The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places. –Ernest Hemingway

I have always wanted to be one of those really deep, thoughtful writers that moves people. I wanted to write things that changed people’s minds; to create fragments of life that made individuals stop and really think for a moment. I wanted to write words so insightful that upon reading them, a person’s mind would fully open and allow them to become more accepting, more willing to change. I wanted to be able to soften up those hardened hearts, to remind others of what is truly important, and to spread awareness for those causes I deemed vital to our success as a human race. To steal a quote from a dear friend of mine, also named Kate, I truly wanted to be that change I desired to see in the world.

I have always wanted to be one of those people incessantly losing sleep because their minds were always so busy working. The dark circles under my eyes, stacks of paper all over my office, and a bottle of Jameson in my desk drawer blatant evidence of a writer who is successful. A writer who has enabled people to genuinely feel and learn more about themselves. A writer who has stirred things up and gotten individuals talking.

The truth is that I have a voice. And I have always wanted to be heard.

I have a story, a history, a place from whence I came. I always felt that if people, both men and women, had really taken a chance to listen to this story, they could learn from it. But with all the advances of today, with that chronic, insatiable need to be satisfied, we are a world of IPhones and social media. We are a society that can order frozen, ready-made pizzas with the click of a button, via our new and improved Dominoes app. We are a society that Pins our ideas instead of actually following through with them. We are a world that shames women for abuse; that forgives NFL players for knocking out their wives in an elevator because hey, they’re great athletes. Instead of shaming the abuser for this absolutely disgusting and inexcusable behavior, we criticize his wife because hey, she’s the one that stayed with him.            

This kind of world, this kind of insensitive mentality infuriates me. It absolutely infuriates me because I don’t understand it. And because of this, friends, because of all of this, I always kept my story hidden save for a selected audience because no one wants to hear those stories. No one wants to read something that could move them; we will watch “Ray Rice knocks out Wife in one punch” over and over again but we refuse to stand up and be a voice.

Well today, I am that voice. I am your voice. Because I’m tired of hiding. I’m exhausted of pretending like any of this is acceptable. I will never condone violence and I will no longer remain silent. 

You held me down, but I got up. Get ready cause I’ve had enough. –Kate Perry, Roar

A few weeks ago, I had the absolute pleasure of being featured in a popular blog spotlighting survivors of domestic violence. At first, I was so nervous because I was thinking to myself: This is the real deal. She runs this amazing prestigious website that celebrates real, inspiring women who have survived domestic violence. To be honest, I was unsure if I was even good enough to be a part of all the amazing things that she does on a daily basis. I am so inspired by her; I was so honored that she even thought to include me in her ever popular #SurvivorStories. Then I realized: This is exactly what I’m supposed to do. This is precisely where I’m supposed to be. My whole goal in life is to spread awareness, to draw attention to how frequently domestic violence happens, how crazy the statistics are, and how much we can do to help. 

But despite all the amazing things I knew this spotlight could do, I was worried. A tiny part of me was concerned about what people would think. Would my co-workers, who knew nothing of my story, start judging me as a victim? Would the people in my life now, the people who only know the happily married woman who went to social work school, think of me as some sad, basket case that was once apparently some firefighter’s punching bag? Would all the work I’ve done to recreate my life be undone once everyone really knew what had happened to me in my early twenties? Would they still see me as myself or would I morph into some tragic victim who couldn’t escape her past?

And the people who were there when all of this happened, the people who are still in contact with my abuser: what would they make of all of this recent publicity? Would they side with him? Would they take pity on me? And did any of that even matter? And then suddenly it hit me: What if he reads it? How would it make him feel? And what sort of things would he have to say about it to those few mutual friends we still have?

I had to keep reminding myself that none of that mattered, that there was only one goal in doing this. This exciting display of my writing, this honor I felt to share my story, it wasn’t about me. It was never about me. 

My nervousness turned into excitement and pride because I realized that by taking this giant step, by opening myself up to so many people, I was touching lives. Kate would text me with hourly updates, exhibiting the kind of passion I wish I had. “1,300 people reached!” she would say. Suddenly all of my fears dissipated because I was reaching people. I was helping people. I was showing them that they aren’t alone. 

What moved me the most was the amount of people that seemed to just crawl out of the woodwork. Some of them wrote me to tell me how proud they were of me for telling my story, how supportive they were of me and how I had completely changed their outlook on the domestic violence. Some of them wrote me to tell me that they too were a victim of domestic violence, and were there any words of advice I could offer them to ease their weariness? Some of them wrote me to say that they had no idea I had gone through any of this and were moved to read my story. It was all amazing feedback and immediately, I knew I had done the right thing. I was taking an enormous step in the right direction. I was fighting the good fight. I was spreading awareness. 

A woman is like a teabag: You can’t tell how strong she is until you put her in hot water. –Eleanor Roosevelt 

To be honest, I never liked that word “survivor”. It sort of always made me think of people coming back from some sort of inoperable cancer. I always felt that it labeled me as a weakling, like some struggling bird that never learned to fly. I never wanted people to feel sorry for me; I never wanted them to see me as an extension of my ex-boyfriend. I didn’t want them to see me as this pathetic victim that somehow “survived” her horrible ex-boyfriend. Because the truth is, I’m so much more than that. 

I was not beaten down by my struggle. I was made better because of it. I wasn’t afraid to move on; I just didn’t know how I could. I was worried that I would never find someone to love me but it was because I hadn’t yet learned to love myself. I found strength in the struggle and I learned so many things. 

Maybe I was a victim once but that period is over. I’m not fragile and pathetic, I’m strong and motivated. And yes, I am a survivor but I like to view myself as more of a conqueror. I think I rather like that word better. I conquered that life and I’m empowered. 

I’m better than yesterday.  

Moral of the Crazy: Upon reading my Survivor Story, my dad wrote me to tell me that he had no idea what had happened with my abuser and felt some responsibility in its happening. As a father, I imagine that he takes the heat in anything bad that happens to his children and to be honest, I felt guilty that he felt that way. But I tried to tell myself that it was because he’s my dad; he knew me from the moment I was born and made it his life's work to provide for me and my sister, to protect us from all those evil things that flit around the world infecting the innocent. 

I kept reading and saw the following: I loved reading your story but I would also love to hear about all the good things in your life. I read it and reread it. I realized that truer words have never been spoken. The biggest part of all of this work is recovery. What was I doing to show my audience how far I’ve come?

This past weekend I went to an event hosted by Kate Berlin of Purple(Dot)Yoga Project at the Green Bench Brewing Co. I have never felt more ennobled or empowered. I sat there, on my borrowed yoga mat, attempting to find my center despite all of the excitement buzzing around me. I was in a garden, the sun warm and golden on my face, and I was surrounded by people just like me. I was with people who are supportive of domestic violence awareness, people who want to make a change in the world, and people who have been in situations just like mine. They were all there to spread love and awareness, to share their stories and to find peace throughout their journeys to a better society.

There was this amazing woman there, this woman whose story is in papers and on websites. She is beautiful, resilient and strong. I found myself left completely rapt by her, singing her praises all afternoon and the next day at work. This woman nearly died and that day she stood in front of me, empowered and doing so many great things. She had publicly forgiven her abuser and had made the choice to soar brilliantly through life, doing all things in her power to stand up against domestic violence. This woman, this tiny little person with an enormous story to tell, had taught me more in twenty minutes than I learned in two years of Social Work school.

I looked at my husband sitting on a mat beside me, out of his element doing yoga for the first time. He grabbed my hand and a tear rolled down his cheek. (And don’t tell him I said so; it’ll be our secret.) This is the toughest man I have ever met and he had never been more moved. No experience had ever warmed his heart more. “When he [the man leading the class, Mike Fecht] told me to think of something that made me grateful, I thought of you,” he smiled at me. 

And so here it is. Here is my happy ending, friends: 

I would like to say that it comes naturally, that the tendency to fight back and thrive in life is something you just wake up with. Sometimes it is, I suppose; and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it takes work and support. Sometimes people need help and they need each other. It can take so much effort to realize that not every person will treat you terribly. It can also take an enormous amount of effort to wake up one day and decide to love yourself. Because the realization that no one is going to love you until you love yourself is incredibly startling, but it’s true.

Every day isn’t like a Nora Ephron novel but you’ve got to start somewhere. I always say that my husband saved my life because the truth is that he really did. But at the same time, I literally woke up one day and decided I wasn’t going to be in an abusive situation anymore. I won’t say it happened overnight because it seemed to string on for years. But one day, I just grew exhausted of it. It was never easy and it was always scary but when I made the biggest, most important change in my life, I felt like I could finally breathe. I was no longer gasping for air.

The last seven years have felt like Christmas. Every day is better and warmed than the last. It’s like I blink and a year has passed. And there I was, so busy enjoying it, I barely even noticed it blew by. When I think about what my life was like or what it could have been like, I feel like I’m looking back at a different person. That girl isn’t me anymore. I don’t even recognize her. And maybe, like Melissa Dohme mentioned (Please, PLEASE Google her. She is AMAZINGGG.), God spared me for a reason.  

“… and now let go of that thing or that person, but hold onto the gratitude.” –Mike Fecht

(And also: An ENORMOUS thank you to Kate Berlin and Purple(Dot)Yoga project for featuring my story, bringing it some light, and continuing to inspire me every day. You’re doing great things and I appreciate you.)