Behind Closed Doors: The Reality of an Abusive Marriage

I want to start with something heavy—something that may be triggering for others. If you’ve experienced abuse or are currently in a difficult situation, please take care of yourself while reading this. This is not easy for me to share. In fact, I haven’t spoken about it publicly before. But as I’ve taken the time to heal and process, I’ve realized that part of healing is speaking my truth. Speaking up about my experiences, even though it forces me to relive moments I’ve tried to leave behind. Even though it makes me remember the times I would shake and cry, sitting on the floor, terrified.

Nothing prepares you for getting your body slammed into a wall or being hit by the person who is supposed to protect you. Nothing prepares you for the way it stays with you long after you leave. For so long, even after I escaped the toxic situation I was in, I would be paralyzed trying to pick out an outfit, second-guessing myself because it had been ingrained in me that maybe I was being too revealing, too much, not acting the way I was 'supposed' to. That kind of control lingers. It stays in your bones. And fundamentally, that is so sick.

From the outside, our life looked perfect. A loving marriage, a thriving business, a future filled with promise. We built something together—at least, that’s what I told myself. But behind closed doors, I was trapped in my own personal hell.

I allowed things I never should have, and it started with my own low sense of self-worth. When you don’t believe you deserve better, you attract the worst kinds of people—those who see vulnerability as an opportunity to manipulate and control. My ex-husband was one of those people. He wasn’t my mentor or my savior. He was insecure and controlling, and he saw me as someone he could mold into what he wanted. He needed to feel powerful, and he did that by making me feel small.

At first, I mistook his control for care. He made me feel like he was looking out for me, like he knew what was best. But that was never the truth. It was manipulation, carefully disguised as guidance. The decisions that should have been mine became his. What I wore, who I spoke to, how I carried myself—it was all dictated by his own insecurities. He isolated me, convinced me I needed him, made me doubt my own ability to navigate the world without his input. And when I pushed back, even slightly, the consequences were immediate and brutal.

I was watched, monitored, controlled. My phone, my friendships, my freedom—all filtered through his paranoia. A late return home, a glance in the wrong direction, a simple disagreement—it could all set him off. And when it did, I paid the price. A slap, a shove, a violent outburst. My home, my supposed sanctuary, became a prison where I walked on eggshells, never knowing what would trigger his rage.

And yet, I stayed. Not because I was weak, but because I had convinced myself that maybe this was what I deserved. That maybe if I just tried harder, if I just loved him enough, if I just kept the peace, things would get better. I also stayed because I was afraid. Afraid of what he would do if I left, afraid of losing everything I had poured into our shared business, afraid that he would destroy everything I had built. And maybe even afraid that without him, I was nothing.

Abuse isn’t just physical. It’s psychological warfare. It’s gaslighting, isolation, belittling. It’s being made to feel like you are the problem, like you aren’t worthy of anything better. It’s the cycle of apologies and promises, the hope that keeps you stuck, the fleeting good moments that make you believe change is possible. It’s a trap—one that is difficult, terrifying, and painful to escape from.

Leaving an abusive relationship isn’t as simple as just walking away. It’s terrifying. It’s dangerous. But it is possible. And it is worth it.

I am writing this now because I am in such a good place. I have healed. But my heart breaks for anyone still living in that reality. I know I am not perfect. I’ve made mistakes. But if sharing my story helps even one person feel seen, feel understood, or take that first step toward freedom, then it’s worth it.

If you are in an abusive relationship, know this: You are not alone. You are not crazy. And you are not unworthy of love, respect, and safety. The person who hurts you does not define you. You are strong. You are worthy of peace and freedom. And there is a way out.

For anyone who is struggling, please reach out. To a friend, a family member, a support group. There are people who will believe you, who will help you, who will walk with you as you find your way back to yourself.

Abuse thrives in silence, but healing begins with speaking your truth. And you deserve to heal. You deserve to live, to love, to be free.

If you are in danger, please seek help. There are resources, shelters, and hotlines ready to support you. You do not have to do this alone.

To anyone who feels trapped: There is a way out. And you are brave enough to take it.