My spirit felt as high and free as an eagle soaring above the noise of the world. I had my morning meal, sat back, and decided to scroll through some of my old pictures, a harmless act, I thought. But as memories unfolded on the screen, my heart quietly sank.
Not because I owe anyone any explanation about why I walked away from my children’s father. I don’t. But in those moments, looking back at who I was, I began to understand something deeper: he was never meant for me. In truth, he was never for me.
He was controlling, abusive, and manipulative. And tucked away in my phone were terrifying pictures, raw evidence of the physical abuse I endured. Part of me wonders why I still keep them. Maybe I shouldn’t. But for now, they serve as a painful yet powerful reminder: a reminder to never again settle for less than I deserve, to never again shrink myself just to keep someone else comfortable.
Looking back, I see clearly how much I treated myself as less than I am. I saw myself through his broken lens; as a woman of little value, someone undeserving of softness, love, or peace. But here’s the truth that time and grace have taught me, I lied to myself. I do deserve love. I deserve kindness. I deserve a world that feels safe and warm, a world where time itself would pause just for me to catch my breath and feel joy.
It’s painful how easily people on the outside say “forgive and forget,” as if those words erase scars etched deep into bone and spirit. I can forgive, and I have chosen to forgive, not for him, but for me, so that bitterness doesn’t take root and steal more of my life than it already has. But to forget? No. I cannot forget, and perhaps I shouldn’t.
The memory keeps me grounded, keeps me wise, keeps me from repeating the same story in different chapters.
Every day, I’m reminded of why I had to make that choice to leave him. It wasn’t a choice born of anger or rebellion; it was born of survival. He was cruel. His words, his hands, and the weight of his presence bruised not just my body but my soul. And maybe, if I’m honest, I haven’t fully healed yet. Trauma doesn’t vanish overnight; it lives in the corners of your mind, in the quickening of your heart when something feels too familiar.
But I didn’t wait until I was perfectly healed to keep moving. Life wouldn’t allow me that luxury. Everything kept happening, from every angle, at full speed, and so I had to move too, at a pace that sometimes felt like running through a storm with no shelter in sight. But by the grace of God, I made it.
I look around today and see all that I’ve built not without scars, but with courage. I did this. Single-handedly, yes, but never truly alone. God was there, steady and merciful. And my support system, those dear souls who offered shoulders to lean on, ears that listened without judgment, and hearts that reminded me of my worth, they have been my earthly blessing. For them, I am endlessly grateful.
At the end of it all, I choose forgiveness. Not because what happened was small, or because it deserves forgetting. But because forgiveness frees me. It releases my spirit to soar again, to hope again, and to love myself fully, bravely, and without apology.
And this is the life I choose: a life where I never settle, where scars become strength, and where forgiveness is not weakness but the boldest act of healing I can give to myself.
Cheers
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