Content Notice
This post discusses domestic violence, emotional abuse, and survival. While no graphic details are included, the themes may be heavy for some readers. Please read at your own pace and take care of yourself as needed.
This photo came up in my Facebook memories today.
At first glance, it looks harmless. Familiar, even.
A woman smiling.
A family moment.
The kind of image that suggests stability, love, and a life well lived.
But when I look at it now, I don’t see happiness.
I see a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I see puffiness and redness from crying.
I see fear carefully tucked behind composure.
I see a woman hiding something she was terrified to say out loud.
At the time this photo was taken, the story I told the world was simple: I had a picture-perfect family. A great husband. Children who were adored. A life that looked “right.”
The story I told myself was darker and quieter.
I stayed for the kids.
They deserved both parents.
I wasn’t good enough to leave.
I deserved this.
If I tried harder, he would change.
If I were a better wife, he wouldn’t be so angry.
Those were the lies that kept everything intact on the outside.
The hardest lie to tell others was that I was happy because I wasn’t. I was miserable in ways I didn’t yet have language for. People didn’t see me laying on the bathroom floor after hours of crying, trying not to throw up, begging God to remove me from life because I believed my children would be better off without me.
The most damaging lie I told myself was that this was what marriage looked like. That this was what I signed up for. That no one else would ever love me for who I was.
Our home looked peaceful. Orderly. Clean.
But it wasn’t a home.
Everything was controlled.
Every form of abuse existed inside those walls; emotional, financial, spiritual, physical, sexual, mental. But control doesn’t always look like chaos. Sometimes it looks like silence. Like children trained to be quiet in the middle of the day because noise would bring consequences. Like a spotless kitchen maintained out of fear, not pride.
Anyone who walked into our house thought everything was fine. They didn’t see the anxiety of saying the wrong thing, or the fear of paying for someone else’s words later. They didn’t see the sleepless nights spent worrying if my children and I would be safe. They didn’t feel the constant calculation required just to exist.
I stayed quiet because I was terrified of what would happen if I wasn’t.
I feared he would take my children and I would never see them again. I feared we would all become victims in a homicide case… words spoken to me by police the final time they came to my home. Silence wasn’t denial. It was survival.
The first crack in the illusion came from a simple question an acquaintance asked me:
“Do you want your son to grow up thinking this is how you treat a woman? Or your daughter thinking this is how she should be treated?”
Not long after, one of my children was sent by ambulance to Stanford. During those days, strangers, roommates, came and went because they couldn’t handle the yelling. When it came time for heart surgery, my husband slept.
I was alone.
Later, standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window while my children played, trying not to make too much noise as I did the dishes, I asked God a quiet question: “What do I do?”
Clear as day, I was given the steps to get out… safely.
Leaving wasn’t loud. It was carefully calculated.
I wrote a letter outlining why I was leaving and what needed to be done; utilities, doctor’s appointments, and other household responsibilities I had been required to maintain. On the night we left, after my children and our belongings were moved to safety, I filmed every room of the house. Alone. In silence. I made everyone leave and stay quiet.
I did it to protect others, because I knew what he was capable of if he knew who helped me.
When I finally sat in my Jeep with my dog, my children were already safe at a home he knew nothing about, I cried one last time in the driveway.
And then it hit me.
I wasn’t leaving my home.
I was leaving my prison.
Freedom didn’t arrive all at once. For a long time, I lived in survival mode. Even after leaving, the fear stayed in my body. I was terrified of making him angry. I didn’t rest. I didn’t stop.
What surprised me most was how much I worried about him… his well-being, his mental stability, his emotional state. He had never been without the kids, nor they without him. Even though he had never once considered me or the children in his actions, I still worried about him.
The first time I took my children out to eat, it hit me: I didn’t need permission. No one would yell at me for spending money. I could choose where we sat, what we ate, and how long we stayed.
Those realizations were shocking.
Healing came slowly. Through therapy. Through time. Through relearning that stillness wasn’t dangerous. That naps didn’t come with punishment. That I could clean at my pace and choose presence over perfection. A friend once told me, “The dishes can wait. They’re only little once.”
It took time to believe her.
If you’re reading this while still inside your own picture-perfect prison, I want you to hear this:
You are strong enough.
You matter.
What you are experiencing is not normal and it most certainly is not love.
Your children do not need a father at the expense of safety to have a happy home.
You may have to become someone you don’t recognize to get out but she is not who you will be forever.
She is just a season.
And she is saving your life.
XO – Lish
If you or someone you love is experiencing domestic violence or feels unsafe, confidential help is available:
- National Domestic Violence Hotline (U.S.)
📞 1-800-799-SAFE (7233)
🌐 thehotline.org
💬 Text START to 88788
If you are outside the U.S., local resources can often be found through community health services, shelters, or emergency services.
You are not weak for needing help. You are brave for considering it.