As time has moved on, so much has changed. It feels like the right moment to speak openly about how my journey has evolved.

Today I found myself doing what I have been doing for months, trying to make sense of everything in my head. No matter how hard I try to focus elsewhere, I keep being drawn back to this blog. A lot has happened since I first started writing here.

I wish I could say things have simply improved. In some ways they have. I finally left in late 2023. But since then, life has been its own kind of hell. The control did not end with the separation. It just changed form.

Even so, on the darkest days, and there have been some incredibly dark ones, nothing compares to the dread of driving home from work knowing he would be there waiting. That fear has gone, and that alone makes everything else feel survivable.

I have lived through more than I ever thought possible. I managed to capture the first four and a half years of chaos in a book, every moment of turmoil with him. I have continued documenting everything that has happened since, but turning those journals into a proper book feels impossible. My mind will not let me go there. These pages have become my way of protecting myself and my children while navigating courts, police and constant uncertainty. Despite everything, I am still the one carrying the impact. And on the days when I feel like I cannot keep going, I look at my sons and remember exactly why I must. Whatever strength I have left belongs to them.

Life becomes overwhelming. Trying to access therapy that actually helps feels almost impossible. So I journal instead, even though those words stay hidden on my device. I think part of the lack of support comes from how well I mask things, how easily I slip into that professional role. People see the nurse, not the person breaking underneath.

Last week nearly finished me. I faced family court with a solicitor who did not seem to understand that protecting my son is everything. Then I attended the funeral of a colleague who was loved by everyone. She never spoke about how bad things had become for her. She ended her pain without ever receiving the help she deserved.

The guilt hit hard. In my lowest moments I wondered, if it were not for this police interview hanging over me, would she be the one left trying to make sense of the damage I would leave behind. My fear of death came back with force. She gave so much to the world. Compared to her, my achievements feel so small.

But this is not just about me. It is about all of us who have lived through similar experiences, regardless of gender, job or status, who feel silenced, ashamed, financially trapped, afraid of being alone, terrified of what comes after abuse.

Recently I have met so many people with stories like mine. They are facing the same prejudice and bias, not only from the police but from society as a whole. There is this assumption that professionals should know better. People do not understand something important. When you give so much of yourself in a caring role, you become vulnerable. This vulnerability occurs in ways others do not see.

This week everything became too much. My colleagues are wonderful, like family, but I knew I needed time off. I could not risk my nursing registration. I kept escaping into the hills, sitting by fields, walking with Mathew, trying to breathe again.

I was determined to take my youngest camping while the older children visited their father. I wanted a simple break, but everywhere was fully booked. Eventually I contacted a woman who runs a nearby caravan park. I explained that I was trying to create a little camping experience close to home but was having no luck.

She did not know anything about my situation, yet she offered to ask her husband if we could camp in a field next to their site. Just countryside, nothing fancy. When I did not hear back, I assumed it had simply been a polite gesture.

Then she called the next day and offered us her garden instead. Pure kindness. I was stunned, especially when she refused to take any payment.

Later she rang again. Her husband was worried about the rain and offered their garden shed, a cosy little hut with a sofa. I had not experienced kindness like that in such a long time. I hesitated, not knowing them, but they run a local business and I felt safe enough to accept.

This place is breathtaking. I am sitting here looking out at a pond, a field with pygmy goats, a trampoline and flowing rivers. The smells and sounds from the woods are soothing in a way I did not know I needed. It feels like peace, something I had forgotten existed.

The thought of going home and facing my usual reality fills me with dread. The week ahead looks heavy, and I know I will be fighting battles in my own mind. But this moment, this unexpected kindness from strangers, has given me space to steady myself again.

It is okay to not be okay. xxx