From Struggle to Strength: My Journey of Transformation

Relationships are odd.

They have a way of taking your mind to strange and wonderful places. They make you see the world through new eyes; shift your perspective on things you never thought would change.

Your world transforms.

Sometimes for the better — and sometimes, not so much.

I spent the first five or so years of my relationship believing my world was wonderful.

I had everything I thought I was supposed to want love, care, a beautiful circle of friends, a new baby, family.

Life seemed as it was meant to be.

And yet… there was something missing inside me — something I couldn’t quite name.

I put it down to postnatal depression and tried to move forward, telling myself it was normal.

As time passed, the cracks began to show — small at first, like tiny fractures beneath the surface.

What once felt like love started to feel like control.

What once felt like safety started to feel like walking on glass.

I began assessing moods, movements, tones.

Love and care were still there, but woven into them were threads of control, fear, and quiet withdrawal.

We had four beautiful children together. My reasons for waking up on the days where I wanted to hide away.

He longed for a boy — and when that wish was fulfilled, it seemed, for a while, that our world was complete.

But underneath the joy, something was shifting.

I put my focus into being the best mother I could be, believing that love and effort could hold everything together.

If anything, the expectations grew heavier.

I wasn’t just carrying myself anymore — I was carrying a family, a relationship, and a man’s version of happiness on my back.

I made excuses. For his moods. For his temper.

For the way I felt smaller every time I tried to stand tall.

The sadness I once thought was postnatal depression deepened into something heavier — a quiet knowing that no matter how much love I gave, it would never be enough to fix what was broken.

Still, I stayed.

But I refused to see it.

Because seeing it would have meant admitting that the life I built — the life I fought for — wasn’t safe.

And that was too terrifying to face.

So, I smiled.

I posted the happy photos.

I said I was just tired.

I blamed the chaos of motherhood.

I swallowed my sadness and called it sacrifice.

And inside, quietly, I was disappearing.

Healing didn’t come easy.

It wasn’t clean or graceful.

It was messy. Exhausting.

I never once wanted to go back.

I knew the life I left wasn’t one I ever wanted to relive.

But leaving didn’t mean he let go.

He was relentless — finding new ways to invade my peace long after I walked away.

Technology became another weapon.

The calls.

The messages.

The monitoring.

Trying to break me down from a distance, to remind me that escape didn’t mean freedom.

Some days it felt like I was fighting battles no one else could see. Fighting for silence. Fighting for breath.

But even through the exhaustion, I kept going.

Not because it was easy — but because the alternative was losing myself all over again, and I refused to let that happen.

I found my survival in small places:

In the rhythm of a crochet hook. In creating beauty when the world around me still felt ugly.

In finding tiny scraps of peace and stitching them into something real.

Each day, each decision to hold my ground, was an act of rebellion.

An act of defiance.

An act of becoming.

I wasn’t just healing — I was building a life he could never touch again.

Today, I stand taller — not because life magically healed me, but because I built myself back from the ground up.

There are still scars.

There are still moments when the past whispers.

But they don’t control me anymore.

I know who I am now. I know what I survived.

And I know that no one gets to write my story for me ever again.

I found pieces of myself in the places he tried to destroy — in my voice, in my motherhood, in my creativity.

I turned my healing into something bigger than myself.

I built Crocheted Hope as a way to take everything I lived through and stitch it into something that matters.

Not just survival.

Not just silence.

Hope.

Real, stubborn, unbreakable hope.

For every woman still fighting in the dark.

For every soul still trying to remember who they are.

For the girl I used to be.

I’m not the same person I was back then.

I’m stronger.

I’m louder.

I’m free.

And this time — my life is mine.

“They tried to bury me. They didn’t know I was a seed.”

— Mexican Proverb