“The injury is the point where the Light enters you.” ~Rumi
I witnessed my son being struck by his father, and something within me finally opened up.
Not shattered. Opened up. There’s a distinction.
For years, I absorbed the turmoil. I minimized myself, became quieter, more compliant. I convinced myself that if I could just love more intensely, be better, try harder, something would shift. But at that moment, observing my child in pain from the man who was meant to safeguard him, I realized with utter clarity that nothing I did would ever be sufficient to mend this. The only option left was to leave.
It took me three months to orchestrate our getaway. Three months of feigning normalcy while discreetly gathering documents, saving money secretly, and plotting a future I could hardly envision. Three months of holding my breath and hoping my children could persevere just a bit longer. Then, I relocated myself and my four kids to safety.
I wish I could say that was the challenging part. I wish I could claim that once we gained physical freedom, the healing commenced and everything became simpler. But the reality is, leaving was merely the start. The genuine transformation, the aspect that would ultimately turn my most profound wounds into insight, was still awaiting me on the other side.
What no one reveals about fleeing an abusive relationship is that at times, your children do not escape alongside you. Not emotionally, at least. Sometimes they carry the trauma in unpredictable or uncontrollable ways. Sometimes they hold you accountable for upending their world, even when that world was causing them pain.
My eldest daughter opted to return to live with her father. She was furious with me. Teenagers often are, but this felt distinct. This felt like a rejection of everything I had sacrificed to keep her safe.
I implored her for months to return home. I cried myself to sleep more nights than I can count. I questioned every choice I had ever made. Was I wrong to leave? Had I ruined my family for no reason? Was I the issue all along, just as he always claimed I was?
The sorrow was overwhelming. I had struggled so hard to shield my children, and now one of them had chosen the very thing I had tried to protect her from. Then something occurred that I never saw coming. She returned.
Not because I persuaded her. Not because I pleaded convincingly or spoke the right words. She came back because she finally underwent for herself exactly what I had been attempting to shield her from. The reality I had tried to articulate in countless ways abruptly became her own lived reality.
When she returned, she was changed. More resilient. More aware. She had discovered something that my warnings could never impart. Today, she’s one of the most tenacious young women I know.
Her return home imparted a profound lesson to me. It revealed that it was permissible to return to myself as well. For so long, I had neglected my own needs, my own voice, my own value. I had been so preoccupied with rescuing everyone else that I overlooked the fact that I also needed saving. Observing my daughter find her path back reminded me that I could rediscover mine too.
This is what I mean when I state wounds transform into wisdom. Not that suffering is beneficial or that pain serves a cosmic purpose that renders it worthwhile. But that the very experiences that shatter us can also be the ones that reveal who we truly are. The places where we have been hurt the most profoundly often become the sites where we can give the most. I learned this lesson once more just this past year.
My son, now fifteen, decided he wished to live with his father. History was repeating itself and every fiber of my being wanted to scream, to fight, to do whatever it took to prevent him from making the same error his sister had made. But because I had walked this path before, I understood something I didn’t grasp the first time. I realized I couldn’t shield him from his own journey.
This time, things were more challenging. He started acting out. Substances. Alcohol. Legal troubles. Probation. Every phone call brought fresh heartbreak. Every update reminded me of all the ways I wished I could mend this for him.
But here’s what my wounds had already enlightened me. Sometimes the most compassionate thing we can do is give someone the space to learn their own lessons. Sometimes our children must touch the flame themselves before they believe it’s hot. And sometimes, the hardest aspect of loving someone is trusting that they will find their path, even when the road