I lied to everyone for almost 20 years.

For nearly two decades, I lived a lie. I smiled when I wanted to cry. I showed up at parties, laughing and joking, mere minutes after enduring pain no one could see. I told myself I was fine. I told others I was fine.

But I wasn’t fine.

Trigger Warning: This blog discusses emotional and verbal abuse. Please take care of yourself.

The first time something was thrown at me was the night before my wedding. I was standing near the front door, ready to leave after yet another argument, when something flew past me and smashed into the wall. In shock, I asked, “Did you just throw that at me?” He looked straight at me and said, “I threw it near you. If I wanted to hit you, I would have.”

In that moment, I knew what I should do. I should have turned left, walked out the door, and never looked back. But I didn’t. Everyone was already in town for the wedding. The parties were planned, the money spent, the dress was at my mom’s house. I told myself it was too late.

18 years later, I finally left.

Those 18 years were a mix of highs and lows, but they were all punctuated by holes in walls, things being thrown, screaming, and words used as projectiles. I stayed because I thought I could protect my kids. I stayed because I thought I was strong enough to endure it. I stayed because I didn’t believe I deserved better.

But one day, I realized something that shook me to my core: I was teaching my kids to accept this.

I have a photo of myself with my boys when they were 6 and 8. It was our first professional family photo session, scheduled weeks in advance. That morning, there was a blowout. He went after my eldest son until I stepped in and redirected the anger toward myself. Words were thrown. Things were broken.

Then, I took my boys to the session, pretending nothing had happened. I smiled for the camera as though my heart wasn’t breaking. When the photographer asked where my husband was, I lied and said he wasn’t feeling well.

The whole time, I thought to myself, This is it. I’m done. This isn’t fair to my kids. This isn’t fair to me.

I kicked him into the basement, made him promise to go to therapy, and scheduled an appointment with a lawyer. But when I sat down with her, I was told that Colorado law would give him 50% custody. I couldn’t prove anything—emotional and verbal abuse are hard to document.

So I stayed.

I rinsed and repeated the cycle for years, trying to find ways out, but the system failed me repeatedly. As a mandated reporter of abuse, I was obligated to report what was happening in my own home. But I couldn’t imagine leaving my kids alone with him, unable to step in when things got bad.

So I stayed. And I pretended.

Until one day, my youngest—12 years old at the time—saw something particularly ugly. He ran to a friend's house and called 911. At that moment, I wasn't ready to press charges, and I didn't have my exit plan in place, so I couldn’t press charges. Who would protect us when he got out?

That was the moment I decided: No more.

It wasn’t easy. The shame of hiding my truth for so long weighed heavily on me. The backlash from others who didn’t understand my decision was relentless. The system still felt stacked against me.

But walking away was the bravest thing I’ve ever done.

And here’s what I’ve learned: Choosing yourself and your safety is not selfish—it’s brave.

If you’re in a situation where you feel stuck, I want you to know that you’re not alone. I know how hard it is to leave when it feels like the world is against you. I know how hard it is to admit that something isn’t working.

But I also know this: You deserve peace. You deserve safety. You deserve joy.

And you are braver than you think.

With love,

Jen Day