Strong as a Mother

The alarm from my phone rang out through the stillness of our tiny, one-room basement apartment, and my hand raced to the bedside table to silence it before my son stirs. My tired eyes had already watched the sunrise from the single, tiny window above our front door, my mind too restless for sleep. I blink back the tears as I begin my morning routine: a long, warm shower to soothe the broken heart, black coffee to fill the emptiness inside, and two little round pills prescribed to treat the rest.

Years later, I would stumble across a quote by Linda Wooten that resonated deeply within me: “Being a mother is learning about strengths you didn't know you had, and dealing with fears you didn't know existed.” This is the story of the day I recognized just how strong a mother I truly am. On this day, I faced my ex-fiancé in the courtroom as the Commonwealth of Virginia pleaded my case, charging him with five felonies and three misdemeanor counts of domestic abuse, child neglect, destruction of property, and attempted murder.

I remember glancing at the digital clock on my car dash as I parked in front of the courthouse doors, my grandfather’s wise voice echoing in my head: “If you're early, you're on time; if you're on time, you're late.” I don’t think he meant I should be thirty minutes early, but nonetheless, there I was. I flipped down the visor mirror, fidgeting with my hair, touching up the drugstore makeup for the hundredth time, and pushing back the tears that hadn’t stopped falling since the night before. Truthfully, my eyes had been leaking for months leading up to this moment. The man I had loved for so long had hurt me so badly, and for months, I had felt broken. I blamed myself. Why else would he have hit me? Why else would he have tried to kill me? He told me he loved me. Why wasn’t I good enough for him to love me? I just wanted to squeeze my eyes shut and wake up in the imaginary life I had created for myself, to the place where the little family I had built with this man was happy, thriving, and safe. But I couldn’t.

My son’s sweet, little voice from the back seat snapped me back to reality, reminding me why I was there. The heartbreak quickly hardened into determination and maybe a bit of rage as I realized the only way to protect my one-year-old son from the same abuse was to walk into that big, brick building and put that man behind the iron bars he deserved.

I gave my son one last tight squeeze and a kiss on his sweet forehead before handing him to my little sister outside the courthouse doors. She touched my arm gently, nodding toward the stairs behind us and I turned to see my army, my parents, grandparents, brothers, and friends – all there to lend me their strength. A wave of warmth filled me, but so did a bit of embarrassment. My cheeks flushed, my skin burned, and I felt so small. But there was no turning back now. I forced some fake confidence, lifted my chin, and strode through the big, brass doors.

I almost lost my nerve when the judge finally announced my case. My knees were weak as I stood, smoothing my dress one last time before nervously making my way to the front of the courtroom. And I nearly crumbled again as his lawyer tore into me, exploiting my insecurities, questioning every little detail, and pointing her ruthless finger as she blamed me for the abuse. But then I caught a glimpse of my mother. Rage had twisted her expression. The same kind of rage that I, myself had felt back just moments ago in my car was plastered in her scowl. And in that moment, I understood the strength of a mother. It's the strength that can only be found in loving someone more than yourself; that kind of love fuels protection even in the face of fear.

I looked past his defense, past the jury, locking eyes with the judge as I spoke my truth. My voice, once trembling, strengthened with each statement, as if shedding my silence made me a bit lighter.  I finally admitted to myself and the courtroom just how much he had destroyed me… I wasn’t just telling my story; I was reclaiming my power.

By the time I returned to my seat, my hands were sweaty, but my mother reached down anyway and held mine tight. The judge straightened his glasses, his voice steady as he delivered the final verdict. This is my favorite part of my story. This is the moment I could finally breathe again. For the first time in months, I felt safe. Pride swelled within me as I realized I had just faced the person I feared most for years and won. Because of my strength and my voice my son and I would never have to endure his father’s abuse again. We were free.

I know my story may be difficult for some to read, it certainly wasn’t easy to write. But I also know that for others, it may be exactly what they need to hear. Anyone, regardless of gender, race, or background, can experience domestic violence, which can take many forms, including physical violence, threats, emotional manipulation, and financial control. The National Domestic Violence Hotline (NDVH) reports that, on average, 24 people per minute in the United States are victims of rape, physical violence, or stalking by an intimate partner. That adds up to more than 12 million men and women each year. Even more alarming, approximately 75% of victims who attempt to leave are killed by their abusers (Domestic Abuse Shelter).

These devastating statistics are a major reason why I chose to share my story, in hopes that it will help others recognize their own strength. And sometimes, that strength begins with asking for help. If you or someone you know may be experiencing domestic abuse, please call 800.799.SAFE (7233) or visit thehotline.org for support.