NAAVoices was not created from certainty, but from lived experience and professional insight. As I migrate earlier work from the original platform, this post has been reviewed and approved for transfer. It remains true to its original context, with only minor clarity edits where needed. Some moments do not require rewriting to remain honest.
I saw a friend today, and she asked whether everything I’ve been through lately has made me reluctant to meet someone new. Her question carried more weight than she probably realised. Very few people truly understand what I have lived through, or what I am still navigating. When I left him, the idea of meeting anyone else wasn’t even a consideration. This was never about moving on. It was about survival.
I was repeatedly told that no one would ever want me, or “dem boys”. Those words were not incidental. They were deliberate. A sustained attempt to dismantle what little strength I had left. He worked to erode my children’s sense of self, trying to mould them into someone they were not, stripping away the remarkable children I knew when I first met him.
I left knowing I needed time to process what had been done to me. What I did not anticipate was the scale of the work that would follow. I was not only managing my own trauma, but also holding space for my children as they processed theirs.
In the immediate period after leaving, my son showed that he was still the same kind, compassionate, and thoughtful child he had always been, despite the harm he had experienced. That did not make the following months any easier. While waiting for the non-molestation order to be served, we lived through a series of frightening and destabilising incidents. My eldest went missing from school and was later found alone in an alleyway. He began taking tools to school and hiding weapons in his room. These behaviours were terrifying not only for his safety but also for ours. At the time, I could not see how things would improve. The arrest marked the first point at which real safety began to return.
The most serious incident involving my children occurred before any protective order was in place. My middle son had developed severe insomnia and slept at the foot of my bed. Knowing that I had been unable to shield them from the trauma surrounding us was devastating. He was unable to attend school due to exhaustion.
He is a proud child, and over time he had become emotionally closed off, presenting as unaffected regardless of what he had endured. This was repeatedly minimised and dismissed. I was told it was normal adolescent behaviour. It was not. It was a trauma response, and it was a clear indicator of emotional harm.
One morning, I attended a playgroup while he was still asleep. Since returning home, I had been locking the doors consistently, something that was not previously my habit. I had forgotten my phone. When I returned, the front door was open, but I could hear my son singing in the kitchen. That small detail reassured me. As I went upstairs, I became aware that something was wrong.
When I came out of the bathroom, I saw my eleven-year-old standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding a large kitchen knife, shaking. The fear on his face was unmistakable. He screamed at me in absolute terror, convinced there was an intruder.
That moment stripped away the emotional armour he had been using to survive.
That afternoon, we attended an urgent GP appointment. For the first time in his life, my son was referred to mental health services. He disclosed experiences I had not known. He cried.
Witnessing that level of distress in your child is devastating. Yet alongside the fear, there was relief. He was finally expressing what he had been carrying alone. I am deeply proud of all three of my children. They are not damaged. They are not lesser. Their resilience and integrity far exceed what should ever have been demanded of them.
The person who harmed us attempted to destroy their lives as thoroughly as he tried to destroy mine. He failed. My children will never intentionally cause harm to others. They are already better people than he ever was. When he realised I could no longer be controlled, the attacks shifted back to degradation and shame, often using the children as leverage, repeating the claim that “dem boys” would ensure I would always be alone.
I understood that tactic. It was designed to trap me through fear and diminished self-worth. To someone who cannot tolerate being alone, isolation may feel unbearable. To someone who has endured years of abuse, solitude is not frightening. It is relief. It is safety.
I was not afraid of being alone. I had lived in fear for years.
I left knowing that my life might be solitary for a long time, and I accepted that. I am no longer the person I once was, but my children will never be the reason I am alone. They do not define my worth or limit my future. I failed them once by allowing that person into our lives. I will not fail them again.
Any loss of confidence or sense of worth I experienced has nothing to do with my children. It is the consequence of prolonged coercion and psychological harm.
I have survived the most difficult nine months of my life, both with and without the understanding of others. I have learned that being alone does not diminish strength. It reveals it.
Our walk today was good. When I got home, the blisters on my feet reminded me of one final lesson: wear your own socks, not a toddler’s.
