Rebuilding After the Storm: A Survivor’s Journey to Healing
Leaving an abusive relationship is rarely the clean break many imagine. It’s often a chaotic, destabilising, and financially draining ordeal. Yet, amidst the wreckage, it marks the crucial first step towards something better, even if that future feels obscured by the present turmoil. While Australia frequently discusses intimate partner violence – its alarming statistics, systemic shortcomings, and substantial economic impact – the narrative often falters when it comes to what happens in the aftermath of a woman’s departure. The conversations tend to gloss over the stark realities: depleted bank accounts, relentless court dates, the jarring emotional whiplash, and the profound exhaustion that leaves a survivor feeling like a mere shell of their former self. We seldom acknowledge the sheer difficulty of healing when one is barely managing to keep themselves afloat.
This is a reality I intimately understand, having lived through it.
My life, viewed through the lens of social media during my marriage, presented an image of flawless perfection. It’s a stark reminder that online appearances can be profoundly deceptive. The affluent suburb, the prestigious job title, the meticulously staged photographs in a spacious home – from the outside, I projected the image of a woman who had truly “made it.”
However, beneath this glossy veneer lay nearly two decades of insidious coercive control, encompassing financial, emotional, and physical abuse. While I never bore the visible marks of a “battered wife,” his control manifested in other brutal ways. He resorted to slapping, kicking, choking, locking me out of and in the house, hurling objects, and even threatening our beloved dog. My access to my own finances, including my salary, was completely severed. This was the suffocating reality of my daily existence.
He systematically isolated me from my network of friends, family, and colleagues. My children and I lived under a pervasive cloud of quiet, constant fear. Because I continued to attend work, maintain a facade of composure, and function outwardly, I didn’t fit the conventional image of a victim. I masked my depression, concealed my autoimmune flare-ups, and hid everything – including the alarming truth that I was slowly ceasing to exist. My fierce protectiveness was directed towards him and his reputation, far more than towards myself. The overwhelming shame I carried made admitting the truth feel like an insurmountable task.
To the outside world, stability was evident. Internally, however, I was navigating life minute by minute, meticulously managing his moods and desperately trying to preempt his next outburst. The performance was so convincing that, at times, even I was drawn into its illusion. This is the insidious nature of coercive control: it ensnares you, while simultaneously convincing you that silence is a far safer option than speaking out.
When I finally mustered the courage to leave, his parting words were a chilling threat: “If you go, I will destroy you.”
And in many respects, he certainly tried.
Merely a week after he was sentenced for breaching an apprehended violence order, my children were withheld from me. This triggered a four-year ordeal in the Family Court. Despite his conviction, the court labelled our situation as “high conflict,” effectively treating us as equals in a dispute rather than acknowledging the distinct roles of victim and perpetrator. After years of his insidious influence, the children ultimately chose to live with him.
The judge acknowledged my intelligence and articulacy, and stated that I posed no risk to my children. Yet, in the same breath, he ruled that I was not a “compelling witness,” offering no explanation or guidance on what constitutes a “proper” victim. This ruling inflicted a wound far deeper than any physical harm he had inflicted.
By the time the legal chaos subsided, I was financially bankrupt, physically depleted, and emotionally hollow.
Many well-meaning individuals advised me to “do the work,” as if healing were a straightforward plan with a clear checklist. However, the reality of healing in Australia is far from accessible. A simple GP visit can now exceed $180, with Medicare rebates covering less than half. Psychologists’ fees often surpass $200, and Medicare provides rebates for only ten sessions annually. The profound impact of trauma simply cannot be contained within ten hours.
When your nervous system is in overdrive, even the most basic daily tasks – eating, showering, sleeping – can feel like Herculean efforts. Each takeaway meal, each untidy room, each missed appointment served as further “proof” of my perceived failure in life.
I scoured every available resource – books, podcasts, support groups – desperately seeking guidance on how to truly heal. Ultimately, I turned to journaling. This wasn’t about aesthetically pleasing entries or curated quotes. It was about confronting raw, unvarnished truth on paper. Some entries comprised a single sentence. Others were simply streams of tears. But the act of writing compelled honesty.
It was during this process that I unearthed a fundamental realisation I had never grasped before: in my childhood, my boundaries were consistently disregarded. As an adult, I possessed no understanding of how to establish or protect them. This was a painful, yet vital, truth. It unearthed a torrent of shame I had never previously acknowledged – shame for staying, shame for enduring, shame for hiding, and shame for inhabiting a life that appeared perfect but felt utterly terrifying.
Yet, this very shame illuminated my deepest need: self-compassion. Not perfection, not another rigid plan, but simply gentleness. Small, consistent acts of self-care. I didn’t need to “fix” myself; I needed boundaries and self-kindness as the bedrock of my recovery.
I began with a simple nightly ritual: placing a hand on my heart, taking slow, deliberate breaths, and repeating affirmations:
- Inhale: I am loved and lovable.
- Exhale: I am enough.
Initially, it felt awkward. Then, comforting. Eventually, it became an indispensable part of my routine. After six months, my sleep patterns began to stabilise.
Later, I discovered the Hawaiian Ho’oponopono prayer: “I am sorry. Please forgive me. Thank you. I love you.” I recited this each night, not as an apology to him, but as a message to the younger versions of myself who had done the very best she could under unimaginable circumstances.
While the abuse didn’t cease entirely – it merely transmuted into systemic abuse – I underwent a profound transformation. I became more grounded, calmer, and clearer. The initial funding from the Victims Support Scheme for psychology sessions proved ineffective; I was still firmly entrenched in survival mode, too overwhelmed and unsafe to truly absorb any therapeutic insights. However, last year, when I received a second allocation of sessions, everything had changed. With established boundaries, a measure of rest, and a degree of stability, therapy finally yielded the transformative results it couldn’t before.
Five years ago, I felt utterly broken. Three years ago, the prospect of a life free from pain seemed unimaginable. Today, I experience more good days than bad. Grief and triggers still surface, but they no longer hold dominion over me. I approach them with a newfound softness, recovering more swiftly. My boundaries are more robust, and my life is demonstrably safer and calmer.
I am not “healed,” but I am most certainly healing. And that, for now, is enough.
When women inquire about how to embark on their own healing journeys, I offer this advice:
- You do not need a lavish retreat in Bali.
- You do not need to implement perfect, elaborate routines.
- You do not require significant financial resources.
What you truly need are small, consistent acts of self-respect – tiny, deliberate steps repeated until they guide you back to yourself.
You are not broken.
You are not to blame.
Listen to [PODCAST NAME – INSERT HERE, e.g. ‘This Is Why We Fight’] real-life therapy podcast.
Leaving an abusive situation is not an endpoint; it is a beginning. The system may not always provide the safety net you expect, and time alone will not magically mend all wounds. However, healing is an attainable reality, even after enduring decades of abuse and navigating years of institutional failures.
If you find yourself in the midst of such a struggle, please hear this:
You are not alone.
Start where you are. Start small. Just start.
Feature image: Canva.
