Settled: The Last Letter I’ll Ever Write to You

*This piece contains detailed reflections on domestic violence, emotional abuse, spiritual manipulation, and trauma recovery. It may be distressing for some readers, especially survivors. Please read with care. If you are in crisis or need support, consider stepping away or reaching out to a professional resource. Your safety matters.

It didn’t come all at once. Healing, I mean. It came slow, like fog lifting off a lake you’d almost forgotten was there. Like the softest kind of silence. Not the kind you used to punish me with, but the kind that breathes. The kind that stays.

You weren’t there the first time I didn’t cry. That mattered.

I used to believe survival would be loud. Furiously shouting your name in a courtroom, like everyone finally seeing what I saw. But peace didn’t come wrapped in noise. It came in dishes left in the sink without panic. It came in drinking coffee without bracing. In folding laundry without calculating what kind of day it would be based on your footsteps.

I used to call it love. The chaos. The cycles. The holding of breath. I told myself it was real because it hurt. Because it wasn’t easy. Because the good days were so good. But that wasn’t love. That was survival wrapped in false hope.

You said I made you feel safe. Said no one had ever loved you like I did. Then you cheated. Lied. Screamed. Strangled me. You said I drove you to it. You said I made you suicidal. You took pills and locked yourself in the bathroom and I did everything to fix you. To fix it. Thinking I’d save you again. But by morning, you laughed. Said it was dramatic. Said I was overreacting.

You hit me with a hairdryer. Creating a false reality of events, and used that falsity to justify. Excuse, why you always had to show me your wrath. And still, I apologized. Still, I found a way to blame myself.

You called your abuse trauma. Mine? Inconvenience. You spiritualized your betrayal. Said God forgave you. Said I had to. Said your affair was a lesson. That I had to understand.

You tried to kill me in spirit long before you laid your hands on my throat. Before November. Before the bruises. Before the police report you said I weaponized. Before the gaslighting. Before you told your friends I was dangerous. That I was lying.

But this isn’t about them. Or you.

This is about me. About the version of me who stayed. Who begged. Who prayed harder instead of walking away. Who covered the bruises. Who kept telling the kids that mommy was just having a hard week. Who told everyone you were just misunderstood.

You weren’t.

You were calculated. You were cruel. You were in control. And I? I was breaking. Still trying to be soft enough for you to love.

But I don’t break like that anymore.

Now, peace looks like a full night of sleep. Like not flinching when the front door shuts. Like not apologizing to the walls. It looks like quiet I don’t fear. Like mornings that don’t burn. Like not bracing for the crash that never comes.

I don’t tell myself stories about your pain anymore. I don’t rewrite your rage as fear. I don’t say “you didn’t mean it.” Because you did. You knew. You chose. You did it anyway.

And I loved you. Even then.

But I love myself more now.

That’s the part you didn’t see coming. The survival. The peace. The joy that didn’t ask permission. The voice that didn’t shake. The man who didn’t stay small.

I used to think peace would feel like vindication. Like someone finally saying I was right. But peace is quieter than that. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t prove. It just is.

You don’t live here anymore. Not in my house. Not in my mirror. Not in my memory. Not like that.

I don’t hate you. But I don’t hold you either. I remember. But I don’t bleed for it.

This is not forgiveness. It’s not rage either. It’s something deeper.

It’s a settling. Like dust after a storm. Like truth, after years of distortion. Like silence I no longer fear.

And if you ever read this, I hope you know:

I don’t owe you my pain anymore.

I owe that to myself.

And I’m finally ready to pay what I’m worth.

What Comes After Is Why This Book Exists.

Letters I’ll Never Send traces the full arc—from emotional abuse to survival to the quiet moment you finally stop flinching. But “Settled” isn’t the end. What comes next is where the healing deepens.

Reflections

This is where the voice steadies. Where survival becomes living.
These poems are quiet, grounded, and fiercely honest. They explore:

what it means to parent after trauma

how to rebuild faith without shame

and what healing actually looks like—slow, soft, and still unfinished

They’re not about being “over it.”
They’re about staying open.
Learning to trust again.
Becoming someone you want to live as—not just someone who lived through.

Letters I Never Got

Not poems—offerings.
For the one who went back.
The one still in it.
The one carrying guilt that was never theirs.

These are the words survivors needed most—and too often never heard.
They’re not closure. They’re connection.
They are the reason this story was told.

More Than a Book A Lifeline

Born from court documents, voicemails, and silence, Letters I’ll Never Send is a raw, autobiographical journey through emotional abuse, survival, and what comes after.

The print edition includes exclusive poems and reflections not available online
and helps fund nonprofits serving survivors of domestic violence.

For the ones who made it out—
and the ones still finding their way.

👉 Buy the Book →