Leaving Wasn’t the End - It Was the Beginning

I thought leaving would be the end of the abuse.

I believed that once I walked out that door, the worst was behind me. That freedom would bring peace. But what followed was a different kind of battle — one I wasn’t prepared for. The pain and abuse didn’t stop; it just changed forms.

I had no job. No stable place to live. My kids and I were starting over from scratch. Every single day felt like survival mode. I scrambled through it all, wrestling with the fear of "how," and the lingering guilt of self-blame. And through it all, I had to figure out how to be strong for my kids.

Some nights, I cried silently, wondering how I was going to make it. I questioned myself constantly: Did I make the right decision? Should I have stayed just a little longer? Was this freedom worth the struggle?

Deep down, I knew I had to leave. But the thoughts were endless. The echo of his threats became a constant companion.

I left the relationship, but I didn’t escape the abuse.

My abuser found new ways to control me—using the court system, lies, and intimidation to keep me scared and exhausted. Every custody exchange became a performance of cruelty: rude gestures, name-calling, passive-aggressive comments and smirks. Even with people watching, he found ways to humiliate me.

At one point, he began withholding court-mandated child support. And when he did pay, he delivered the checks through strangers. It was calculated. Every move was designed to make me uncomfortable, unsure, and afraid.

He lied, and I found myself constantly having to defend my truth.

When I began the process in family court—filing for divorce and fighting for custody—he painted me as an unfit mother. He claimed I was a drug addict. Told the judge I was mentally unstable. He went as far as to accuse me of child abuse. I wasn’t surprised, but I wasn’t prepared either.

The most heartbreaking moment was when he told the court that our son said I pushed him down a flight of stairs. Because of his lies, and the severity of the accusations, my custody was put into question.

 *Child abuse in any form is nothing to take lightly. Even though it pained me, I also understood that when accusations like these are made – it should be taken seriously and investigated. *

The transition was already hard - going from full-time mom to sharing custody. But after that lie, our arrangement changed from a split to me only having my children a couple of days a week and one weekend a month. I was crushed. And in disbelief.

I asked myself: How could the courts believe this without an ounce of proof?

We had to go through an emergency evaluation. Doctors were contacted. Daycare workers. Babysitters. My entire life was under a microscope—not because of something I did wrong, but because he found a way to weaponize the system against me.

Depression was inevitable. But it did not mean I was unstable.

My life, my faith, my decisions—everything was questioned. I doubted myself constantly. My abuser even tried to use a therapy invoice against me in court, highlighting a diagnostic code meant for depression. As if seeking help proved I was dangerous.

My response to the judge was simple, raw, and honest:

“How could I not be depressed? Look at our situation.”

I had lived through years of abuse. I was carrying my children through the aftermath. I was doing everything I could just to survive. The truth is, I wasn’t broken—I was human. And therapy was part of my healing.

I remember the day we had to return to court to hear the emergency evaluator’s findings. Sitting in the parking garage of the courthouse, I cried. And I prayed. I prayed the Prayer to Saint Michael the Archangel. I repeated it over and over, as if the act of repetition gave me the strength to get out of the car and walk through those doors.

And it did.

When I fell—and I fell hard—it wasn’t the end. It was the beginning. Because even when I felt like I lost everything, I didn’t stop having faith. Yes, it was questioned. Absolutely. I was angry. I was torn. I was lost. I felt all of that—toward God. And I gave Him all of it. The anger. The hate. The pain. Nothing was held back.

The night before the meeting with the evaluator was unbearable. Fear consumed me. My thoughts were scattered. In desperation and humility, I asked friends and family for character reference letters—anything to show I wasn’t the person he was making me out to be. But had I done enough?

Through all the anger and pain—I prayed. And then the day came.

The evaluator determined that my ex had coerced our son to say those things. My son was only two. He was too young to know what was happening. He was confused. Doctors and babysitters confirmed what they had observed, and just like that, truth prevailed. The custody arrangement was returned to a split.

Coming to terms with the abuse was its own heartbreak.

I realized how deeply I had been conditioned—to stay, to return, to believe that his anger was somehow my fault. That I deserved the insults. That I provoked the violence.

But every day I stayed away was a victory. Every time I chose peace over chaos, silence over fighting, healing over harm—I was reclaiming myself.

Today, I’m still standing.

I won’t say I have it all figured out. There are still wounds. Still court dates, even 15 years later. Still moments where I feel exhausted by it all.

But there is also growth. There’s strength. There’s a quiet knowing that I did the right thing, even when everything tried to convince me otherwise.

If you’re reading this and going through something similar, I want you to know this:

You are not crazy. You are not unstable. You are not unworthy.

You are fighting for a life—your life. And one day, you will look back and see how brave you really were. Brave through all the pain, even when you felt lost and defeated.

Resolution doesn’t happen overnight. Strength doesn’t arrive all at once either.

Being strong isn’t just something we are — it’s a decision. A conscious choice to stand by our truth.
Real strength is built, day by day, with every act of courage we take to stand up for ourselves.

Still standing. Still healing. Still rising.

-Bela Rose