My Story: From Survival to Strength: My Journey to Freedom (Please note this story begins with details of physical abuse.)

I remember his hands around my throat, squeezing so hard that I couldn’t breathe. My mind raced, repeating a single thought: He won't hurt me. He has done this before, but never like this. Never with this intensity. But this time, it was different. This time, I felt like I was going to die. 

 In the background, my two-week-old baby cried from his crib, his tiny voice piercing through the chaos. And in that moment, a terrifying realisation gripped me that I might not live to see my son grow up. He would never know who I was, never remember my face, my love, or the mother I wanted to be for him. 

 All of this because I had refused to sit and watch TV with him. I was exhausted, barely functioning after sleepless nights with our newborn, but he didn't care. Just like he hadn't cared when he forced me to breastfeed, refusing to let me use formula even when my son was not getting enough. I spent months in agony, my body and mind breaking under the weight of postpartum depression. I couldn't even brush my hair. I stopped caring for myself. Oh, I remember the long list of tasks to be done before he arrived home from work. “Cleaning the window, washing the curtains, and cleaning the cupboards” and these tasks would be checked on once he arrived home. 

 The only comfort I found was in small, meaningless things like cookies and milk, moments of escape in an otherwise suffocating reality. The pain was constant, and so was the isolation. 

 Things only got worse when my parents travelled from abroad to meet their grandson. My mother, sensing how deeply I was struggling, wanted to stay and support me. But, of course, he grew “jealous”, just as he had been jealous of any friendships I had ever tried to form. 

 During a trip to London, he controlled my every move, dictating what I could and could not do. Then, without warning, he forced me to leave my parents behind, pushing my son's buggy ahead of me as he ordered me to follow. “They can find their own way home”, he said coldly. 

 That evening, I finally found the courage to say the words I had been too afraid to speak I don’t love you anymore. 

 His response was swift and brutal. He knocked me to the floor and ran out, leaving me in pain, my eight-month-old baby crying beside me. When the police arrived, I was still trying to process what had happened. He had knocked out my tooth. And yet, he stood there, twisting the truth, telling them that he had only punched me a few times, because I had supposedly tried to hit him with a glass. Lies. Just like everything else. He was incapable of taking responsibility for anything, then or now. 

 Even after that night, he would not leave me alone. He called, he texted, he manipulated. And all I wanted was peace. I wanted my son to have a father. I wanted to believe that things could be okay. But I had no idea how hard my journey was about to become. 

 There was a time I did not think I could do it anymore. I was drowning in debt, suffocated by threats, and worst of all, completely alone. Everyone sided with him. No one believed me. The loneliness was unbearable. 

 One night, I was so exhausted, so broken, that I searched for ways to end it all. I thought about how easy it would be to make it STOP, not just for me, but for my son too. If I go, he goes with me. 

 But then I saw him. My beautiful, innocent toddler, running around our tiny one-bedroom flat, laughing, completely unaware of the darkness that had swallowed me whole. Who am I to take this life from him? The thought jolted me. I grabbed him and left the flat, riding trains all day with no destination, just trying to escape my own mind. 

 I had no family to call. No friends to turn to. I was utterly alone. 

 And yet, somehow, I survived. 

 The cycle of abuse continued for a while, he knew exactly how to play with my emotions, how to keep me trapped in hope. I wanted to believe him. I wanted to believe that things could change. But they never did. And one day, I finally saw it for what it was: manipulation, control, and cruelty disguised as love. 

 I became a single mother on benefits, struggling with crippling self-doubt. I could not even bring myself to go to a playground because I was terrified that people would see the truth, that I was weak, broken, pathetic. The shame consumed me. 

 But shame is a liar. 

 I fought my way out. 

 When he refused to divorce me, I did it myself. I filed the papers, navigated the courts alone, and fought for my freedom. It took five years, but I never gave up. And when the day finally came, when the divorce was approved, I realised that I had won. 

 But I was not done yet. 

 I wanted more for myself, for my son. So, I enrolled in law school, determined to build a future no one could take from me. 

 And then, when I least expected it, I met someone, a kind, gentle soul who showed me that love is not supposed to hurt. That love is safety, warmth, and respect. Together, we built a life. A real life. We now have another beautiful son, a home in the countryside, and a future filled with possibilities. 

 We achieved everything people told me I never would. 

 What I have learned through all of this is that pain does not have to break you. You can survive. You can thrive. But healing is not instant, and it is not easy. It takes time. 

 There were days when I could not even afford a coffee outside, when kindness toward myself felt impossible. But I started with small steps. Tiny goals. And slowly, I learned to love myself again. 

 A few years ago, I could not have said it. But now, I can: 

 I am strong. 

I am kind. 

I am honest. 

I am loyal. 

I am amazing. 

I am a great friend. 

I am a great mother. 

 And most of all I am free. 

 I will not let my past define me. 

 I am not the abused, broken woman I once was. 

 I am so much more.