We met at the gym where we both worked. I was the Social Media and Marketing Manager, gearing up to start my graduate program and get my personal training certification. He was the trainer and assistant fitness manager. No one ever tells you that the person you go on a first date with could turn into a monster. And no one tells you that someone who says they love you might also hurt you. But that’s exactly how my story unfolded. I met him in 2011 and dated him through 2013. At first, it seemed like any normal relationship, the kind full of small joys and shared routines. But slowly, the cracks appeared, and the relationship began to cycle through patterns of abuse. Nothing I did was ever right—my cooking, my cleaning, my weight management, even my intelligence. I was smart, but never “smart enough” for him.
When he hit me the first time, I fought back like an animal. Until he slammed my head into the floor so violently that I had to make a choice: keep fighting or choose life. I chose life. It’s surreal how your brain reacts in those moments—the sheer shock and disbelief make you compartmentalize, forcing you to keep going. I learned to cover up bruises with makeup, fix my hair, and show up to events as if everything was fine. We even attended a wedding, and by the end of the night, I found myself apologizing for “causing” his anger.
If you had met me then, you would never have imagined I would stay in an abusive relationship. I was independent, outspoken, and resilient. Yet I was the one making excuses, trying to fix things, and even co-signing for his sports car—an entanglement he used as another tool of control, threatening to ruin my credit if I didn’t comply. After the second incident of violence, I filed a restraining order, but financial abuse kept me tethered to him. He missed payments on the car, and I was left scrambling to cover the bills, pleading for his minimal assistance.
Thanksgiving night of 2013 was the most terrifying. He showed up at my house, and from that moment until 11 a.m. the next day, I feared for my life. He threatened to harm my dogs, duct-tape me, and burn down my parents’ house while they slept inside. By some miracle, I survived that night. I covered bruises with makeup, fixed my hair, and showed up to a family gathering pretending to be fine. It took ten agonizing days before I called the police and finally saw him locked in a jail cell—the justice he had earned.
That Christmas was tense, spent navigating lawyers, police, and the car dealership, while obsessively checking my yard for anything that might harm my dogs. During the court case, I discovered he had been abusing two other women, both of whom pressed charges. He had been a pattern of abuse since he was 17, and I helped support the other victims while continuing to fight my own case. After over a year of legal battles, his guilty plea led to a brief incarceration—two months behind bars. Recovery wasn’t linear. Therapy helped, but I also numbed myself with drinking and partying, desperately searching for love and acceptance in all the wrong places. Eventually, I realized I needed to care for myself in healthier ways, to face my anxiety and depression, and to reclaim the life that had been stolen from me.
I returned to the gym, this time for myself. I started deadlifting because I was afraid—afraid I might encounter him again, afraid I wouldn’t be strong enough to protect myself. Lifting became more than survival; it became empowerment. When I realized I could deadlift my own body weight, fear began to fade. I pushed further, and now at 126 pounds, I can lift 300 pounds. That strength, that resilience, is mine—untouchable by anyone else.
A year and a half ago, I made a choice to turn my passion into purpose. I left marketing behind and opened my own gym, Tequila & Deadlifts, to help others find strength, confidence, and self-love. I focus on in-service workers—teachers, social workers, and others—offering affordable personal training and a safe space to release stress. The gym has not only saved me from some of my darkest moments but has given my life meaning. Between bartending and training, I average 80-hour weeks, but every single day is worth it. I am no longer defined by fear or abuse; I am defined by strength, resilience, and the ability to lift not just weights, but myself, and others, to a better life.
