Navigating Life After Leaving

 The ending of a relationship with an abusive partner is often viewed as the closing of a dark chapter. And, in many ways, it is. The initial escape brings a newfound sense of freedom, a chance to exhale without the constant tension of walking on eggshells. It’s a release that survivors dream of for years. But for those of us who share children with an abuser, leaving is only the beginning of a more nuanced, exhausting battle. It’s the battle of parenting while someone who once took pride in dismantling you now attempts to chip away at the very stability you’re painstakingly trying to build.

He spends the time he has with them weaving lies, each one more absurd and damaging than the last. “Your mom ruined my life,” he’ll say, his voice tinged with an infuriating blend of indignation and self-pity. I see the stories in their eyes when they come home. Their expressions carry a mix of confusion and sadness, torn between their love for both parents and the emotional whiplash of conflicting realities. It’s not just his words; it’s the relentless need to keep me as the villain, even in my absence. It’s a campaign of blame so deeply ingrained in him that it spills over into every conversation, poisoning the air.

This manipulation isn’t new, though its persistence still finds ways to shock me. When I first left, I expected the anger, the denial, and the defensive justifications. What I didn’t expect were the floods of messages—long, scathing, and venomous. Each one an attempt to pull me back into the cycle of doubt and pain. Paragraphs filled with accusations that twisted reality, wielded like knives designed to wound. The messages spoke of me as if I were a villain so detestable that he’d rather endure the grief of losing a loved one than the “suffering” of our marriage.

These words, even when you know they’re meant to hurt, leave their mark. They echo in your head at night when the house is finally quiet, after the kids have settled and the adrenaline of the day has faded.

The denial, the blame-shifting—it’s almost formulaic. I see him falter in his own life, yet he clings to the narrative that every failure is mine to bear. He surrounds himself with excuses like a fortress, deflecting any accountability. It’s always someone else’s fault. The world, his boss, the weather. Me. The refusal to acknowledge any responsibility is a game he mastered long ago, and now he teaches it to anyone willing to listen.

What’s most maddening is the financial rewrite of our story. He contributed so little for so long, spending years lost in self-medication and indulgent distractions. Sports equipment he never used beyond the first rush of purchase, massages that came with a hefty price tag, hundreds of dollars spent on his substance habits. Meanwhile, I was grinding through days that began at 4 a.m., driving hours in traffic just to reach work by 7, and battling exhaustion as I inched my way back home, hoping I’d make it by 7 p.m. I did this without a degree, stitching together opportunities from grit and desperation. There were weeks where financial constraints meant I couldn’t go home, leaving me just enough to pay for a dingy Airbnb and $20 to stretch for food across the week. It wasn’t a life; it was survival.

I can still feel the shame that crept in whenever I dared to consider buying something for myself. I’d pause, run the mental tally of what we needed, and close the tab or return the item to the shelf. Essentials for the kids were prioritized, but even that had its limits when he was around to justify why he “needed” another indulgence more. The few extra dollars I might have used for an outing with the kids or a new pair of shoes for myself were siphoned off for his whims. The pattern repeated itself—his needs came first, and we lived in the shadow of what remained.

And so, the mess he left behind was not just physical. It was emotional, financial, and deeply embedded in the lives of our children. When I’d come home after 12 to 14-hour days, I’d find dishes stacked, laundry untouched, and the remnants of a day spent in self-absorption scattered around. Rarely a meal waiting, no chores done, just a house that echoed my exhaustion back at me. But even then, the work didn’t stop. I cooked, I cleaned, and I folded back into my role as if the day’s sacrifice hadn’t been enough. Often, all while being emotionally battered from the moment I walked through the door, to the moment I left the next morning.

Leaving didn’t free me from this cycle; it changed its shape. Now, it comes in the form of parental sabotage, where he turns his frustration and anger toward the children. The abuse doesn’t end with a signed decree. It lingers, morphs into whispered comments that make my babies question themselves and accusations that warp their understanding of what love and partnership should look like.

The girls, in particular, bear the brunt as they grow older and start to question him. I see the weariness in their eyes, the way they brace themselves for his unpredictable anger or silent disregard. They come back to me with stories of the living conditions—rooms in disarray, emotional coldness, and the weight of expectation that they make themselves small to keep the peace.

Until I can create change in court, I am left in this space of damage control. I provide what I can: consistency, comfort, and the knowledge that they are loved and valued beyond words. The battle isn’t over, but each day they return to a home that embraces them for who they are and who they’re becoming. Each day they learn that in a world of lies and accusations, there’s a foundation of truth and love that holds steady.

The aftermath of leaving isn’t as simple as freedom—it’s a complex blend of relief, vigilance, and constant work to undo the damage done. It means being both parent and healer, a soft landing spot when they fall and a fortress when the storm rolls in. It means countless conversations, nights spent listening to their fears and piecing together what peace I can provide. It’s assuring them that stability exists, that they deserve safety and love unbound by conditions.

I’m not naive enough to believe this battle will resolve easily. The courts move slowly, and the system often overlooks the subtleties of emotional abuse. But each day I fight is a day they learn what resilience looks like. Each time they return home and find warmth, laughter, and love waiting for them, it’s a reminder that his lies don’t define them—or me. I am building, brick by brick, a life where the monster behind the mask fades into irrelevance, replaced by strength, healing, and unwavering hope.

Surviving after leaving isn’t just about enduring the echoes of the past; it’s about reclaiming power in the present and crafting a future where those echoes no longer dictate our worth. And in that, there’s more victory than he will ever know.