In 2008, I met my daughter’s father. It was young love, and I lost my virginity to him. At the time, I clung to the relationship, hoping that my devotion would make things work. He made me feel important, yet he had no patience for my emotions. Whenever I expressed myself or showed neediness, he would break up with me. I would call him endlessly, begging him to return. If he didn’t answer, I would go to his place, pleading for him to take me back.
The first time he put his hands on me was over something small—I wanted him to spend time with me instead of his friends. He pushed me so hard I fell. I should have walked away then, but I stayed, believing that my love could change him. Over time, the push turned to a slap, and the slap escalated to hitting my face, leaving my lip busted. I lied to my mom, saying I’d been bullied at school, and she believed me. Around 2012, when he became homeless, my parents let him stay with us because of his troubled past and my unwavering love. For a while, it seemed he was changing: he stopped hanging out with friends, went back to school, and found a job.
We thought things were stabilizing, so we moved out with his brother and his brother’s girlfriend. I became pregnant, and he lost his job. Old patterns returned—he hung out with friends again. One night, he came home accusing me, claiming the baby wasn’t his, and he struck my stomach. I left and went to my mom’s. She suggested I terminate the pregnancy, but I refused. I wanted to have my baby. A few days later, he begged me to come back. I loved him, so I did. Nine months later, our daughter was born.
Trouble continued with him and his brother, forcing us to return to my mom’s house. The abuse resurfaced as he demanded freedom to go out. One day, he failed to watch our daughter while I cooked, and she fell off the bed. He hit me so hard I ran to the kitchen for my dad to rescue me. I called the police, and he was arrested. After his release, he begged me to return, and I did. We spent nights in motels, searching for stability, until we finally found a studio. That’s when the abuse worsened.
Every day, he belittled and hit me, often in front of our daughter. Bruises covered my face, but I stayed. He isolated me from my family, only allowing them over reluctantly. On our daughter’s birthday, I wore a fake smile while my mom and siblings saw the damage he had done. A few days later, I called my mom, admitting I couldn’t endure it anymore. She encouraged me to hold on, and I tried, but the abuse escalated. One night, after returning home under the influence, he accused me of infidelity, struck my face, pistol-whipped me, and beat me with a fly swatter. I blocked as much as I could, but the violence never stopped. That night, terrified for my life and my daughter’s safety, I locked myself in the bathroom, dialed 911, and finally escaped with my daughter. He was arrested, and I never looked back.
In 2014, I entered another relationship—this time, not abusive, but still toxic. I mirrored the behaviors I had learned from my ex, struggling with insecurity and anger. I even spent a week in jail due to a domestic incident, missing my daughter terribly. Once released, I tried to remain friends with benefits with my ex while I worked on myself. In 2017, I met a man who truly changed my life. He helped me lose weight, heal old wounds, and see a world beyond my past trauma. But even this relationship had struggles. He dismissed my emotions, and I hid my needs to keep peace. Eventually, the negativity became unbearable, and I let him go for the sake of my well-being and my daughter.
Since then, I’ve devoted myself to self-improvement. I listen to motivational content, practice self-care, and work hard to break generational cycles of abuse. I’ve learned that my happiness and safety are my responsibility. From 2008 to 2019—over 11 years—I endured pain, heartbreak, and abuse, but I’ve emerged stronger, wiser, and more resilient. I now understand that the love I was searching for in others had to start with myself. Love yourself first, because at the end of the day, that’s all you truly have.
