Why I Left: The moment I realized my relationship was abusive

I don’t think anyone can prepare you for the moment you realize you’re a victim of domestic violence.

So often, victims experience a level of dissociation and denial - a natural trauma response to abuse - something that develops after years of it. Your nervous system tries to assist you by creating an alternate reality, one that feels tolerable in the moment. Then this becomes a learned behavioral pattern.

Often you’ll hear friends and family of victims say they “tried so hard to make her see it, but she just couldn’t.” That’s exactly what happens - the brain protects you from a truth too painful to face. (There’s a lot more to be said about why this happens, both physiologically and psychologically.)

But for some, there comes a time when your nervous system realizes you’re no longer safe and it sends a different signal. This moment is powerful. It triggers an entirely new set of alerts and survival mechanisms throughout your body - something primal and instinctual. And that’s the moment most women run.

My moment happened after I had my second daughter.

I remember holding her in the hospital and knowing, deep down, that I would be a single mother. Something protective began to stir inside me in those postpartum days. My relationship with her father was already unraveling, growing more distant by the day. At the time, we were seeing a Christian couples counselor recommended by our church. Those sessions began shining a light on our ten-year relationship in a way I didn’t expect, revealing patterns of abuse I had never seen before.

But that wasn’t my moment.

Three months with my newborn flew by. I was completely in love with her and soaking up every minute of my maternity leave. I felt deeply connected to my purpose - to create, nurture, and give life. It was easy to ignore the tension building in our home because my focus had shifted entirely to motherhood. I felt absolutely fulfilled.

Still, I could tell her father was struggling to connect with the new baby. He poured all his energy into work, and when he wasn’t working, he escaped into video games. Staying up late, locked in the office, talking to his online friends. We coexisted in the same house because we had to, but by the three-month postpartum mark, he was sleeping in the guest room while I cared for the baby alone in ours.

One afternoon, after an intense therapy session that ended with him storming out, I found myself more certain than ever that we needed to separate. He seemed to want that too, based on his behavior. He was constantly irritable and passive-aggressive, using sarcasm as a weapon and starting to physically act out. Slamming doors in the early mornings while everyone slept and intentionally leaving items around the house that caused me extra house work. He had become dangerously resentful. That same day, our counselor pulled me aside after he left the room and quietly asked me to come in alone the next morning.

When I returned, his expression was serious. He told me I needed to separate as soon as possible, for my safety and for the safety of my daughters. After witnessing our relationship for over a year, he believed we were heading down a very dangerous path.

That took the blinders off. But still, it wasn’t my moment.

That evening, I told their father he needed to start looking for an apartment. I truly believed it would be an amicable split. He seemed so unhappy, as if trapped in a situation he no longer wanted to be part of. I thought my suggestion might even relieve him, that he’d finally be free. At the time, I didn’t realize that this was an attempt on my part to get him out of the house because I wasn’t feeling safe. I sold it to him, and myself, as a temporary separation to see how we would do not living together and co-parenting our daughters.

He took the news calmly at first. I remember thinking it was a sad truth we had both silently accepted.

The next day, I tried to create a sense of normalcy for the girls. I suggested a trip to the beach. A two-hour drive that I hoped would ease the tension. Maybe if we could focus on the girls, it would help us both breathe.

Throughout the day, we moved like magnets in a figure-eight pattern, orbiting the children but never connecting. By the time we got home and parked the car, I knew things between us would never be the same. We tucked the kids in, then went our separate ways to our respective rooms.

When I woke the next morning, he was gone.

I waited most of the day before texting him, unsure how to start. My oldest was two and a half; my baby barely three months old. I just needed to know whether he planned to return home.

The messages that came back were sharp, and aggressive. He was threatening the use of lawyers, future custody battles, really cruel accusations and cursing at me. With every line, the pit in my stomach deepened. I knew he’d been drinking.

Alcohol had been a problem since the start of our relationship, but I’d excused it for years. We were in college then, when we met, and I told myself he’d grow out of it. Since becoming a father, he’d promised he’d stopped drinking, which made this relapse feel deliberate. We had kids now and this was a nonnegotiable for me. Knowing he was drunk, I felt a familiar fear. One that I had managed to tuck away for the two years he had remained sober.

The last message said he wouldn’t be coming home that night.

In an anxious haze, I tried to stay focused on the girls. I set up finger paints in the garage for my oldest and placed the baby nearby in her boppy to watch her sister. I made snacks, played music, followed our bedtime routine.

That night, just before closing my eyes, a cold feeling washed over me. My whole body shivered. I pulled the baby closer, held her tiny fingers, and prayed for peace.

_

Around 2 a.m., the house alarm blared.

I ran downstairs and found him standing in front of the keypad, cursing. The blue glow from the screen cast an eerie light across his face. Cold, detached and unrecognizable. Except, I did recognize this man. It was my abuser.

When I tried to pass him to shut the alarm off, he stopped me on the steps and said, staring straight into my eyes,
“You’re not dead yet?”

I froze.

When I asked him what he’d said, he smirked and repeated,
“You’re not dead yet. I thought you’d be dead by now.”
Then he shoved past me upstairs into the guest room.

Everything inside me started to shake. My blood felt like it had drained from my body. This wasn’t like before. He wanted me dead.

I grabbed my phone and ran to lock the bedroom door. My oldest daughter was still asleep in her room, so I quietly went in, picked her up, and carried her to my bed.

I heard him cursing and throwing things in the guest room. Then the hallway light came on. His footsteps approached my daughter’s room. When he realized she wasn’t there, he got louder, angrier, and something hit the closet door.

I started to dial 911 but hesitated, praying he would just fall asleep. Then I heard the sound of a latch. The distinct click of his gun safe opening.

I pressed call.

I wish I could say that was the end of the night. That the police came and I went back to sleep. But it wasn’t.

I stayed on the phone with the 911 operator until officers arrived. When she told me they were outside, I hung up, bolted down the hall, and opened the door as he yelled,
“You called the f*ing police?!”**

Two male officers arrived. They took our statements separately and decided to escort him to a hotel to “sleep it off.” As I watched the police car drive away, my heart pounded harder. He was gone, but now he was angry. Much angrier than before.

I closed every blind and locked every door. I rearmed the alarm, packed bags, and installed the car seats. At one point, I remembered his car had a garage remote. When I ran outside, I found the car still unlocked, keys thrown on the passenger seat. I took them and the garage remote, locked the front door behind me, and went back inside.

For an hour, I moved through the house in pure survival mode - not thinking, just reacting. When I finally sat down, I cried hysterically. Where was I going? My baby was still breastfeeding. Was I overreacting?

Exhausted, I climbed the stairs. At the top, I turned into the nursery picking up my daughter’s blanket as I walked towards the window. I pressed it to my face. That man, the father of my children, someone who was supposed to be leading and protecting his family, was now a direct threat to us. I peered out the front window. The cul-de-sac was bright under the streetlights, but shadows also stretched across our manicured neighborhood. What was I doing? It was going to be ok. I just needed to go back to bed.

Then, a loud bang.

He was back and he was pounding on the door, screaming to be let in and cursing my name.

Fear shook through my entire body and I scrambled to call 911 again. This time, I was hysterical, begging the operator to send someone quickly, that he was going to break in and kill me. The banging grew louder and for the first time in my life, I felt pure terror run through my body. If he gets in he IS going to kill me.

This was the moment I realized I was in an abusive relationship.

What followed next was absolute chaos and failure by the justice department.

Two male officers arrived again. When I told them what had happened, they asked if he had actually taken the gun out or threatened me with it. When I said no, they told me there was nothing they could do unless I had proof he was trying to kill me or had physically harmed me in some way. It wasn’t enough that he had walked all the way back from a hotel and tried breaking into the house.

During this conversation, he pushed past the officers, ran upstairs, and refused to leave, locking himself in the guest room. Their response - they said since it was his home too and they couldn’t physically remove him. One even asked if I’d be “okay with him sleeping it off.”

I remember saying,
“You’re going to watch as I carry my two daughters out of this house with nowhere to go. We are not safe in this house with him.”

And, so I did. One by one, I carried my girls. My toddler half asleep in her pajamas, my baby in her blanket - and buckled them into their car seats. I grabbed the bags I’d packed, my breast pump, diapers, anything I could find.

As I started the car, my oldest looked up at me and asked, “Where are we going, Mommy?”

I told her, “Something happened to our house, honey and the officers were nice enough to let Mommy know. We just need to go somewhere safe until they tell us we can come back.”

On the passengers seat was a handout for a domestic violence shelter the officer had given me on my way out.

Then I pulled out of the driveway.

Disclaimer

Everything shared on this site and through Make Them Wildflowers comes from my own personal experience, reflection, and research as a survivor and advocate. My goal is to raise awareness, spark honest conversation, and help others feel less alone. Nothing shared here should be taken as professional advice.

If you are experiencing abuse or do not feel safe, please reach out for help:

• In the U.S., call or text the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or visit www.thehotline.org for free, confidential support 24/7.

• If you or your children are in immediate danger, please call 911.

Every situation is different. I encourage you to seek support from a licensed therapist, domestic violence advocate, or attorney who can offer guidance specific to your circumstances.

I share what I’ve lived and learned in hopes it helps someone else. You are not alone.