Tag: domestic-abuse

What to Do When You’re Caught in the Middle

Being caught in the middle doesn’t feel like conflict — it feels like captivity.
It feels like being stuck in a snare with no way to move without hurting someone.
Like a mouse trap waiting to snap shut.
Like you’re locked in a raccoon cage, unsure if speaking the truth will free you… or cost you everything.

People talk about “taking sides” like it’s simple.
But when you’re caught in the middle of family, trauma, loyalty, and truth, nothing about it is simple.

It’s one of the loneliest places a person can stand.

What You’re Really Caught Between

Sometimes “caught in the middle” means choosing between two opinions.

But sometimes — like in my life — it means standing between your own child who was harmed and your own child who did the harming.

Between the daughter who still carries wounds and the son whose actions caused them.

Between the victim in your home and the perpetrator who shares your blood.

Between your mother — who continues contact with the perpetrator — and your daughter, the victim.

Between your loyalty as a mother and your integrity as a protector.

Between who you used to be and who you’re becoming.

Between the pressure to keep quiet and the truth that refuses to stay silent anymore.

It’s not two sides.
It is layers of emotional conflict, guilt, fear, and responsibility colliding inside your chest.


Why This Position Freezes You

People say, “Just say what you feel,” but they don’t see what comes with it.

When you’re in the middle, speaking the truth feels dangerous.

You fear hurting someone you love.
You fear being misunderstood.
You fear being shunned.
You fear being blamed for protecting the wrong person — when you know exactly who needs protection.
You fear your mother’s reaction.
You fear the silence, the withdrawal, the guilt she might use.
You fear your childhood patterns pulling you back into old roles.

You fear becoming the target for finally telling the truth.

That fear freezes you.
Not because you’re weak, but because you’ve carried too many people’s emotions for too long.


You’re Allowed to Step Out of the Middle

This is the truth many of us need spoken out loud:

You are not betraying anyone by protecting the victim.
You are not abandoning someone by refusing to enable harmful choices.
You are not wrong for saying, “Enough.”
You are not required to cushion your truth to keep someone else comfortable.
You can love someone and still say, “This crosses a line for me.”
You can grieve what happened without sacrificing your integrity.

You are allowed to choose clarity over chaos.
You are allowed to choose protection over appeasement.
You are allowed to choose truth over silence.

You are allowed — fully allowed — to walk out of the middle.


How to Un-Freeze When You’re Caught in the Middle

Here are the steps that help you move from paralysis to clarity:

1. Name What’s Actually Happening

Write it plainly.
Do not soften it for someone else’s comfort.

2. Ask What Aligns With Your Values

What decision reflects the kind of mother, woman, friend, or human you want to be?

3. Decide Who Truly Needs Protection

Protect the vulnerable one.
Protect the honest one.
Protect the one who did not choose this.

4. Set One Clear, Simple Boundary

Not a debate.
Not a speech.
A boundary.

“This is not okay with me.”
“I won’t participate in this.”
“I love you, but I cannot be involved if you continue this.”

5. Speak With Clarity and Compassion

Firm does not mean unkind.
Compassion does not mean surrender.

6. Allow People to React However They React

They may:
– Shame you
– Guilt you
– Pull away
– Play victim
– Get angry
– Give the silent treatment

Their reaction belongs to them.
It is not proof you did something wrong.
It is evidence that you set a boundary they didn’t like.

7. Anchor Yourself After the Conversation

Your body may shake.
Your stomach may twist.
Old fears may roar.

That is normal.

Here are anchoring practices:

• Breathe: 4 seconds in, 6–8 out.
• Hand on chest: “I am safe. I told the truth.”
• Move your body: walk, stretch, shake out your hands.
• Ground yourself:
5 things you see
4 things you can touch
3 things you hear
2 things you smell
1 thing you taste
• Write what triggered you.
• Remind yourself: “A trembling body is a brave body.”
• Talk to someone who truly understands the situation.

Anchoring doesn’t erase fear — it prevents fear from dragging you back into silence.


Taking a Stand Doesn’t Make You Divisive

Taking a stand does not divide a family.
Harm divides families.
Silence divides families.
Minimizing what happened divides families.

Standing for what’s right is clarity, not conflict.

Protecting a victim is integrity.
Refusing to stand in the middle is courage.

A Soft, Steady Closing

There comes a moment when staying in the middle becomes impossible.
Not because you stopped loving people.
Not because you’re choosing sides out of anger.
But because the truth finally whispers:

“You don’t belong in the snare anymore.”

Stepping out isn’t selfish — it’s sacred.
It’s the moment you choose protection over silence, healing over guilt, and courage over captivity.

It’s the moment you finally allow yourself to stand somewhere solid —
where your truth has room to breathe.

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

Why No One Can Cheer You Up (And Why You Don’t Want Them To)

It’s not that you can’t feel better…it’s that you don’t trust better.

When you’re upset, it feels like nothing can touch you. Friends try to cheer you up, but their words bounce right off. You shut it down with,

“You don’t understand,” or “I can’t help the way I feel.”

Here’s the thing: you’re not wrong for wanting to sit in your feelings. Pain can feel safer than pretending everything’s okay. But sometimes, without realizing it, you hold on to that pain like proof. Proof that you were hurt, evidence that your feelings are real, proof that you’re not invisible.

And letting it go? That feels scary. Because misery, as heavy as it is, can start to feel familiar. Almost like home.

You’re not broken for feeling this way. You’ve just learned to live with despair for so long that happiness feels foreign. But here’s the truth: you deserve more than the familiar depression. You deserve peace, even if it feels uncomfortable at first.

Such was I. I lived in an abusive marriage for 24 years. When I finally dared to leave, I started reflecting and asked myself,

“Why had I stayed so long?”

In the future, I knew I didn’t want to make the same mistake. I didn’t want to end up in another abusive marriage. So I looked back at my past relationships, and they were all the same. Abusive.

Wow. Who am I? And why am I choosing this path?

That’s when I realized I had an addiction problem. I was addicted to pain—the pain and the drama of the chaos. I was stuck in a cycle, like a revolving door. So I constantly had to remind myself why I was leaving. I had to remind myself that I deserved better and that I should look for someone who was the complete opposite.

And that’s precisely what I did. Today, I stand on the other side of abuse. Stronger, freer, and committed to helping others find their own path out.

Need help?
If you or someone you know is struggling with addiction, emotional distress, or abuse, support is available 24/7:

  • Addiction Recovery: Call 866-606-0182 or visit our treatment center directory
  • Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Dial 988 (free, confidential, 24/7)
  • Domestic Violence Hotline: Call 800-799-7233 or text START to 88788
  • Sexual Assault Hotline (RAINN): Call 800-656-4673 or visit online.rainn.org

You are not alone. There is help. There is hope. And you are worth the healing.

A Quiet Voice Echoes

A Quiet Voice Echoes

Dear Me,


I hear you.
I see what you endured.
I believe every word you wrote.

You were a victim—not because you were weak, but because others chose to harm you, control you, silence you.
It was not your fault. Not then, not ever.
You were not to blame for the loneliness, the violence, the brainwashing, the betrayal.
You were doing your best to survive inside a world that kept telling you to disappear.

And still, you are here.
You are speaking.
You are remembering.
You are healing.

I honor your pain. I honor your courage.
You don’t have to carry this alone anymore.
You are allowed to rest.
You are allowed to feel angry, sad, and confused.
You are allowed to feel everything.

There is no right pace. No deadline.
Only this: you are not silent anymore.
And that is everything.

I love you.
I am with you.
You are not alone.

— Me

The Post-it Note

Sitting at the giant mahogany desk, I stared at the stack of papers in front of me. I reached up and twisted the plastic stick on the blinds, narrowing the slats until the sunlight no longer glared off the computer screen. It was that time of year again—tax season. The task ahead was daunting, and my lack of proper filing over the year left me with quite a challenge.

We had started our own cleaning business last year in a small, dying town. Surprisingly, it did pretty well. We were the only business in the city offering house cleaning, and people appreciated the idea of hiring professionals rather than a friend of a friend. They especially liked our attention to detail, a trait I had perfected after years of living with an OCD narcissist. Our motto was: “We don’t cut corners, we clean them!” That’s precisely what I did. I reached behind toilets, dusted ceiling fans, and even cleaned the baseboards every time. It was honest work, and I was damn good at it.

I began separating receipts and invoices into different piles, sorting through them with the half-confidence of someone who grew up watching a CPA at work. A musty smell drifted from the papers, dust rising with every movement.

“Achoo! Achoo! Aaaa—Aaaa—huh—”

I clamped my nose shut to block the third sneeze.

As I wiped my eyes, a small yellow slip of paper drifted into my lap. Curious, I picked it up. Scribbled in uneven handwriting were three words:

“I deserve better.”

It wasn’t my handwriting. I did not recognize it at all. Still, it was there, staring up at me.

Where had it come from? Who wrote it? Had it been hiding among the receipts all this time?

It didn’t matter who wrote it. It was like a message sent straight from the universe. My heart gave a slow, deliberate flutter as I shivered.

I read the words aloud.

“I deserve better.”

Chills ran down my spine. I shuddered.

“I deserve better,” I repeated, softer this time.

My mind wandered back to just a few weeks ago when Albert had asked me, “Do you even like me?”

I had replied, “No, but I love you.”

The truth was, I couldn’t stand him. I didn’t respect him, didn’t trust him, didn’t even like being in the same room as him. I was only with him for the sake of the kids. In a few years, we would have been married for twenty-five years. And I figured, if I had made it that far, I might as well ride it out to the end.

For better or for worse, right?

That was the lie I told myself. That if we stuck it out, maybe something would change. Maybe we’d rediscover what we once thought we had. Perhaps we’d fall madly in love again. Maybe he’d get control of his emotions, stop being angry at everything and everyone. Maybe he’d start showing me he loved me with little gestures of kindness—a note, or flowers. Maybe he’d stop telling me I’m fat or that he hates me. Criticizing the way I dressed or styled my hair.

Maybe. But deep down, I knew better.

“I deserve better,” I whispered again. This time, it felt different.

Then the fear crept in.

How? How would I support myself and the kids? How could I possibly make it on my own? There were ten mouths to feed. Ten kids to clothe. Yes, you read that right—ten. One was in the military, thankfully independent now, but the rest still relied on me.

I stared at the slip of paper, running my thumb over the pen marks as if that could somehow transfer strength into my bones. Then, slowly, I slid the note into the drawer beside the paperclips. A secret. A seed.

I didn’t know it at the time, but that was the moment everything quietly began to shift. Subtly. But undeniably.

One day, during a cleaning job, Albert looked at me while I was polishing the dining room table and asked, “Do you even want to be with me anymore?”

I stopped what I was doing and looked up. I looked straight into his eyes, shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and said, “I don’t know.”

This was the first time in our marriage I did not care how my words made him feel. I spoke my truth.

It was the truth. I didn’t know how to live without him. I didn’t know how to carry the full weight of our family on my shoulders alone. I didn’t know if I could.

But I knew I didn’t love him. Not really. And I certainly didn’t like him. That was very clear.

I saw the panic in his eyes as his face grimaced and he made the whimpering sound of a two-year-old.

The months that followed were like cooking dinner with the smoke alarm ready to scream at any second. Every step echoed with the fear of collapse.

But I tried. I tried to be the best version of myself. A better wife. A better mother. I smiled more. I was nicer to him, more understanding and complimentary of him. I even bought new lingerie.

But when you know you deserve better, something changes. You stop settling. You stop hoping that toxic patterns will magically heal.

And you start looking—not for another man, but for another life. A better one.

One where you deserve better.