I am a Survivor

I Escaped the Room, But I Still Had to Go Home

There are parts of my story that I don't talk about very often. Not because I don't remember them. Because I remember them too well. I am a domestic violence survivor. And sometimes saying those words feels easier than actually explaining what they mean. Because domestic violence isn't always a bruise someone can see.

Sometimes it's fear. It's control. It's isolation. It's walking on eggshells. It's learning to read someone's mood before they even speak. It's knowing that one wrong word, one wrong look, one wrong move could change everything.

And sometimes it's being locked in a room with a bucket, a few bottles of water, some crackers, and absolutely no control over your own life.

That is only part of my survival story.

I was locked in that room for an entire weekend.

Those were the longest days of my life.

I remember the helplessness.

The fear.

The waiting.

Wondering when I would get out.

Wondering what would happen next.

Wondering if anyone even knew where I was.

And eventually...

I escaped that room.

But here's the part people don't always understand.

I didn't escape my life.

Not yet.

Because my son was coming home.

And I couldn't let him know.

I couldn't let him see what was happening to me.

So I did what so many survivors do.

I put on a face.

A pretend face.

A face that said, I'm okay.

A face that said, Nothing happened.

A face that smiled when I wanted to cry.

A face that kept going when everything inside me was screaming to run.

Because my son was coming home.

And my job, in that moment, was to make sure he didn't carry what I was carrying.

So I took what was coming to me.

I endured what I had to endure.

I kept my mouth shut.

I played the part I needed to play.

I became an actress in my own life because protecting my son mattered more than letting anyone see how badly I was falling apart.

And that is one of the hardest things to explain about domestic violence.

Sometimes you aren't just trying to survive for yourself.

You're trying to protect your children from seeing what is happening.

You're trying to make dinner.

You're trying to smile.

You're trying to answer questions normally.

You're trying to make their world feel safe when yours is anything but.

You become incredibly good at pretending.

And nobody knows.

Your child doesn't know.

Your family might not know.

Your friends might not know.

Because you become so good at saying,

"I'm fine."

Even when you're absolutely not.

I remember thinking that I had to keep going.

I had to keep pretending.

I had to make it through one more day.

Then another.

Then another.

Until eventually...

I could get my son and myself free.

And eventually, I did.

I don't even know how to properly explain what it feels like to finally realize that you're actually getting out.

There is fear.

There is relief.

There is grief.

There is guilt.

There is excitement.

There is uncertainty.

There is this enormous feeling of holy shit... I'm really doing this.

And then there is the realization that freedom can mean leaving everything you've ever known behind.

For me, freedom eventually meant Saskatoon.

Eighteen hours away.

Eighteen hours from home.

Eighteen hours from my family.

Eighteen hours from everything familiar.

Everything I knew.

Everything that felt like home.

I didn't move across the country because it was some exciting adventure.

I moved because I needed to build a life where my son and I could finally breathe.

Where we could wake up without wondering what kind of day it was going to be.

Where I could start figuring out who I was outside of survival.

Where my son could grow up knowing that home is supposed to feel safe.

And I won't lie.

Starting over was terrifying.

I had escaped the person.

But I still had to escape the mindset.

I had to learn how to make decisions without being afraid of someone else's reaction.

I had to learn that I was allowed to have an opinion.

I was allowed to say no.

I was allowed to change my mind.

I was allowed to take up space.

I was allowed to have a life.

I had to learn that peace doesn't mean waiting for the next explosion.

That silence doesn't have to mean someone is angry.

That a closed door doesn't have to mean I'm trapped behind it.

That I could finally breathe.

But trauma doesn't disappear just because you change your address.

I still carry that room.

I still carry that weekend.

I still carry the woman who had to pretend everything was okay so her son wouldn't know.

And sometimes I still feel her.

Sometimes being told I have to be somewhere can bring that feeling of being trapped rushing back.

Sometimes losing control over my surroundings can make my nervous system scream before my brain even understands why.

People might not see it.

They might not understand it.

But I do.

And I'm learning not to punish myself for it.

Because I survived something.

I survived a life where my freedom wasn't mine.

And now freedom is something I protect fiercely.

I don't want to spend my life defined by what happened to me.

But I also don't want to pretend it didn't happen.

Because that woman deserves to be acknowledged.

The woman who sat in that room.

The woman who walked out and immediately had to put on a smile for her child.

The woman who endured more because she was trying to protect her son.

The woman who packed up her life and went eighteen hours away because staying wasn't an option anymore.

She deserves to know that she did something incredible.

She got her son out.

She got herself out.

She broke the cycle.

She started over.

And she survived.

I wish I could go back and tell her what I know now.

"You're going to make it."

"Your son is going to be okay."

"One day you won't have to pretend."

"One day you will wake up and realize nobody controls you anymore."

"One day you'll look around and realize you built a life that belongs to you."

I am still healing.

I don't think there is some magical finish line where survivors suddenly stop carrying their trauma.

I think we learn how to carry it differently.

I may have survived.

But I carry the trauma forever.

And that's okay.

Because trauma may be part of my story...

but it doesn't get to be the ending.

My ending is still being written.

And now I get to write it.

I get to live.

I get to love.

I get to laugh.

I get to build.

I get to speak.

I get to be loud about the things people would rather keep quiet.

Because I know what silence feels like.

I know what pretending feels like.

I know what it feels like to protect everyone else while quietly falling apart yourself.

And that's why I refuse to stay silent now.

I speak for the woman I was.

I speak for the mother who had to pretend.

I speak for the survivor who didn't know how she was going to make it.

And I speak for anyone who is still living behind a smile, pretending everything is okay because they don't know how to get out yet.

Please hear me when I say this:

You are not weak.

You are not stupid.

You are not to blame.

And you do not deserve what is happening to you.

I know leaving isn't always simple.

I know there are children.

There are finances.

There is fear.

There are consequences.

There are a million reasons people stay that outsiders will never understand.

But there can be a life on the other side.

I know because I am living it.

Eighteen hours away from the life I once knew, I had to start over.

And somehow, through all of the fear, grief, trauma, and uncertainty...

I found me.

Not the woman I was before.

Someone stronger.

Someone louder.

Someone who finally understands that her voice matters.

And maybe that is why breaking the silence became such a huge part of who I am.

Because I spent too many years pretending I was okay.

I don't want to pretend anymore.

I survived the room.

I survived the life outside of it.

I got my son free.

I got myself free.

And now, every day, I choose to live the life that woman once thought she would never have.

That is my survival story.

And this time...

I get to tell it.