Ten years ago, I seemed to have it all. A beautiful home, a fancy BMW, and a long-term relationship with a handsome, successful man everyone admired. From the white picket fence to the floral front garden, our life looked perfect. On the outside, I had it all.
But behind those carefully curated walls, I was broken. I was trapped.
For four long years, I lived in a nightmare of domestic abuse, constantly walking on eggshells, terrified of the man I had once loved. The boy I met at a local ice cream parlor when I was sixteen—the one who charmed me with attention, humor, and promises—had grown into a controlling, manipulative abuser. While the world saw a charming, enigmatic man, behind closed doors, he tore me down piece by piece. I battled a trauma-induced eating disorder and watched my confident self disappear. I was drowning in silence.
When we first met, I was shy and awed that someone like him could notice me. He noticed my vulnerability, and we bonded over shared loves—comedy shows, travel, little adventures. Our connection was instant, intense, and moving very fast. I was in love; he was my first love. Those early years were happy and full of promise.
But after we married and bought our house, everything changed. The man I fell in love with vanished. In his place stood someone sarcastic, disapproving, and cruel. Behind our closed front door, the kindness and charm I once adored were gone—perhaps they had never truly existed.
Control became the heartbeat of our relationship. Every aspect of my life was dictated—what I wore, when I came home, who I could speak to, even what I ate. He monitored me, mocked me, and criticized me relentlessly. While some abuse was physical—like Chinese burns for touching his phone—the majority was coercive control, the kind that slowly erodes a person’s soul. There were fleeting moments of kindness, which kept me clinging to hope, desperately trying to bring back the man I had loved.
He worked hard to destroy my ambitions. My love for dance, my true passion, became a source of shame in his eyes. The very thing that once drew him to me was now forbidden. “You want to dance more than you want to care for me?” he’d sneer. “With all those men watching you in leotards?” Yet my dreams could not be silenced. Ballet was my refuge, the only space where I could feel alive, free, and fully myself.
To survive, I lived two lives. I hid my leotards and shoes in my car, sneaking away to classes when he was out or distracted. I even got a job at my local church, using the hall to practice in secret. I danced until exhaustion, lying on the cold floor afterward, gathering my breath and escaping, if only for a little while, from the nightmare that awaited me at home.
But the pain was relentless. My mental health suffered, and my eating disorder worsened, fueled by the desperate need for his approval. When I lost weight and gained praise, it was fleeting comfort, quickly replaced by criticism. Nights were often spent curled up under the bed, sobbing silently, panic attacks gripping me, wondering if I’d ever escape.
One summer night, clinging to the last fragments of hope, I begged him to take a drive with me. I thought maybe, just maybe, away from the house, I could reach the man I had loved. I dressed carefully, applied my makeup, and stepped into the car clutching my dignity and faith in him. Hours later, that hope was shattered. In a furious outburst, I was thrown from the car, bleeding and alone, my belongings scattered across the road.
But fate intervened. A kind stranger found me and called the police. That night marked the beginning of my rescue. I never returned to that house except with police support to gather a few belongings. I would never sleep in that bed again. I was finally free.
The aftermath was painful. PTSD, depression, and suicidal thoughts haunted me for years. But dance remained my anchor. It was my healing, my voice, and my way back to myself. Slowly, I rebuilt my life, carving a path forward despite the emotional scars and the long, expensive legal battles that followed.
Eventually, I achieved my dream. For seven years, I performed professionally as a dancer and aerialist around the world—in circus arenas, tours, cabarets, French galas, music videos, and film. I taught others to dance, sharing joy and inspiration through movement. I had finally claimed the life I had fought to protect in secret for so long.
Today, I am a public speaker and relationship educator, helping young people understand healthy relationships and recognize abuse before it escalates. I have also found love again, with a kind, gentle partner who supports my dreams and lifts me up.
No one should fear for their life in their own home. Domestic violence is never love. Everyone deserves respect, kindness, and safety. I am living proof that recovery, resilience, and hope are possible—and I share my story so others know that they too can find freedom, joy, and a life they deserve.
