💌 A Letter to My Daughters

To my beautiful girls,

There are things I’ve lived through that I hope you never have to. There are wounds I carry that I pray you’ll never inherit. But if life ever tries to dim your light, I want you to remember this: you are made of fire and grace. You are not defined by what breaks you—but by how you rise.

I’ve walked through storms I never saw coming. I’ve loved people who hurt me, believed promises that were never kept, and stayed in places that made me small. But through it all, you were my reason. My anchor. My breath.

When I felt like giving up, I remembered your laughter. When I doubted my worth, I looked into your eyes and saw the reflection of someone who mattered. You saved me in ways you’ll never understand.

I want you to know that love should never come with bruises. That your body is sacred, your voice is powerful, and your boundaries are holy. You never have to shrink to be loved. You never have to silence your truth to keep someone else comfortable.

If you ever find yourself in a place that feels wrong, listen to that whisper inside you. That’s your soul speaking. Trust it. Honor it. And walk away if you must—because your peace is worth more than any apology.

I hope you grow up knowing how deeply you are loved. Not just by me, but by the universe that made you. I hope you dance without fear, speak without shame, and love without losing yourself.

And if you ever feel lost, come back to this letter. Come back to me. I’ll always be here—rooting for you, believing in you, loving you with every piece of my healing heart.

Love always,  

Mom

💢I Loved Him More Than I Loved Myself - Breaking the Cycle of a Trauma Bond💢

There’s a kind of heartbreak that doesn’t come from the end of love—it comes from loving someone who hurt you, and still wanting them anyway.

Getting over my ex felt like trying to climb out of quicksand. He moved on easily, while I stayed stuck in the wreckage of what we were. I thought time would heal me, but time doesn’t work the same when you’re bonded by trauma. It’s like your heart keeps replaying the good moments, hoping they’ll outweigh the bad. They never do.

Falling Back In

We crossed paths again recently. I wasn’t planning on it. We started hanging out, slowly, cautiously. I told myself I wasn’t rushing anything, even though I still loved him—despite everything he did to me. Despite the yelling, the manipulation, the times he made me feel small. I still loved him.

And just like before, I fell into the same rhythm. Making sure he ate. Giving him bus fare. Cooking, cleaning, staying over a few nights a week. We started having sex again—intense, magnetic, the kind that made me forget everything else. That physical connection was what I missed most. It felt like home, even though it was built on broken ground.

For a while, things were good. We laughed. We got along. I let myself believe maybe he’d changed.

The Pattern Returns

But it only took one disagreement. He wasn’t drunk, not like before when he’d mix drugs and alcohol and black out. Just a few drinks. And suddenly we were back in it—fighting, yelling, me grabbing my things and heading outside. I was going to call an Uber, but then he texted: “If you leave, I’ll never speak to you again.”

So I went back inside.

We barely talked about the fight. I ended up apologizing, even though I knew I wasn’t wrong. He told me I was a trigger to him—because I stood up for myself. Because I wouldn’t let him talk to me like that anymore. And then we had sex again. That’s how it always went: pain, then passion, then silence.

The next morning, I was supposed to stay and take his laundry. He made a comment about me not getting up when he did, even though we’d agreed I’d leave later. I reminded him of the times he’d left me in his place before. He got defensive. I got quiet. I got dressed. He remembered, eventually, that he’d asked me to stay. But by then, I didn’t want to be somewhere I wasn’t wanted.

I sat outside while I ordered his Uber. I couldn’t get mine until his dropped him off, since they were both on my account. He left the door unlocked for me anyway. I went back inside. I told him I’d locked myself out while smoking, just to keep the peace. He still wanted me to take his laundry.

And that’s when it hit me.

The Reality I Couldn’t Ignore

He hasn’t changed. He won’t take accountability. He still talks to me like I’m beneath him. He still twists things until I’m the one apologizing. And I don’t think I can put myself in the position to be hit again.

Because in the year and a half we were together, he beat me. Not once. Eight times.

Eight times I was left with black eyes, broken bones, bruises that told stories I couldn’t speak aloud. Many of those times I ended up in the ER. I have had to spend time in a mental hospital on a few occasions now, trying to piece myself back together. When it got to the point to where the police were called and showed up at the hospital because I was so badly hurt, I couldn’t hide it anymore. I filed a report. But I didn’t press charges, I just wanted some type of record of the abuse in case it was needed in the future.

I wasn’t ready to let go. I still thought maybe he’d change. Maybe I could fix it. Maybe I was the problem.

But I wasn’t.

And what hurts in a different way is knowing that after me, he got into two more relationships—and he didn’t hit them. He “changed.” He left before things got physical. Like he learned how to stop himself, just not for me.

Why I Always Went Back

I always went back. A few days, maybe a few weeks after each time he hurt me, I’d be the one to reach out. I thought my mind was jacked up. I didn’t understand why I missed him so much. But I did. And I always knew it wouldn’t take long for another attack. I was always right.

He’d tell his family and our friends he didn’t know where I was or why I left, making it seem like I just ran off all the time. That wasn’t the case. I was always somewhere safe, healing. Trying to find myself again.

I think I needed closure. Because until we crossed paths again, I hadn’t seen him since the last time he put his hands on me in March. And I got it.

I saw he’s still working. He finally got his own place. He sees his son regularly. He’s alive and healthy.

And I don’t need anything else from him.

A Message to Anyone Who’s Been There

If you’ve ever loved someone who hurt you, I want you to know: you’re not weak. You’re not broken. You’re not crazy for missing them, for going back, for hoping they’d change.

You were surviving.

Trauma bonds are powerful. They twist love and pain together until you can’t tell the difference. They make you believe that the good moments justify the bad. That if you just love harder, give more, stay longer—it’ll get better.

But it doesn’t. And it’s not your fault.

I went back after every attack. A few days, maybe a few weeks later, I’d reach out. I missed him. I missed the connection, the comfort, the illusion of safety. I knew it wouldn’t take long for another explosion. I was always right.

He told people I just ran off. That he didn’t know where I was or why I left. But I was always somewhere safe—healing. Trying to find the version of myself that didn’t need his approval to feel worthy.

And now, I’ve seen him again. He’s working. He has his own place. He sees his son. He’s alive and healthy.

That’s all the closure I needed.

I don’t need apologies. I don’t need explanations. I don’t need him to change for me.

I need peace.

If you’re in it right now, or trying to get out, or still haunted by the memories—please know that healing isn’t linear. You might miss them. You might want to go back. You might feel like you’re losing a part of yourself.

But what you’re really doing is reclaiming it.

You deserve love that doesn’t come with bruises. You deserve safety. You deserve to be heard, respected, and cherished—not just when it’s convenient, but always.

I’m still healing. But I’m not hiding anymore.

And neither should you.

💔 Healing Ain’t Pretty, But It’s Worth It

People love to talk about healing like it’s peaceful — like it’s all journaling by candlelight, soft music, and suddenly feeling free. But the truth is… healing ain’t pretty. It’s ugly, it’s uncomfortable, and sometimes it hurts worse than the thing that broke you in the first place.

Healing is crying at 2 a.m. because a memory snuck up on you. It’s replaying everything in your head wondering how things went so wrong. It’s trying to convince yourself that you’re stronger than the pain that’s been living inside you for too long. It’s sitting in silence and feeling everything you’ve been running from.

Some days I swear it feels like I’m taking one step forward and ten steps back. Some days I think I’ve moved on, then out of nowhere, a smell, a song, or a flash of a memory hits me, and I’m right back in that moment — raw and aching all over again. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. The back-and-forth. The way healing doesn’t happen in a straight line.

But even through all the chaos and tears, I’m learning that healing is worth it. Because with every breakdown comes a breakthrough. With every painful realization comes a new piece of truth that sets me free. Every time I face the pain instead of running from it, I feel myself getting lighter — even if just a little bit.

Somewhere in the mess, I can feel a new version of me starting to rise. One who isn’t defined by what broke her. One who can finally look at her scars and see strength instead of shame. One who’s not afraid to say, “Yeah, I’ve been through hell… but I’m still standing.”

I’m not healed yet — not completely. Maybe I never will be, and that’s okay. Healing isn’t about pretending the pain never happened. It’s about learning to live with it, to grow through it, and to not let it control you anymore.

So no, healing ain’t pretty. It’s messy, emotional, and exhausting. But it’s real. And real is where the beauty lives. Because no matter how long it takes, I know I’m worth the work. I deserve peace. I deserve happiness. I deserve a life that feels good to wake up to — even if it takes me a little longer to get there.