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There is a strange kind of grief that comes with healing from abuse.

People talk about the freedom that comes after leaving. They talk about rediscovering yourself, finding your voice, and reclaiming your life. And those things are true. They are beautiful and hard-won.

What they don’t talk about enough is what happens when your nervous system finally realizes it’s safe enough to stop surviving.

For over 15 years, I lived in survival mode.

I was making it through the day, minute by minute, hour by hour. I was reading the room, anticipating reactions, managing emotions that weren’t mine to manage, and carrying responsibilities that never seemed to end. Every ounce of energy went toward getting through the next moment. There wasn’t space to notice how heavy everyday life actually was.

 When you’re surviving, you don’t have the bandwidth to feel the full weight of everything. Survival narrows your vision. It teaches you to focus only on what is directly in front of you. It helps you get through the day and put one foot in front of the other. It also keeps you treading water to survive. It takes all your energy just to keep from drowning, and you don’t see a way to shore.

Then healing begins.

At first, it feels like breathing, taking a big breath of fresh air after being held underwater. You laugh more easily, sleep a little deeper. You realize you don’t have to walk on eggshells anymore. You begin making small choices. Beef instead of chicken, because chicken makes you feel sick. Dinner at 6:30 instead of 5:15 because you have always preferred a later dinner. You realize one day you no longer smell the stench of fear on your body and clothes.

And then something unexpected happens.

The schooling and appointments. Maintaining a house and pets. The never-ending pile of laundry and dishes. The emotional labor of raising children. The pressure of being the stable parent. The grocery bills. The budgeting. The fear that one unexpected expense could unravel everything you’ve worked so hard to build. All things you managed before, but now without survival mode as your constant companion. You finally have enough breathing room to feel that the rest of life is hard, too, because life itself asks a lot of us.

Peace gave me the ability to finally feel the struggle I’d been too busy surviving to acknowledge.

Healing made me aware.

It allowed me to put down my hyper-vigilance long enough to recognize exhaustion. Exhaustion that could now be felt, not ignored. It gave me clarity to see that carrying a family, finances, responsibilities, and the weight of building a life is difficult. All things I knew and managed before, but never had the luxury of pausing long enough to process.

With that realization, the grief creeps back in, reminding you of what marriage should have been but wasn’t. It wasn’t something I should have been alone doing. I am still doing life alone, and without being surrounded by abuse life is significantly easier. But that doesn’t make everyday difficulties disappear. I never expected them top.

But I didn’t expect the grief that would come recognizing just how much I was carrying alone and still am.

In those moments when the weight of life feels crushing and weariness enters my soul, I find myself turning to Jesus again and again.

When I question how to stretch the budget one more month, I remind myself that He is my provider and I will call on Him.

When I am overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising my children, I remind myself that His grace fills the gaps where I fall short and I will call on Him.

When uncertainty about future decisions creeps in, I remind myself who brought me this far.

And I will call on Him.

He called me out of abuse, and I can breathe freely. I can feel joy without waiting for it to be taken away at 5pm. I can acknowledge that I am tired, that this season is heavy in its own way, and that I don’t have to minimize that to keep myself safe.

The weight of life didn’t suddenly appear.

I just finally had enough peace to feel it. And that’s not a sign that I’m falling apart or lacking faith. It’s evidence that I’m healing! I survived by God’s grace, working myself to the bone, and doing whatever I had to do to make it through.

But now, by the grace of God, I am learning something even better.

How to rest.
How to trust.
How to live free.

And the best part? Seeing how Jesus carried me then, and how He carries me now. To God be the glory.