How I Found Myself on the Other Side of Survival

“Until you make peace with who you are, you will never be content with what you have.” ~Doris Mortman

For most of my life, I believed my worth was tied to how well I could perform.

If I looked successful, kept people happy, worked harder than anyone else, and stayed quiet about my pain, maybe—just maybe—I would be enough.

That belief didn’t come from nowhere. I grew up in a home where fear was a constant companion. Speaking up brought consequences. Being invisible felt safer. I learned early to smile through it all, to stay small, to never be a burden.

I carried that into adulthood—into my marriage, into motherhood, and into the corporate world.

I became the high achiever who never asked for help. The professional woman who had all the answers. The mother who always held it together.

I was the one who volunteered for every project, who stayed late to make everything perfect. At home, I kept up appearances with themed birthday parties, spotless counters, and a schedule packed to the brim—all while quietly falling apart inside. I thought if I could hold everything together on the outside, no one would see the cracks within.

But inside, I was unraveling.

The Moment Everything Shifted

One night, my husband exploded in anger. That wasn’t unusual. But this time, something different happened.

He lunged toward me, yelling, blind with rage. Our young son, who had crawled quietly onto the floor behind me, was nearly stepped on in the chaos. My daughter, just a child herself, began silently picking up the dining room chairs he had thrown.

No one cried. No one spoke. We had all learned to go silent.

But in that silence, something inside me woke up.

I saw myself in my children—quiet, afraid, coping. And I knew: if I didn’t break this cycle, they would grow up carrying the same invisible scars I had.

That night, I made a promise to myself: This ends with me.

The Healing Didn’t Happen All at Once 

Leaving was hard. Healing was harder. But it was also the most powerful thing I’ve ever done.

I realized I had been performing my way through life. Even in pain, I made everything look polished. I was afraid that if people knew the truth—about my past, about my marriage, about how little I thought of myself—they’d walk away.

But what actually happened was this: when I finally allowed myself to be seen, I started to heal.

What I’ve Learned on the Other Side of Survival

Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a process—sometimes slow, sometimes messy, sometimes unbelievably beautiful.

Here are a few things I now hold close:

1. You can’t heal what you refuse to name.

For me, that moment came during therapy, when I finally said out loud, “I was in an emotionally abusive marriage.” It felt terrifying—and freeing. Until I gave it a name, it had power over me. Naming it took the first step to taking that power.

For years I told myself it “wasn’t that bad.” But downplaying our pain doesn’t make it go away—it buries it. And buried pain finds a way to surface in our choices, our relationships, and our sense of self-worth.

2. You’re allowed to want more than survival.

I thought I should just be grateful to have a job, a home, healthy kids. But deep down, I wanted joy. I wanted peace. I wanted to feel like I mattered—to myself.

For a long time, I believed wanting those things made me selfish. I had spent years making sure everyone else was okay, thinking that was my role. I was the people- pleaser, the fixer, the one who didn’t cause trouble. My self-worth was so low that even imagining a life where I felt fulfilled seemed like too much to ask. Who was I to want happiness?

But wanting peace and joy wasn’t selfish. That was healing.

3. Small, daily decisions matter more than big breakthroughs.

Choosing to journal instead of numbing out with TV. Taking a walk after work to process my thoughts. Pausing before reacting in frustration. These choices weren’t dramatic, but they created steady change—the kind that lasts.

Leaving my marriage was one bold decision. But the real transformation came from the everyday choices that followed: writing down what I was grateful for, saying no without guilt, and consistently reminding myself to honor my values of honesty and integrity—which I hadn’t done when protecting my ex-husband, keeping up appearances, and pretending everything was fine. Those were the moments that helped me reclaim my life.

4. You’re not broken—you’re becoming.

For a long time, I saw myself as damaged and thought healing meant changing into a different person. But I’ve come to see things differently. Healing isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about removing what never belonged to you in the first place—shame, fear, silence—and uncovering who you were all along.

I realized this while sorting through old journals, when I found an entry from my teenage years—full of dreams and hope. That’s when it struck me: she’s still in there. Healing helped me reconnect with that part of myself, not erase her.

If You’re in That Quiet Place Right Now

Maybe you’re carrying a silence too. Maybe you’re functioning, performing, doing all the things—and still wondering why you feel so far from yourself.

Please hear this: You are not alone.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need a willingness to listen to that small, wise voice inside—the one that says this isn’t the end of your story.

Because it’s not.

And then, you have to honor it. Even if it’s with one small act. One honest conversation. One brave decision. That’s how the healing begins—not by knowing everything, but by choosing to move forward anyway.

I know this because I’ve been there—waking up with a heavy heart, going through the motions, wondering if life would ever feel like mine again.

But I chose to pause. To feel. To begin again. I hope you will too.

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