For the past several years, I have been doing what survivors are consistently advised to do:

Document everything.

Every incident.

Every disclosure.

Every safeguarding concern.

Every police interaction.

Every email, phone call, voicemail, and audio recording.

After fleeing domestic abuse, I have maintained an enhanced, cross-referenced timeline of events. Not because I am obsessive, but because systems require evidence whilst simultaneously eroding the capacity of those expected to provide it.

Over time, records fragment. One document becomes five. Five becomes twenty. This week, I spent hours separating a standalone chronology for my youngest child—pulling material not just from the past two years, but back to 2019.

It was necessary.

It was precise.

And it was re-traumatising.

What the Timeline Makes Impossible to Ignore

When events are laid out properly—chronologically, corroborated, and contextualised—certain truths become unavoidable.

We did not simply survive domestic abuse.

We survived what followed.

Post-separation abuse is not an aftermath. It is a continuation—often more covert, more destabilising, and far less understood by the institutions tasked with protecting children.

Until August, my children were still being exposed to regular re-traumatisation. Since that exposure ended, the difference—particularly in my youngest child—has been clinically significant. Emotional regulation improved. Sleep stabilised. Anxiety reduced. A sense of safety returned.

This is not an opinion.

It is an observable reality.

Digital Abuse: The Part No One Warns You About

Whilst immersed in this timeline work, I received another notification that my personal data had appeared in dark-web searches.

In 2022, I did not even know what the dark web was. I learnt the term because it was used as a threat.

During an incident in which my ex arrived intoxicated, refused to leave my home, shouted outside, revved his car, returned, and later physically pushed me—an assault captured on audio—he taunted me:

“What are you going to do? Look on the dark web.”

At the time, the words meant nothing.

After separation, they became disturbingly relevant.

For months, I received repeated alerts that my email address had been searched for or found within compromised digital spaces. This coincided with the creation of multiple dating profiles in my name, some of which used photographs. These were not platforms I had joined, nor wanted to join. I fully understand the result of being in an abusive relationship, resulting in never intending to date again. Several could not be accessed or removed.

This is not a coincidence.

This is digital coercive control.

Dormant Does Not Mean Disconnected

This summer, another experience reinforced how persistent digital connections can be—long after a relationship has ended.

When my eldest child was struggling significantly with trauma, we made a proportionate safeguarding decision. We agreed to use a location-sharing app so that I could ensure he was safe and reach him quickly if he needed support.

When I opened the app, I discovered something I had not anticipated.

Despite not having actively used—or even opened—the application for over two years, my ex was still connected to my account. His location sharing was disabled, but the connection itself remained live.

The app had been dormant on my phone. I do not routinely monitor tracking software. I do not check people’s locations. I am not hyper-vigilant with technology. The discovery was therefore not the result of scrutiny, but of chance.

The reaction was immediate and visceral. Shock. Disgust. And a sudden, acute awareness of how easily digital ties can persist without conscious consent.

I removed him instantly.

Two weeks later, there were reports of illness and emergencies. I am careful not to infer causation. I do not claim a link. But the experience sharpened something survivors of post-separation abuse understand instinctively: any unnoticed digital connection represents vulnerability.

What unsettled me most was not the app itself. It was the realisation that even after years of deliberate disengagement, there may still be residual access points. These include accounts, permissions, and platforms. They remain simply because survival required attention elsewhere.

This is the hidden labour of post-separation abuse.

Not constant fear—but continuous

audit.

The Cost of Staying Reachable

This cumulative awareness forced a decision I have been circling for years.

I have already changed my email address.

Now, after 17 years, I am changing my phone number.

Not because I want to.

Blocking is not protection when someone already has your details, uses multiple numbers, and relies on persistence rather than direct contact.

I have blocked repeatedly.

He has had at least seven phone numbers over the 4 years together and 2 years since I left.

This is the reality survivors are rarely told:

You can do everything “right.” Yet, you may still be forced to surrender continuity. This includes your number, your digital footprint, and your sense of permanence. These sacrifices are made to feel marginally safer.

What My Phone Actually Looks Like Now

Contrary to the narratives often imposed on victims, I am not “always on my phone”.

All notifications are muted.

Calls. Messages. Social media.

WhatsApp is not linked to my laptop.

I rarely touch the device.

I work on my laptop.

My writing is intentional and contained.

My phone is no longer a lifeline, it is a risk vector.

Yes, spam calls still come through. But the deeper issue is this: someone who abused me still has potential access to my life unless I actively sever it.

The Unspoken Reality of Post-Separation Abuse

This is what post-separation abuse looks like in practice:

• Administrative overload framed as “reasonable process”

• Digital intrusion that falls between legal definitions

• Continuous risk management instead of recovery

• Children’s well-being improves only when exposure ends

• Survivors repeatedly dismantling and rebuilding their lives

Changing a phone number after 17 years is not trivial.

It is not a lifestyle choice.

It is harm reduction.

This is not about bitterness.

It is about boundaries.

And survival.