I left an abusive marriage in 2014. And thus began my healing journey, too. For the longest time, I searched for the woman I left behind, but I could never find her. I was beginning to wonder if she was lost forever. Then I heard an excerpt from one of Carl Jung’s writings. He said, “Healing does not restore the former personality. It creates a new one.”
When we’ve been silenced or minimized, we often strive to return to the person we once were. Or how life was before it made us feel small. But that isn’t how true healing works.
It is like the caterpillar and the butterfly: we don’t return to our old form; we transform into something altogether new.
Something more beautiful.
Stop searching for your old self, looking for who you used to be; before the break-up, before the death, before the trauma Instead, watch the unfolding. Wait, and witness the beautiful soul you are becoming.
If you have followed along from the beginning, you have seen how these warning signs appeared again and again in my life. Not all at once. But slowly, consistently, and predictably.
This post is not about blame or judgment. And it is not about becoming hypervigilant or suspicious of everyone you meet.
It is about understanding why so many of us see danger and still stay, and how to begin recognizing red flags before they become traps.
Before I continue, I want to share that some names and identifying details in this series have been changed to protect privacy.
Most people think red flags are ignored because someone is naïve, desperate, or weak. That explanation is convenient but wrong.
We ignore red flags because familiar chaos often feels safer than unfamiliar peace. When instability, criticism, or emotional volatility have been part of your earlier life or relationships, your nervous system learns to treat them as normal. Calm does not feel safe. Calm feels suspicious.
Trauma also trains us to survive rather than to evaluate. In survival mode, you are not asking whether something is healthy. You are asking how to keep things from getting worse. Red flags do not disappear in that state. They just become background noise.
Hope plays a powerful role as well. Many people stay not because of who someone is, but because of who they were at the beginning or who they promise to become. Hope edits reality. It highlights potential and minimizes patterns.
Empathy is another reason. Many of us are taught to understand, forgive, and endure. Instead of asking whether behavior is acceptable, we ask what happened to them. We turn danger into a backstory.
Fear of being alone often outweighs fear of being harmed. Starting over feels overwhelming. Leaving feels like failure. So we choose what is known, even when it hurts.
Trauma bonds complicate things further. Cycles of tension, explosion, apology, and affection create powerful chemical attachments in the brain. Those bonds feel like love, even when they are rooted in fear.
In faith-based environments, endurance can be mistaken for devotion. Suffering gets spiritualized. Red flags get reframed as tests of character or commitment.
Finally, abuse rarely begins at full volume. It escalates gradually. Each step feels tolerable compared to the last, until you are already deeply invested.
Looking back, the red flags in my story were not isolated incidents. They were connected.
There was rage in public. Explosive anger over small frustrations. Control disguised as concern. Isolation. Intimidation without bruises. Fear that followed me even after I left. Running back in moments of crisis. Disrespect toward his mother. Entitlement when told no.
Each one pointed to the same truth. But I just was not ready to accept it yet.
Red flags are not bad days. They are not isolated arguments. They are not moments taken out of context.
Red flags are patterns.
They reveal how someone handles stress, disappointment, boundaries, and power. They show up most clearly when things do not go their way.
Red flags are also about how you feel. Anxiety. Tightness. Fear. The sense that you are walking on eggshells. The gradual shrinking of your voice and your world.
If you find yourself constantly explaining someone’s behavior to yourself, that is information.
Learning to see red flags is less about memorizing a list and more about paying attention.
Notice how someone reacts to being told no. Watch how they treat service workers and family members. Pay attention to whether the conflict escalates or resolves. Notice if apologies are followed by real change or just repetition.
Pay attention to your body. If you feel anxious, small, monitored, or pressured, do not dismiss that. If you are changing yourself to keep the peace, that matters. If your world is getting smaller, that is not love.
Your body notices red flags before your brain does.
One of the most overlooked red flags is what happens inside you.
Silencing yourself. Minimizing fear. Explaining away discomfort. Staying quiet to avoid reactions. Losing your sense of agency.
When you begin to disappear in a relationship, that is a warning sign.
You do not need to become perfect to protect yourself. You need awareness.
Slow down relationships. Pay attention to patterns instead of promises. Talk things through with safe people. Learn what calm actually feels like. Question intensity early. Do not spiritualize suffering or confuse endurance with wisdom.
You do not have to prove anything to earn safety.
If you have ignored red flags in the past, it does not mean you are broken. It means you were conditioned, hopeful, afraid, or trying to survive.
Awareness changes everything.
Red flags lose power when they are named.
Seeing them is not about becoming cynical.
It is about becoming free.
Thank you for walking through this series with me.
I have created a free downloadable Red Flags guide to accompany this series. It is designed to help you reflect on your experiences, recognize patterns, and put words to feelings you may have had but never named.
If we only learn what to avoid, we can become guarded. Suspicious. Cynical. Even hopeless.
So this is the pivot.
This is about green flags.
What healthy actually looks like.
Because if you grew up around chaos or survived controlling relationships, calm can feel unfamiliar. Stability can feel flat. Respect can feel suspicious.
And you cannot choose what you do not recognize.
When you are used to volatility, your nervous system expects it.
I remember being around steady, emotionally regulated people and waiting for the shift. Waiting for sarcasm. Waiting for criticism. Waiting for a tone change.
When it did not come, I felt restless.
Healthy relationships often feel quiet.
And when your body is used to noise, quiet can feel wrong.
I used to say there was “no spark.”
What I meant was there was no anxiety.
And I did not yet understand that anxiety was not chemistry. It was conditioning.
You cannot recognize what you have never seen modeled.
Green flags are not grand gestures. They are not constant texting, intense declarations, or dramatic romance.
They are patterns of safety.
They show up in ordinary moments.
Let me make that concrete.
You say, “I don’t agree.”
Instead of being mocked, dismissed, or punished, you hear, “Okay, tell me why.”
The conversation stays calm. There is no escalation. No name-calling. No retaliation later.
You are allowed to have a different opinion.
That is a green flag.
You say, “I’m not comfortable with that.”
They do not pressure you. They do not guilt you. They do not circle back repeatedly until you give in.
They say, “I understand.”
And they mean it.
That is a green flag.
They have a bad day.
They are frustrated.
But they do not slam doors, raise their voice, or make the room feel unsafe. They do not turn you into their emotional outlet.
They say, “I had a rough day.”
And they manage it.
That is maturity.
That is a green flag.
You go out with friends.
They are not texting constantly to check on you. They are not making passive-aggressive comments when you get home. They are not questioning your loyalty because you had fun without them.
They ask, “Did you have a good time?”
And they mean it.
Your world gets bigger, not smaller.
That is a green flag.
You say something hurt you.
They listen.
They do not tell you that you are too sensitive.
They do not twist it back on you.
They say, “I’m sorry.”
And the behavior changes.
That is a green flag.
This one is harder to articulate but easier to feel.
You are not rehearsing conversations in your head.
You are not editing yourself mid-sentence.
You are not scanning their tone for danger.
Your shoulders are not tight. Your stomach is not in knots.
If your nervous system can rest, that is a green flag.
Safety does not feel electric.
It feels steady.
When I think about Chelu, what stands out now is not romance.
It is steadiness.
He did not escalate.
He did not pressure me.
He did not mock my fear.
He did not demand reassurance.
He was calm.
At the time, I mistook that steadiness for a lack of chemistry.
Now I recognize it as a sign of emotional maturity.
I did not know how to trust steadily.
I only knew how to survive intensity.
Healthy love does not feel like adrenaline.
It does not feel like chasing, convincing, proving, or bracing.
It feels predictable.
It feels respectful.
It feels safe to disagree.
It feels like breathing normally.
And if you have never experienced that, it may take time to trust it.
Calm is not boring.
Calm is secure.
If you are in a relationship right now, ask yourself:
Do I feel free to disagree?
Do I feel respected when I say no?
Is my world expanding or shrinking?
Do I feel safe in my body?
Am I managing their emotions, or are we both responsible for ourselves?
Green flags are not complicated.
They are consistent.
For a long time, I thought passion meant intensity.
I thought love meant endurance.
I thought excitement meant chemistry.
Now I know this:
Healthy love does not require you to disappear.
It does not require fear to keep it alive.
You deserve calm.
You deserve respect.
You deserve to feel safe in your own body.
Seeing green flags is not about lowering your standards.
It is about raising them.
And once you learn the difference between chaos and stability, you cannot unsee it.
Knowing green flags is one thing.
Choosing them after trauma is another.
In the next post, I will write about how to rebuild trust in yourself, how to slow down attachment, and how to retrain your nervous system to recognize safety as safe.
Because awareness is the beginning.
Growth is the next step.
“We cannot fully appreciate the light without the shadows. We have to be thrown off balance to find our footing” Matthew McConaughey — Greenlights
“If you want to know how a man will treat his wife, look at how he treats his mother.”
It sounds like a simple piece of wisdom, doesn’t it? But when you are in the middle of planning a wedding, picking out rings, and dreaming of a future where you are no longer alone, you have a way of convincing yourself that the rules don’t apply to your situation.
In this post, I’m sharing the story of the 6th Red Flag — the moment the “fairytale” wedding planning hit a wall of reality in a cold kitchen.
At this point in my life, I was tired. I was a single mom, and when Preacher said, “If we are going to move, we must do it right. We need to get married,” it felt like a lifeline. I wasn’t just marrying a man; I was choosing a father for my son. I was choosing a partner, so I wouldn’t have to carry the weight of the world by myself anymore.
We picked the dress. We picked the rings. We were planning an intimate backyard wedding. It all looked perfect on paper.
The shift happened over something as simple as a vacation destination. Preacher’s mother had offered to pay for our honeymoon. I had always gotten along with her; she was kind and seemed to love my son. But when he mentioned Hawaii, she put her foot down.
“I am not paying for that,” she said.
In a heartbeat, the man I thought was my protector vanished. I watched in disbelief as his face turned a terrifying shade of red. The veins in his forehead bulged. He wasn’t just arguing; he was filled with a rage that felt physical.
“Why?! That makes no sense at all! Why are you being such a goddamn bitch?” Preacher screamed.
I sat at the kitchen bar, my elbows resting on the cold tile, paralyzed. I picked at my fingernails, trying to make myself invisible. I was terrified that if I moved or spoke, that field of rage would turn toward me.
His mother didn’t back down. She threw her hands up and screamed back, “I wish you had never been born. You are such an asshole,” before storming out.
As I sat in that silent kitchen, the words of a Pastor I once knew echoed in my head: “The way a man treats his mother is the way he will treat his wife.”
I heard the warning. I felt the chill of it. But I did what so many of us do when we are desperate for a happy ending: I made an excuse. I told myself that because she had promised the money and then changed her mind, his reaction was “understandable.” I minimized the verbal abuse because I didn’t want to admit I was about to marry a man who could speak to a woman — let alone his mother — that way.
Within three months, we were married. She paid for a honeymoon (not in Hawaii), and by the day we returned, our lives were already packed into boxes. We were heading to Oklahoma.
I didn’t realize that the scene in the kitchen wasn’t just a “family spat.” It was a blueprint.
A man’s relationship with his mother is often his first experience with female authority and boundaries. If he uses verbal violence to handle a “No” from her, he will eventually use it to handle a “No” from you. The way he devalues her is the exact script he will use on you once the honeymoon phase is over.
Don’t look at how he treats his mother when she is doing what he wants. Look at how he treats her when she stands in his way. That is the man you are actually marrying.
Why do we ignore the smoke even when we can smell the fire?
When I was married to my abusive husband, who was also my pastor, I read my Bible daily and worked through countless self-help books on marriage and becoming a better wife. I applied everything I learned. Yet nothing changed — at least not in the way I hoped. I wanted to see a man who valued me enough to stop his abuse. I didn’t understand then that I had to love myself first.
When I finally did start loving myself, transformation began. But it wasn’t him who changed — it was everything else. I saw my own worth. I recognized that I deserved better. I realized I didn’t have to endure the yelling, screaming, and berating anymore.
He never changed, but I did. And something else happened, too: I threw out those self-help books. I got rid of them and refused to read them again. I was angry. They hadn’t worked, and I blamed them for keeping me trapped in that marriage.
For a while, I even rejected anything religious, including the Bible. But one morning, I woke up and realized that none of it was God’s fault. I had made my own choices — that free will we all have. Though I felt forced to stay, I wasn’t literally in bonds or shackles.
When I began writing my memoir, Not What God Promised, I returned to those books to understand myself better and why I’d stayed so long. Reading them made me physically ill, thinking, puke, I can’t believe I tried this.
Now, over 11 years after my divorce, those books still sit on my shelf. I kept them as a reminder of who I was. And I’m about to celebrate the 8-year anniversary of my marriage to my best friend — the one who loves me regardless of how prickly perimenopause or menopause has made me.
This man has walked with me through the worst times of my life: learning to parent a child who was harmed while parenting the child who caused harm, losing my son to suicide, and going through menopause more than once — yes, that’s actually a thing. If you use Hormone Replacement Therapy and those hormones wear off, you experience peri and meno all over again. Not fun for anyone around you.
Today, when I open those same books, I think, “This is actually good stuff.” I read them with a completely different mindset now. Before, I believed that if I changed or became perfect, my narcissistic abuser would change too.
Now I read them, knowing that anyone can benefit from self-help, but I don’t do it to change my husband. Instead, I want to implement things I’d forgotten or taken for granted — like reminding him how much I appreciate and respect him. I do it because I love him and genuinely want him to know how much he means to me.
A plant can have strong roots, healthy leaves, and all the potential in the world, but if it’s planted in toxic soil, denied sunlight, or constantly trampled, it won’t thrive. No amount of watering or fertilizing can overcome a fundamentally hostile environment. The plant doesn’t fail because it’s weak — it fails because it’s in the wrong place.
But take that same plant and move it to healthy soil with light, space, and protection. When you fertilize it, it flourishes. Nothing about the plant changed. The difference was the conditions surrounding it.
You and I are the plant. These books are the fertilizer. This explains why so many Christian people turn to atheism and similar paths. Those books weren’t useless. They were simply being applied in an environment where growth was impossible.
I was trying to nurture something in soil poisoned by abuse. My brain associated those books with pain and trauma.
They tell you to “bloom where you’re planted.” That’s a lie designed to keep you stuck.
Now, in healthy soil — with a partner who waters rather than withers me — those same books finally make sense. I no longer keep them on my shelf as monuments to my pain. They’re proof that the right tools in toxic conditions can’t save you. The bravest thing I ever did wasn’t trying harder to bloom in poison. It was ripping myself out by the roots and replanting somewhere I could actually thrive.
I was never the problem. The soil was. And no amount of positive thinking, prayer, or self-improvement books couldchange that.
Sometimes you don’t need better fertilizer. You just need to get the hell out.
They say it was never intended for a child to go before a parent, and she thinks that is because when they do, a part of that parent goes with them. There’s a hole.
Children know their parents will go someday, and they anticipate it — not in an excited way, but in a knowing kind of way.
But you never anticipate the death of your child, not unless you are told it’s inevitable and beyond your control.
And she knows there are parents who have lost children to sickness and health reasons, but for those of us who had healthy children, who weren’t expecting or anticipating this, it has taken something from us. No, she is not saying that her grief is any worse than theirs, or yours. It is and was nearly the destroying factor of her life, and this is what she is writing about.
Only those who choose to resist the destruction can survive.
She saw him lying there, white, cold, hands in his lap, feet crossed. Like he posed before he did it. Mouth open, eyes closed, breathless. Although there was blood, the only thing she could see was the lifeless body of her baby.
Her baby was hoisted on a stretcher and wheeled up a rocky hill into an ambulance with no need for the siren. Only lights for this ride to the morgue.
Everyone asked her if she needed an ambulance. She wondered why they kept asking her that. She was still standing, but she was only existing in their reality. For she was living a different one. The reality she was experiencing was different from theirs. Her reality was a vortex sucking her down into a dark abyss.
She looked for a note. She searched. Where is it? There has to be something. Some explanation. Some goodbye. Some why. But there was nothing. Just his body and the silence.
When the coroner said he found one, she didn’t believe him. She thought maybe he was just being kind, trying to give her something to hold onto. Trying to make it easier. As if anything could make this easier. As if a note could explain why her son was cold and white and gone.
Later, she realized he was right. There had been a note. But in that moment, standing there, her reality splitting in two, she couldn’t trust anything. Not even mercy.
She could feel her body sob. She remembered the other mom on the other side of town who lost two sons the night before. Then she, not wanting to feel sorry for herself, felt sorry for the other mom, as if maybe this sympathy could hold her in place, keep her tethered to this world, keep her from the descent into hell.
“Sir, do you think she needs an ambulance?”
Why do they keep saying this? She is not crazy. She only just seen the cold, white body of her son. She only wants the comfort of her own bed, not the bright lights of a hospital room. What did they think taking her to the hospital was going to fix? Was it because she couldn’t stop sobbing?
Her sobs are uncontained. She didn’t care. She didn’t even try to stop. This was too painful to hold in. After all the things she had been through, this was the very straw trying to break the camel’s back. This is the thing that was going to take her under, the thing that tried the hardest to destroy her.
And she knew that.
So she did not try to contain the pain. She felt it. Every painful second of it. Every painful memory of it. Every bit of it.
The coroner gave her the name of a therapist, someone to talk to.
Okay, she says, being nice. Polite. As if politeness mattered when your child is dead. She took the paper with the number on it. She never called. The paper sat somewhere — a drawer, a purse, a void. She was numb. Too numb to reach out, too numb to ask for help, too numb to do anything but survive each day as it came.
The coroner tried to explain it away. He tried to say her child was troubled, but it didn’t matter what he said. It was still her child, and he was gone.
Time moved. Life went on, as it does, indifferent to grief. She started therapy 3 years later. Grandbabies were born. Relationships ended. New ones began. The world kept turning, kept demanding she turn with it. And somehow, she did. She survived each day, then the next, then the next.
Luke — Forever my baby
It’s been five and a half years since that day, and pain stops by to visit sometimes. And she still entertains him. She pulls his chair up next to grief, and they all have a cup of coffee together. They remember that day. They remember her son’s childhood times, the way he laughed, the things he loved. They reminisce about many things they are thankful for.
But they also talk about the other parents — the ones still in the early days, the ones who can’t breathe, the ones who think they won’t survive this. They talk about how to reach them, what to say, and what not to say. They talk about turning this unbearable thing into something that might help someone else make it through.
She sits with Pain and Grief. She doesn’t turn them away. And she’s glad. Even though she never really invites them, she’s always glad they come, thankful for their visits. For the way they’ve taught her that pain doesn’t have to destroy, that grief can become purpose.
Mostly, she’s thankful that pain showed mercy and didn’t destroy her, but instead became her friend, her teacher. Guiding her toward helping others find their way through the dark.
The Mercy of Pain was originally published in Women Write on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.
We’ve all heard the advice: “When someone shows you who they are, believe them.” It sounds so simple. So why, when we finally get away from a toxic situation, do we often find ourselves running right back into the fire?
In this post, I share a story I’m not proud of, but one that I know many of you will recognize. It’s the story of a night when fear overrode my logic, and a familiar demon felt safer than an unknown threat.
The Night the Shield Came Down
I was at a high point, just promoted to manager at the dry cleaners, but a low point emotionally. I was exhausted and lonely, living in a house that felt far too vulnerable, with its glass back door and no curtains.
When an intruder began tapping on that glass late one night, threatening to break in, my world shattered. The police came and went, but the safety didn’t return. In that moment of raw, adrenaline-fueled terror, I didn’t call my parents. I didn’t call a friend.
I went to Preacher’s house.
I went back to the lion’s den because I knew exactly how that lion bit, and in that moment, that felt more “manageable” than the stranger at my door.
The Illusion of Being “Chosen”
When I arrived, I was met not with comfort, but with coldness. Preacher didn’t ask if I was okay; he critiqued my appearance and told me he had been out with another woman.
When I told him I was thinking of moving away to start over, he didn’t support me. He attacked the idea, framing my independence as a mistake. Then came the hook — the words every trauma-bonded person longs to hear:
“Take me with you. There’s nothing here for me.”
In that moment, the red flags turned white. I felt special. I felt like the “winner.” I didn’t know then that he wasn’t choosing me because I was special; he was escaping a pregnant girlfriend and a life of responsibility. He was looking for an exit, and I was his getaway driver.
The Science of the “Relapse”
Why do we do this? Why do we return to people we know are dangerous?
It’s not because we are weak or unintelligent. It’s because a crisis hijacks the brain.
When we are in a state of high stress, our “logical brain” (the prefrontal cortex) goes offline. Our “survival brain” (the amygdala) takes over. This part of the brain doesn’t care about long-term health; it only cares about immediate relief.
To your nervous system, familiarity equals safety, even if that familiarity is a toxic relationship. This is called a Trauma Bond. We aren’t looking for love; we are looking for a “regulator” — someone to stop the current shaking, even if they are the ones who caused the earthquake in the first place.
How to Protect Yourself
Most “emotional relapses” happen when we are **H.A.L.T.**ed:
Hungry
Angry
Lonely
Tired
I was all four that night. If you find yourself reaching for a “red flag” person, stop and check your vitals. Are you scared? Are you exhausted? If so, you aren’t making a choice out of love — you’re making a choice out of survival.
Closing Thought
We ignore red flags because familiar chaos feels safer than unfamiliar peace. But remember: A familiar fire will still burn you.
(Click here for your Free Guide for Identifying Red Flags)
Listen to the full episode of It’s Not God’s Fault on your favorite podcast platform.
When aging feels personal, time feels fragile — and healing teaches us how to live anyway.
“He has started shaving.” My daughter announced after sending me the link to my grandson’s basketball photoshoot.
“Oh my,” is all I can say to the reality that life is moving far too fast.
My first grandson — the one who made me a Nina — is thirteen. He’s shaving his mustache.
I updated her on her younger brother, who is only three years older than her son. I always knew I would have several children and grandchildren someday, but I never imagined I would be parenting a teenager at the same time my daughter was.
We exchange a few teasing remarks about our boys, and then she turns the reflections back on us. Her gray hair. My wrinkles. Who are we to talk about their shaving habits?
I sit back and try not to grow anxious as I face the reality that I am not getting any younger. And that scares me. I feel like I am running out of time, racing against the clock. Aging frightens me — not because of wrinkles or gray hair, but because of what time has already taken.
For some, accepting aging might be easy. But for those who have survived trauma, loss, and major life upheaval, aging does not feel practical. It feels personal. It feels like time is speeding up — like chapters are closing and fewer days are left.
If you were busy surviving—parenting, enduring, rebuilding, or grieving—you might notice time passing faster. Part of you might think:
I just got here. I just started living. And now I am already old.
There is a kind of loss that permanently alters how time moves. When you have buried a child, time is no longer neutral. Every birthday, every year, every wrinkle begins to whisper:
Life is fragile. Nothing is guaranteed. This could vanish in a minute.
Culture teaches us that youth is valuable and aging is decline. The older person is invisible. But that is propaganda, not truth. It exists to sell fear — especially to women. So when we feel anxious about aging, part of that fear is cultural programming.
And yet, when you have done deep healing work, life often gets better. Clearer. Stronger. Because you know who you are. You know what you will not tolerate. You know how to tell the truth. And you know how to love without disappearing.
I recently encountered a Buddhist teaching that challenges me — not because it is bleak, but because it refuses comfort. I read it with resistance.
I am of the nature to grow old; there is no way to escape growing old. I am of the nature to have ill health; there is no way to escape ill health. I am of the nature to die; there is no way to escape death. All that is dear to me and everyone I love are of the nature to change. I am the owner of my actions, heir to my actions…
— Upajjhatthana Sutta (Anguttara Nikaya, Pali Canon)
I do not find peace in these words yet — but I find truth.
So here are the steps I am taking today.
When fear says, “I am getting older,” I answer with:
I am finally living in my own skin. I am finally choosing myself. I am finally free.
And when the fear hits hard, I return to the present with a simple grounding practice.
Putting my hand on my chest. Breathing in. I say quietly:
I am here. I am alive. I am still becoming.
I’ll do it three times.
As it brings me back from future panic into present life.
I am still becoming—no matter how many razors are in the house. And no matter how hard I try to remain 37.
