deeply confused.
The abuse turned physical, too. He began blocking, shoving, and kicking me. He would punch walls inches from my face, throw objects, restrain me in public and private, and drive recklessly with me in the car. I remember many terrifying highway rides where he would speed and swerve, leaving me crying and begging him to stop—only for him to later take pride in “comforting” me. I didn’t know how to process this. I prayed endlessly, asking God to send someone who could understand the chaos I was living in. Negative emotions—anger, shame, grief, isolation—consumed nearly all of my days. At times, I resorted to self-harm or drinking just to numb the pain. I remember one night, drinking alone until I passed out on the bedroom floor, only waking when he returned from a work event. I felt completely abandoned.
I didn’t even recognize this as abuse—it had become my “normal.” I blamed myself, believing that I was at fault for his anger and mistreatment. As a Christian, divorce was not an option in my mind, so I devoted myself to improving as a wife, hoping the abuse would stop. But it didn’t.
I sought counseling to help my marriage and myself, but he refused to attend. Abusers rarely take responsibility—they always shift blame. One female counselor, whom I saw three times, finally said, “He is a narcissist, and this won’t stop. You need to decide how long you are willing to live like this.” At first, I recoiled—how could a Christian counselor suggest leaving? But deep down, I knew my options were dwindling: endure lifelong misery or take a courageous step toward freedom.
On Christmas of 2014, I traveled to Nicaragua for a mission trip with Samaritan’s Purse. There, I met a kindred spirit—a woman who had divorced her abusive husband three years earlier. Talking with her was a revelation. For the first time, I realized I wasn’t the problem. The years of shame, self-blame, and thinking I deserved mistreatment were lies I had believed. I had been protecting myself all along, and I deserved love, safety, and respect.
When I returned home after the New Year, my decision was clear. On January 19, 2015, I left my husband. I took my belongings, my dog, and my cats, leaving behind the home that had become a cage. I have never looked back.
I have now been free from domestic violence for over five years. Healing has been both beautiful and painful. Many survivors think leaving will instantly make everything better, but recovery takes time—sometimes years longer than expected. In 2016, I endured another trauma when I was raped by someone I had trusted, which deepened my wounds and extended my recovery. Yet, through faith, counseling, self-care, and community support, I have learned to manage anxiety, PTSD, and triggers. Trust takes time to rebuild, but I feel freer than ever before. I remember catching myself laughing and smiling months after leaving, and feeling guilty for being happy—it was a strange but joyful reminder that I was reclaiming my life.
To survivors of domestic violence: healing your mind, body, and spirit is essential. This takes intentional effort and cannot be done alone. Faith, counseling, supportive friends and family, writing, exercise, nutrition, and goal-setting all played vital roles in my journey. Healing is not linear, but it is possible.
To those who have never experienced abuse, resist judgment. Our culture often blames the victim, but survivors already carry enough shame and guilt. Be a listening ear, express your concern, and offer support—sometimes that small action is life-changing.
Today, I am a registered social worker and advocate for survivors of domestic violence, a published author, and a coaching student aiming to help women personally through their healing. My dream is to start a nonprofit in Tanzania, supporting women and children affected by domestic and sexual violence. I enjoy traveling, writing, laughing, and spending time with loved ones. I am stronger, more vibrant, and more whole than I was before the abuse. Through it all, God has been my anchor. His promises of restoration and hope guide me as I support and empower others who walk similar paths. Despite everything, I remain a Queen and a daughter of the King.
