(thank you for the pain that taught me my worth)

You always made me feel like I was the problem, too emotional, too much.
I questioned my sanity after every argument, convinced it was me.
That I wasn’t understanding enough.
That I wasn’t loving enough.
That my expectations were too high.
That needing affection, connection, and touch from my husband somehow made me unreasonable.

You were this dream I had built up in my head for so long
the promise of a family, a place to prove that I was strong,
that I was worth loving,
that I wasn’t your ex.
That I wasn’t too young, too naive to be a wife.
To be a mother.

So I stayed.
Even when the affection disappeared.
Even when I felt like I was begging to be noticed.
Even when I felt like a ghost in my own home.
Even when I wasn’t being hurt directly by you,
you let it happen around me.
Not once or twice, but throughout our entire relationship.
You told me to turn the other cheek.
That we shouldn’t give that person power.
But that wasn’t strength that was abandonment.
You didn’t protect me.
I wasn’t safe with you.
And I wasn’t safe from you.
Or from the people you let near me.
I kept telling myself this was love.
That staying meant loyalty.
That leaving meant failure.

I asked you to get help.
You said nothing was wrong.
And I was too afraid to admit that maybe everything was.

I didn’t want to let go of all of it
not just you, but the kids, the house, the future I thought we were building.
I wasn’t just holding onto a marriage.
I was holding onto an illusion.
One where I could fix what I didn’t break.

I remember the day in the car.
You always drove fast when we argued, like scaring me gave you back control.
But that day, when you almost flipped us, something shifted.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
Just a deep, quiet knowing: this isn’t okay.
In that moment, it felt like my life didn’t matter to you.
Like proving a point was more important than keeping me safe.
And I knew
if I didn’t leave, I would lose myself completely.

And I’ll never forget the last day
the one that plays in my head like a movie in slow motion.
You barged in while I was sick in bed and picked a fight.
I told you I had a work opportunity something that would help with the mounting financial pressure I alone was holding
and you twisted it.
You called me selfish.
Said I didn’t care about you or the kids.

That was the final snap.
Because if I could be trying my hardest to support all of you
emotionally, financially, constantly
and still be told that I was selfish for even trying to grow,
then nothing I did would ever be enough.
And maybe, in that moment, I finally realized the truth:
the problem wasn’t me.

I can still see the way you got in my face.
Told me to fuck off.
Told me I never loved you.
Told me I only ever thought about myself.
As if I hadn’t spent five years of my life giving everything I had to make you and your kids feel loved.

I remember packing a bag.
Saying maybe I just needed space.
And I remember you saying, without flinching,
“If you walk out that door, we’re getting a divorce.”

And I felt it
a flicker.
Not fear.
Freedom.

I don’t know if it was adrenaline, or if it was the version of me I’d buried for so long finally rising
but I didn’t cower.
I didn’t apologize.
I didn’t try to fix it.
I walked out.

I wasn’t just walking out on you.
I was walking out on everything I had built around you.
The home. The dream. The version of me who kept trying.
And the church  the place I had been for ten years.
Because I knew if I stayed there, I wouldn’t be able to stay gone.
So I left that too.
I had to say goodbye to my community.
My friends.
My family.
All of it.

And I carried all the weight on the drive to my parents’ house.
I cried the whole way.
Not because I regretted it.
But because I knew I wasn’t going back.

Because if I hadn’t left,
I wouldn’t have learned that I was worth more.
I wouldn’t have learned that I could choose.

And I did choose.
I chose myself.
I chose to heal.
I chose a life where I didn’t have to earn love by suffering.

Looking back now, I know you were just an unhealed person doing what you knew.
You and I were both shaped by something bigger
a system that taught us what love was supposed to look like.
One that told women their role was to submit, to obey, to endure.
And one that told men they were owed something for being chosen.
This, and your past that haunted you
I can see now that maybe you were just trying to have control in a life where you hadn’t had much of it.

I believe that at some point, you truly did love me.
Because while there were a lot of bad times, there were good ones too.
I fell in love with you for a reason.
Those things are still true.
And none of that makes it okay that I spent years feeling small, afraid, and unseen even when I was doing everything I could to be loved.
But I understand now.
And I’ve forgiven you, without letting go of what was real.

I’m grateful for you  not for the pain, but for the things you taught me.
How to listen to my gut.
How to stop chasing love that has to be earned.
How to finally choose myself.
And that I deserve to be heard, and loved, and chosen too.

I hope you’re well.
I hope you’re happy.
I hope you’ve found peace in whatever way you deserve.
And I hope you’ve found real love  the kind that meets you where you are.

I mean that.

~Ana