This Is Not a Love Story

This is not a love story. It’s a survival story.

I’m sharing it not for sympathy or absolution, but because fear thrives in silence—and because so many women live versions of this story without ever hearing it named.

If you’ve ever stayed longer than you wanted to, questioned your own choices, or wondered why leaving felt impossible even when things were clearly wrong, this story is for you.

Who I Was When This Began

I met my second husband in 1987, shortly after ending a nine-year marriage marked by addiction, violence, and chaos. I had three small children, was newly sober, and terrified of going backward. I wasn’t feeling strong or hopeful—I was feeling desperate to stay afloat.

At that moment in my life, stability felt like salvation.

He seemed safe. He had a job. He made money I couldn’t even imagine at the time. He wasn’t my ex. He wasn’t using drugs. And when you’ve lived in chaos, relief can feel a lot like love.

That distinction matters.

Reflection questions:

What did “safety” look like to me during the hardest season of my life?

Safety looked like a warm home with decent furnishings, a running automobile at my disposal, the children having their own rooms, toys, clothes, shoes, friends, school; food in the cupboards at the end of the month, money in the bank, an office job (no more cashier, maid, waitress positions for me...I was moving up in the world!). HAHA

Have I ever confused relief or stability with love?

Yes, and this wasn't the only relationship where that happened. Five years prior, I'd been with a man who was addict and a dealer. This was during one of the periods my husband was incarcerated. Don was 20 years older than me, drove a Lincoln Conintental, and used herion daily. During this time, with my husband in jail, Don took care of me and my two young children. We didn't want for anything. It was a relief not to worry about money. It took years for me to finally end this toxic relationship and that happened when I finally saw how he was trying to control me, and use me.

Choosing an Exit Instead of a Partner

Looking back, I didn’t choose him because he was “the one.” I chose him because he represented an exit.

An exit from poverty.
An exit from addiction.
An exit from my past.
An exit from fear—ironically driven by fear itself.

Sometimes we don’t choose partners; we choose escape routes.

When you’re running from something, you’re not always able to see clearly what you’re running toward. Escape-based relationships often move quickly, feel intense, and promise immediate relief—but they’re built on urgency, not discernment.

The Red Flags That Didn’t Feel Dangerous Yet

The first red flag came early, and it was so absurd that I laughed it off. On a cross-country drive, he accused me—out of nowhere—of wanting another man. He screamed at a truck stop, irrational and furious over something that existed only in his head.

I thought it was ridiculous. I didn’t take it seriously.

That’s something we don’t talk about enough: early red flags don’t always feel dangerous. Sometimes they feel confusing, dramatic, or just plain stupid.

Jealousy is often reframed as insecurity. Control is often disguised as concern. And because it doesn’t look like “real abuse” yet, we minimize it.

Reflection question for readers:

• Have you ever dismissed behavior because it felt “too ridiculous to be serious”? 

How Isolation Happens Quietly

Before we moved, there was a fight with my best friend. Tension. Distance. Fractures. Then came the geographic isolation—far from everything I knew, financially dependent, emotionally vulnerable, and without a support system.

Isolation rarely begins with someone saying, “You can’t see your friends.”
It begins with conflict. With discomfort. With emotional wedges that make connection harder.

Once isolated, fear has room to grow.

Reflection question for readers:

• Did any relationship distance you from people who knew you well?

Control, Fear, and Walking on Eggshells

The abuse wasn’t constant. That matters. There were calm periods. Normal days. Moments where things felt manageable. That’s how people stay. Hope survives in the spaces between harm.

But beneath it all, control was growing—over where I went, who I spoke to, and eventually, over my children.

We were all walking on eggshells.

My son bore the worst of it. One daughter became the peacekeeper, managing emotions that weren’t hers to manage. The youngest was spared—at first.

Children adapt to survive. Adaptation looks like resilience, but it leaves marks.

Why I Stayed Longer Than I Wanted To

This is the part many women struggle to say out loud.

I stayed because I was afraid.

Afraid of being poor.
Afraid of raising three kids alone.
Afraid of relapsing.
Afraid of failing.
Afraid of the life I imagined would follow if I left.

Fear narrows your vision. It makes impossible things feel inevitable and difficult things feel unthinkable.

I didn’t lack intelligence or awareness—I lacked safety. When safety is missing, fear becomes the loudest voice in the room.

Reflection questions for readers:

• What fears kept me in situations that harmed me?

• Were those fears protecting me—or imprisoning me?

The Moment Everything Shifted

I didn’t leave because I was being hurt.

I left when I saw my youngest daughter standing in front of him, tears pooling in her eyes as he berated her—her spirit shrinking in real time. In that moment, I understood something with absolute clarity: staying would teach her that this was normal. That was unacceptable.

Many women leave abuse not when they are broken—but when they see themselves mirrored in their children.

Leaving Is Not Dramatic—It’s Necessary

Leaving wasn’t empowering or cinematic. It was logistical, exhausting, and terrifying.

I took what I could. I worked two jobs. I rebuilt slowly. I set boundaries even when they felt cruel. I learned that strength doesn’t feel like strength when you’re still in survival mode.

Leaving doesn’t mean you stop caring. It means you stop sacrificing yourself.

What I Know Now About Fear

Years later, I can name what I couldn’t then.

Fear made my decisions for me.

Not weakness.
Not stupidity.
Fear—earned through lived experience.

Fear once kept me alive. Later, it kept me stuck.

Fear isn’t irrational when you’ve survived chaos—but it cannot be the only voice guiding your life.

Would Spiritual Practice Have Changed This?

I’ve wondered whether witchcraft or spiritual grounding practices would have changed things. Not magically. Not instantly.

But they could have helped me:

• trust my intuition sooner

• name fear instead of obeying it

• understand sovereignty as internal, not circumstantial

Witchcraft isn’t about control. It’s about agency.
It teaches women to come home to themselves.

Reflection questions for readers:

• What practices help me hear my own voice clearly?

• Where have I given away authority over my own life?

To the Woman Who Sees Herself Here

If this story feels familiar, hear this clearly:

You are not stupid.
You are not weak.
You are not broken.

You adapted. You survived. You made the best decisions you could with the information, safety, and resources you had at the time.

There is a version of you on the other side of this who understands why you stayed—and is proud of you for surviving long enough to leave.

Fear may have chosen for you once. It does not get to choose forever.

 The topic of this blog was covered in Episode 71 of The Witch's Way Podcast.