Breaking Free: My Journey from Control to Courage

Some relationships don’t work out, and for those who can end things peacefully and amicably, they are indeed the lucky ones. Today, we hear more about the concept of co-parenting, but despite how smart children are these days, studies show that they are also the most emotionally vulnerable. Mental health issues weren’t as openly acknowledged in the past, but now, we know how devastating they can be, not just for adults but for our children too.

Today, I want to share a deeply personal story to emphasize that mental health is not something to take lightly. You never know when you might find yourself in a situation where someone you trust turns out to be emotionally or mentally unstable. In my case, I wish I had recognized the signs earlier.

I had a platonic friend for about three years, who was the roommate of my childhood friend. That childhood friend later became the father of my first child, but he left for the United States, and I never heard from him again. When I became a single mom, this friend, who had always been around, started pursuing me relentlessly. He even said he was willing to step in as a father to my son and would pick me up from work every day. Looking back, I now realize that this was what people refer to as "love bombing." My colleagues encouraged me to give him a chance, but I never felt the same way. I went on a few dates with him to appease them, but I always made it clear that my answer would be no.

Then, I got a job offer in my hometown and I told him I was leaving the city for good, taking my son with me. That’s when everything took a dark turn. He showed up at my place the following day, drunk, and in that moment, everything I thought I knew about him shattered. He violated my trust, forcing me into something I never consented to. It was like time froze—I couldn’t believe this was happening, not from someone I once called a friend. Having already been a victim of harassment as a child and ignored back then, I found myself retreating into denial again. I tried to downplay it, telling myself it was just sex, trying to make sense of it in a way that didn’t break me completely. But deep down, I knew it was so much more than that—it was betrayal, pain, and confusion all rolled into one.

Seven weeks later, I found out I was pregnant. I told him, and I’ll never forget the look on his face. Come to think of it, I just realized that It wasn’t joy. It was a dark, malicious sort of victory, as though he knew he had trapped me for life. He promised to take care of me and said that his family would welcome me. He vowed to fill the void left by my ex, and I, being alone in the city with no family around, believed him. I became part of his family, but that’s when the nightmare truly began.

I remained in denial about what he had done. He told me he had acted out of love. And, being someone who had grown up feeling neglected and abandoned, I desperately wanted to believe him. I had deep-seated father issues, and his false promises of security and love ensnared me.

Around this time, I got an incredible opportunity—a chance to co-found an IT company. I started with just one employee, but the business quickly grew. As it expanded, he pressured me to bring him into the company, reminding me that he was more technical than me and my business partner. Reluctantly, I vouched for him, and he obtained a director position in the company.

That’s when my life became unbearable.

He grew more abusive—physically, emotionally, mentally. Yet every Sunday, we would go to church. He would read the Bible and even quote scripture with ease. Raised in an elite Catholic school, he seemed the perfect image of a moral man. But religion, upbringing—none of it guarantees a person will turn out good. Mental health does not discriminate, and at the time, I had no understanding of narcissism or what I was really dealing with.

I endured all of this because I clung to one hope—to keep the family intact. I wanted my kids to have a father figure, to grow up with a sense of stability and an extended family, disregarding how I was treated. I convinced myself that was more important than my own happiness. Deep down, I feared that if it was just me and my kids, we wouldn’t have a home, that I couldn’t give them the life they deserved on my own. So, I stayed, even as I slowly lost myself in the process.

It was completely opposite to who I truly was on the outside. To everyone else, I was strong, independent, and confident—a woman who had her life together. But inside those four walls, I felt small and powerless. I lived a lie, telling myself that if I could just hold on a little longer, things would get better. But the truth was, I was losing parts of myself every day, sacrificing my own peace just to keep up the illusion of a “complete” family. It was a battle between my love for my kids and the growing realization that I was teaching them to settle for less than they deserve, just as I had.

On the outside, I held a high position at work, and with that came certain expectations. I was supposed to be strong, capable, and in control. So, I hid my suffering behind a mask of professionalism. No one knew what was really happening in my personal life—how much of myself I was losing day by day. Behind closed doors, he had taken complete control of my finances. I wasn’t allowed to make decisions, not even to use my own credit cards without his permission. He gave me a monthly small allowance, while constantly reminding me of my supposed incompetence. Every chance he got, he belittled me, making me feel small and insignificant.

When we bought an SUV, he wouldn’t let me drive it even if the finances were coming from my efforts. He told me I was too stupid, that I had no sense of direction, and made me believe that I wasn’t even capable of handling something as basic as driving. His words crushed me, and with every insult, I felt myself shrinking, losing pieces of who I used to be. He kept me in the dark about so many things—bank accounts, bills, decisions—anything that gave him power over me. I was left feeling trapped, powerless, and completely dependent on him, although, to the world, I appeared to have it all together. The disconnect between the person I was on the outside and the broken person I felt on the inside was suffocating.

Then, he proposed marriage. I couldn’t believe it. How could I marry someone who had hurt me so deeply, someone who had abused me in every way? But he announced our engagement to the world, and I had to play along while secretly looking for ways to delay the wedding. His family saw me as a charity case, a woman he had "rescued" despite my baggage, and I was treated as if I were fortunate to have him.

After nearly 10 years of living without a voice, and without an identity, I found myself wishing for death. Then, things at our company worsened. There were serious complaints about his behavior at work, and because I had vouched for him, I decided to make a graceful exit. We both stepped down from our roles, but I left with only one client to keep us going. I needed to apply for another job to continue pursuing my passion for leadership, something I had completely lost control of at home.

As the wedding date approached, he pressured me relentlessly. Even his family got involved, pushing me to go through with it. But I finally gathered the courage to say no. I ended our relationship, knowing the backlash would be severe, but at that point, I no longer cared. My life had already been destroyed.

For three months, he tried to win me back. He returned the SUV, bought me expensive shoes, handed over my credit cards, and began love-bombing me all over again. But this time, it was a hard no. I had found my strength. And when he realized I wouldn’t come back, he turned vicious. He sued me for theft, fraud—anything he could think of to ruin me. He withheld child support, making it clear that he would use any method to make me suffer. His family, with their resources and connections, stood by him, supporting his every move.

He didn’t stop there. He began posting malicious comments about me on social media, tarnishing my reputation. He even told our kids that I was unfit to be their mother, attempting to poison their minds against me. Even after we broke up, the attacks continued. He filed charges against me, vowing that he would never let me live in peace. His torment escalated when he offered a chilling ultimatum: he would stop everything if I agreed to come back to him.

But I had made my choice. I chose myself. I chose my children. I chose freedom.

I reached out to one of his close family members, desperate for answers, and she confirmed what I had long suspected—he may be mentally ill. Part of me wanted to feel compassion, to rationalize his behavior through that lens. After all, I’ve always been a strong advocate for mental health, especially as a mother of children who face their own challenges. But even as I held space for that understanding, I also felt the weight of my own suffering. There’s a limit to how much empathy you can have for someone who has tormented and abused you.

How do you forgive someone who seems to lack any conscience? It’s like trying to find humanity in a void. He never showed remorse for the damage he caused—financially, emotionally, and psychologically. And that’s the hardest part. I wanted to forgive for my own peace, but how do you heal from scars that still burn, especially when the person who inflicted them shows no regret? It’s a constant battle between my empathy and my self-preservation.

Even now, I can’t let my guard down. Every time I start to feel like I’m rebuilding, there’s always this looming sense that he could attack again, in some form—through words, actions, or manipulation. I have to stay vigilant, because with someone like him, it feels like the war is never truly over.

Closing Thoughts:

Mental health is a serious issue, and it can affect anyone, regardless of how they were raised or what their outward appearance may suggest. But that doesn’t mean you have to stay in a toxic, abusive relationship out of empathy or fear. I learned the hard way that sometimes, the strongest thing you can do is walk away, even when the world is telling you to stay.

For those reading this who feel trapped, I hope you find the courage to break free. You are stronger than you think. You are worthy of love, but most importantly, you are worthy of respect. And never forget, your story isn’t over—it’s just beginning. For those who find it easy to say "Just leave"—if you haven’t lived through the trauma, you don’t understand how disorienting it can be. In an abusive environment, your thoughts aren’t always clear or rational, and that’s why many women stay for so many complex reasons. So please, be kind. Don’t judge those who are still trapped in these situations. The best way to help is through empathy and offering support, empowering them to find their own voice and strength. That’s why I created The Mother Boss platform—to help women reclaim their power.