Through boundaries, honesty and self-compassion, I rebuilt myself — one small act of courage at a time.

Leaving an abusive relationship is rarely the escape people imagine. It's messy, destabilising and brutally expensive — but it is the beginning of something better, even if you can't see it yet.

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In Australia, we talk a lot about intimate partner violence — the rising numbers, the system failures, the billions it costs. But we rarely talk about what happens after a woman leaves. We don't talk about the empty bank accounts, the court dates, the emotional whiplash, or the exhausted shell a survivor becomes. We don't talk about how hard it is to heal when you're barely holding yourself together.

I know this because I lived it.

During my marriage, my life looked Instagram perfect — proof that you can't trust what you see online. The suburb. The job title. The big house with curated photos. From a distance, I looked like a woman who had made it.

But behind that gloss was almost twenty years of coercive control — financial, emotional and physical. He never gave me a black eye, so he claimed I wasn't a "battered wife." Yet he slapped, kicked, choked, locked me in and out of the house, threw objects and threatened our dog. I had no access to my own money — not even my salary. That was my reality.

He isolated me from friends, family and colleagues. The kids and I lived in quiet, constant fear. And because I kept showing up to work, kept smiling, kept functioning, I didn't look like a victim. I hid the depression. I hid the autoimmune flareups. I hid everything — including the fact that I was slowly disappearing. I protected him and his reputation more fiercely than I ever protected myself. I carried so much shame, that admitting the truth felt impossible.

From the outside, people saw stability. Inside, I was surviving minute to minute, managing his moods and trying to prevent the next explosion. The performance was so convincing that sometimes even I believed it. That's the thing about coercive control: it traps you, but it also convinces you that staying silent is safer than speaking up.

When I finally left, he told me, "if you go, I will destroy you."

And in many ways, he tried.

A week after he was sentenced for breaching an AVO, the children were withheld from me. Four years in the family court followed. Despite his conviction, the court called us "high conflict", treating us like equals in a fight instead of a victim and a perpetrator. After years of influence, the kids chose to live with him.

The judge said I was intelligent and articulate, that I posed no risk to my children — and then ruled that I wasn't a "compelling witness". No explanation. No guidance on what a victim "should" look like. That ruling broke something in me that even he hadn't broken.

When the legal chaos ended, I was financially ruined, physically drained and emotionally empty.

People told me to "do the work", as if healing was a simple plan. But healing in Australia is not accessible. A GP visit can cost more than $180, with less than half rebated. Psychologists charge over $200. Medicare only covers ten sessions a year. Trauma does not fit inside ten hours.

And when your nervous system is fried, even basic tasks — eating, showering, sleeping — feel impossible. Every takeaway meal, every messy room, every missed appointment felt like proof that I was failing at life.

I searched everywhere for answers — books, podcasts, support groups — but nothing showed me how to actually heal. So I started journaling. Not pretty journaling. Not quotes or prompts. Just raw truth on paper. Some entries were only a sentence. Some were tears. But writing forced honesty.

That's when I realised something I had never understood: in childhood, my boundaries were never respected. As an adult, I had no idea how to set the, or protect them. It was a painful truth — and it brought up a wave of shame I had never admitted. Shame for staying. Shame for coping. Shame for hiding. Shame for living a life that looked perfect but felt terrifying.

But that shame also pointed to what I truly needed: self-compassion. Not perfection. Not another plan. Just gentleness. Small, steady acts of care. I didn't need to "fix" myself. I needed boundaries — and kindness toward myself — as the foundation.

I started with a simple nightly ritual: hand on heart, slow breathing:

Inhale: I am loved and lovable.

Exhale: I am enough.

At first, it felt silly. Then comforting. Then essential. After six months, my sleep began to stabilise.

Later, I found the Hawaiian Ho'oponopono prayer:

"I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you."

I said it every night — not for him, but to the earlier versions of me, who did the best she could.

The abuse didn't stop — it shifted into system abuse — but I changed. I became steadier, calmer, clearer. When the Victims Support Scheme funded psychology sessions the first time, they didn't help; I was still in survival mode — too overwhelmed and unsafe to absorb anything. But last year, when I received a second round of sessions, everything was different. With boundaries, rest and some stability, therapy finally worked in ways it couldn't before.

Five years ago, I felt destroyed. Three years ago, I couldn't imagine a life that didn't hurt. Today, I have more good days than bad. I still have grief. I still have triggers. But they no longer consume me. I meet them with softness. I bounce back faster. My boundaries are firmer. My life is safer and calmer.

I'm not "healed", but I am healing. And that's enough.

When women ask how to start, I tell them:

You don't need a yoga retreat in Bali.

You don't need perfect routines.

You don't need money.

You need small, consistent acts of self-respect — tiny steps repeated until they bring you back to yourself.

You are not broken.

You are not to blame.

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Leaving isn't the end — it's the beginning. The system won't always catch you. Time alone won't fix everything. But healing is possible, even after decades of abuse and years of institutional failure.

If you're in the thick of it, please hear me:

And you are not alone.

Start where you are. Start small. Just start.

Feature image: Canva.