I was scared to leave, but I was more scared to stay.

For years, I wrestled with two fears—the fear of leaving and the fear of staying. And for a long time, the fear of leaving felt so much bigger.

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

I knew the monster we lived with. I’d seen his rage, his ruthlessness. I knew there was nothing he wouldn’t say or do when he was angry. I didn’t know how he would behave once I left. Would things get worse? How would I co-parent with someone like that?

He was a diagnosed narcissist, and we had tried therapy. But therapy only worked until the responsibility landed on his shoulders—until he couldn’t charm his way out of the truth of his ugly behavior.

That fear and the lack of support I felt from the law kept me with him. If I left, the system would give him 50% custody, no matter how terrifying he was. At least if I stayed, I could be there to defend my kids. I might get really hurt, but wasn’t it my primary responsibility to keep them safe?

So I stayed. And I endured.

But the truth is, staying came at a cost.

I lived in constant fear of his rage. I dissociated from the reality of my life, compartmentalizing the worst moments so I could survive. I didn’t have any boundaries—I didn’t even know what boundaries were. He could do just about anything to me, and I felt powerless to stop it.

Looking back now, I see how much of that fear was rooted in my childhood. My dad wasn’t home very much, but when he was, he could be charismatic, warm, and funny—until he wasn’t. The tides would shift without warning, and I’d feel the storm rolling in. I’d think, Oh no, no, no, stop, stop! What can I do to switch it back? But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t.

I remember my mom telling me, “Jennifer, if you just didn’t… (fill in the blank),” or, “Jennifer, your timing is just awful.” when I tried to stand up for myself or talk to my mom about how hurt I was… Somehow, it was always on me. My mom even suggested that my dad took his frustration and anger out on me because I was "strong enough to take it." Those messages shaped how I saw myself and my relationships for years.

When I met my first husband, I felt like I had known him forever—like I was “home” in his energy. Now, I feel such sadness for the younger me who mistook that familiarity for safety. But another part of me knows this was my Dharma, my path. I had to learn the hard way how to choose myself and stop allowing others to treat me that way.

The turning point came when my youngest son called 911. At that moment, he showed me something I hadn’t been able to see clearly: he knew this was wrong. He knew how to get to safety. It was like he was holding up a mirror and saying, If I can choose safety, why can’t you?

That was the moment I started planning my escape.

I chose me.

For the first time, I chose safety, peace, and the possibility of a better life—for my kids and for myself.

The Hardest Lesson I’ve Ever Learned

Leaving wasn’t easy. It meant unlearning years of conditioning that told me my worth was tied to how much I could endure. It meant facing a system that often fails to protect survivors. And it meant confronting the fear of the unknown—of how he would react, of how I would co-parent with him, of what life might look like once I stepped into the unknown.

But here’s what I’ve learned: Fear can be a powerful motivator for change.

The fear of staying—of continuing to lose myself, of teaching my children that this was normal—finally became bigger than the fear of leaving. And when that shift happened, everything changed.

If you’re in a situation where you feel stuck, I want you to know this: You are not alone. You are not powerless. You deserve safety, peace, and joy. Fear is natural, but don’t let it keep you from taking the first step toward yourself.

You are stronger than you think.

With love and hope,

Jen Day