I believe that sharing our stories can inspire others to find strength, courage, and hope. As I sit here, feeling a mix of apprehension and resolve, I take a deep breath and decide to share mine. I have come so far from the naive, hopeful girl I once was.
All the warning signs were there, yet I ignored them, blinded by potential. I thought my love could change him, that it could transform him into a better man. But you cannot change a narcissist.
The love I gave, my kindness, my big heart—these were exactly why he chose me. He studied my good qualities, exploited them, and tried to break me. He almost succeeded. I stepped into the role of a wife without ever being asked, managing the household, caring for my children, and even squeezing in self-care when I could. Yet, I was never appreciated. Instead, I was disrespected, belittled, and discarded.
He had a cruel pattern: build me up, only to tear me down. One of his favorite manipulations was ‘love bombing’—taking us to our favorite restaurant, the movies, shopping—then ruining the day over the smallest imagined slight. A simple disagreement in the car on the way home could trigger accusations that I liked to start fights. If I didn’t answer just right, I was labeled ungrateful.
Gaslighting became a daily reality. He tried to make me believe I had ruined what had been a perfect day. Then came the “discarding”—ignoring me completely, leaving for hours or days, responding only with short, dismissive answers, or ghosting me entirely. My children and I began to secretly breathe easier when he left, because for once we could be ourselves without walking on eggshells. It’s heartbreaking to realize you must train your children to behave cautiously, to speak minimally, to avoid provoking someone’s wrath.
One memory haunts me: my youngest, Amaiya, once hit her sister Madison. Her father demanded an apology, and when Amaiya hesitated, he grabbed her by the legs, holding her upside down—knowing it terrified her—until she apologized. She screamed, squirmed, and cried in absolute panic. I felt fury and terror all at once. I rushed to her, held my baby close, and shouted, “Don’t you ever touch Amaiya like that again, you bully!” Even Madison cried, clinging to her sister.
Intimacy became unbearable. I no longer wanted it, yet felt forced to pretend, feeling cheap and hollow every time. I wanted to disappear. I was exhausted, mentally and physically. The first time I ever called the police, he had returned drunk. I tried to stay silent to avoid escalation, but he demanded I kiss him. When I did, he criticized me, growing more forceful. He smelled of liquor, and the disgust I felt was overwhelming. At one point, he grabbed and pinched my shoulder near my collarbone and asked, “Does that hurt?” It hurt like hell, but I stared him down and said, “No.”
Through years of mental, verbal, psychological, and sometimes physical abuse, my children witnessed and felt the pain of his cruelty. When I was pregnant with Amaiya, he shoved me from the passenger side door of a car, and I fell backward. Thankfully, I wasn’t injured, but he shouted names at me from his car while driving away. I foolishly thought I could manage him.
I felt trapped in a fog of heartbreak, betrayal, and confusion. It was a constant war inside my own mind, a battle between the person I wanted to be and the demons he forced upon me. But I never gave up—and I never will.
I sought help through support groups, therapy, and daily practices of self-care and self-love. After years of torment, including repeated encouragements from him to take my own life, my family helped me escape. They bought tickets for me and my children to leave Orlando for New York City, where we stayed with my mother. But with a full house, I knew we needed our own space.
During that year, I gave birth to my son and, shortly after, learned I had cysts on both kidneys, leading to a diagnosis of Polycystic Kidney Disease. We spent two years in the shelter system. During that time, I made the mistake of letting him back into our lives, as he wanted to be near his children. Within six months, the abuse returned, and I made the difficult but necessary decision to remove him from our lives permanently. Six months later, I finally secured our own apartment.
I may not have a perfect “happily ever after,” but God has provided a sanctuary for me and my children. The devil still knocks occasionally—like a new diagnosis of Fibromyalgia or an assault on a family member—but I now have full custody, a two-year protection order, and three reports documenting his actions.
I’ve had moments of weakness, moments when I didn’t know what I know now. But today, I am WOKE. I am determined to empower, inspire, and support others facing domestic abuse. I offer my friendship, my guidance, and my listening ear. I have a purpose: to help others heal, even while navigating my own battles. That is who I am—and that is who I will always be.
