A Small Moment, A Big Shift—
Recently, I was at the grocery store with my man on a late-night ice cream run. I grabbed a pint of chocolate cookies and cream while he browsed a few feet away. Then I spotted those chocolate-covered ice cream bars — you know, the kind on a stick. I pulled open the freezer door, let the cool air hit my face, and hesitated before picking up the box.
As he walked back toward me, I held both options in my hands and teased, “Is this allowed?”
What he said next chilled me more than the freezer air.
“Don’t ever ask me something like that again.”
I furrowed my brow, caught off guard by his serious tone.
“That’s something you would have had to ask your ex,” he added gently, before nodding toward the register to buy me both.
My ex. He meant my abuser.
“You’re right,” I admitted, my heart sinking into my stomach. “I hate that my brain still works like that.”
Then I softened, letting a smile slip through. “Thanks for the ice cream. Can you tell I like chocolate?”
He laughed, and just like that, the heaviness lifted.
That small exchange reminded me that healing doesn’t happen in one sweeping motion. It happens in ordinary moments like that one—when an old reflex from a painful past meets a new kind of safety. My instinct to ask permission was born from control, but now it met compassion instead of condemnation.
When Fear and Faith Collide
Abuse doesn’t just hurt you — it rewires you. After the control, the manipulation, the gaslighting, that small voice inside that used to guide you goes quiet. Or worse, you start to doubt it. “Am I overreacting? Being too sensitive?”
After “Aaron,” I didn’t just fear him. I feared myself — my instincts, my choices, my gut. Every decision felt suspect. Every boundary felt shaky. I had survived, yes, but surviving had come at the cost of trusting me.
There’s a story in Scripture that came up recently in my prayer time: Peter stepping out in faith (Matthew 14:22–33). As the disciples sailed across the Sea of Galilee, a figure appeared walking toward them on the water. Terrified, they thought it was a ghost—but Jesus called out, “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.” Recognizing His voice, Peter said, “Lord, if it’s you, tell me to come to you on the water.” When Jesus said “Come,” Peter stepped out of the boat and began walking toward Him. But when the wind picked up and the waves roared, fear crept in, and Peter began to sink. He cried out, and Jesus caught him.
I began to see this story as more than just a miracle—it’s a mirror. After abuse, survivors are often tossed by winds and waves that never seem to calm. Fear feels rational—even protective. But sometimes trusting yourself is like stepping out of the boat: terrifying, yet the only way back to a life fully lived. And even when fear makes you falter, God is there—not to shame you, but to reach out and catch you as you learn to trust again.
Learning to Trust Yourself Again
Learning to trust yourself after abuse isn’t instant. It’s a series of tiny steps, each one a reclaiming of your own voice. It’s noticing how your body reacts when something isn’t safe. It’s listening to that inner yes and no again. It’s saying, “I see you. I believe you. I will follow you.”
Rebuilding self-trust is full of moments that feel almost invisible. Saying “no” without guilt. Speaking up when before you would’ve stayed silent. Taking a break when your body says you need it. Choosing your own company because you finally believe you are enough.
These small victories matter. They’re the scaffolding of your new life. They remind you: your instincts are valid. Your needs are valid. Your story is valid.
And the longer you listen, the stronger your confidence grows.
Some days, you’ll doubt yourself again. You’ll second-guess choices, wonder if you’re overreacting, or feel paralyzed by memories. That’s not failure—it’s part of the journey. Healing doesn’t erase trauma; it teaches you how to navigate it when you step out into the unknown.
Every misstep is a chance to practice gentleness with yourself. Every pause, every hesitancy, is a reminder that trust grows slowly, like a seed breaking through the soil. It’s okay that it isn’t immediate. What matters is that you keep stepping, keep listening, keep reaching toward life on your own terms.
Finding Freedom in the Ordinary
That night in the grocery store reminded me: healing isn’t about perfection or forgetting the past—it’s about noticing when even the tiniest bit of fear shows up and choosing love instead. My old instinct to seek permission met safety instead of shame. I didn’t need approval to pick ice cream. I just needed to notice the moment, smile, and let joy back in.
You may have moments like that too—ordinary situations that reveal extraordinary growth. Each time you choose differently, you rewrite the story your pain once told.
To my lovely readers I hope this helps you see that healing isn’t a dramatic reveal or a single “aha” moment. It’s a series of small, steady wins—moments where you choose yourself over fear, where you let laughter in after heaviness, where you allow joy to sneak back in, one chocolate treat at a time.
I know it feels intimidating. I know it feels fragile. But every step you take to trust yourself — no matter how small — is a reclamation of the life that abuse tried to steal. Celebrate it. Document it. Speak it aloud.
And when fear whispers that you can’t, remember Peter: he faltered, yes, but he kept moving toward Jesus. So can you.
Your instincts are not broken. Your choices are not flawed. Your life is not defined by what you survived — it’s being rebuilt by how you listen to yourself, day by day.
Let’s Talk
This week, I invite you to reflect on the Community Voices page:
Where in your life today could you take a small step toward trusting yourself again? What does that step look like?
This Domestic Violence Awareness Month series has walked through fear, control, shame, survival, forgiveness, and now, relearning to trust. I sincerely hope this series has educated and encouraged you.
With tenderness,
Madison Taylore
Founder, Taylored Grace