It was the summer of 2020. The summer I woke up.
Fresh out of college and stepping into adult life, I felt my independence rising like the morning sun after a long, cold night. I was ready to grow, ready to stand on my own. And maybe, deep down, I hoped that independence might heal a long-term relationship already drowning in confusion.
Instead, it triggered my boyfriend’s fear—his need for control.
And in a moment I’ll never forget—through a text message—he made an accusation so gut-wrenching it shattered every illusion I had been clinging to:
“Are you cheating on me?“
I stared at my phone, rereading the words, trying to make sense of the chaos in my mind. But this time, something was different. It wasn’t just another degrading comment. It wasn’t another manipulative tactic disguised as concern. It was insanity. And for the first time, I saw it for what it was.
The weight of almost five years of psychological torment at the hands of the person I loved most hit me like a ton of bricks. But somehow, through the cracks, light broke through. That light was truth.
What I had been enduring wasn’t love—it was abuse. And in His mercy, God let the illusion break so I could finally begin to escape.
The Courage to Leave
Even then, I didn’t have a plan. I broke up with him, but I didn’t believe we’d be apart forever. I even wrote letters to his family, thinking I’d see them again. There was still hope in my heart—hope for him, hope for us, hope that maybe one day things could change. But that kind of hope is dangerous. It keeps you chained to someone who is destroying you.
Still, God kept revealing the truth: my abuser cared only for himself, twisting every moment—and even conversations with friends and family—so he could play the victim. I had only ever been loving and loyal to him. I couldn’t make excuses for him any longer.
Only a few days after the accusation, an opportunity came. One quiet afternoon, while he was at work, a friend and I packed everything I owned into two cars and drove away. My hands trembled on the steering wheel, my heart pounding as if he might appear at any moment.
People often ask how I could leave so suddenly. My first answer is God—the vision He gave me (a story for another day), the strength and protection He covered me with. My second answer is this: leaving begins in the mind long before it happens in real life. And when it finally does, it becomes a matter of survival; at that point, I was terrified of what my abuser might do in his desperation.
Darkness Before the Light
Physically escaping brought both relief and loss. You can grieve what you thought you had, even as you breathe calm for the first time. The silence that followed was deafening. No harassing texts. No unexplained yelling. No tension in the air. Just me—in a new city, alone for the first time in years. Terrifying, yes. But also the most peace I had felt in a long time.
Yet mental freedom wasn’t instant. I carried the weight of his words, the fear of his anger, and the ache of what I thought we could have been. My mind had been trained to question myself, to cling to the “happier future” he dangled in front of me. With that gone, I was left with nothing but broken pieces. For years, I sank into darkness, convinced I was alone and worthless.
But slowly, God began to replace my old thought patterns with truer ones. He met me in my mess and pulled me out. He showed me His love isn’t manipulative, conditional, or rooted in control. His love is freely given, enduring forever, and restores what feels beyond repair.
Leaving is never simple or easy. It’s messy, confusing, terrifying. But it’s also one of the most courageous things a survivor can do. Leaving isn’t the end—it’s the beginning of the rest of your life. Healing has been a long, hard, and sacred process. But in it, I’ve found a truth deeper than any lie I once believed: my hope doesn’t rest in someone else changing, in a better situation, or even in myself.
My hope is in the God who heals. And that hope says I am not too broken to be made whole. And neither are you.
Let’s Talk
Leaving an abusive relationship is complex, painful, and often filled with conflicting emotions. If you could give advice to someone still struggling to leave an unhealthy situation, what would you say about hope, faith, and healing?
Post your responses in the Community Voices discussion.
With love and grace,
Madison Taylore