I met my ex when I was 20 years old. I was outgoing and social, but underneath that confidence I was deeply insecure about myself and unsure of where I belonged in the world. He was ten years older than me, and I was enamoured by the attention he gave me. At the time, I did not recognize what was happening as grooming.
For a while, it felt like I was living in a movie. He would come to my workplace before my shift and leave lunch for me. He would pick out pretty dresses and tell me to pick them up on my way home. He came with me to class, met my friends, learned my schedule, and quickly became a part of every corner of my life.
Then, slowly, my life began to change.
My behaviour changed. My grades dropped. I became increasingly isolated from my friends and family. The person I had been before the relationship seemed to disappear, and I became more and more focused on managing the relationship and keeping the peace.
Over the course of our relationship, I experienced repeated physical and sexual assaults. The most violent assault was secretly recorded on video.
We were constantly moving from place to place. There were conflicts with landlords, neighbours, and roommates, and I became increasingly responsible for trying to keep our lives stable. I worked constantly, doing whatever I could to keep us housed and functioning.
Even during COVID, when we ended up living in a shelter with our one-year-old son, I went back to the café where I had worked while I was in university. I worked to save enough money to find somewhere else for us to live.
Over the years, my mental health deteriorated. I felt like a shell of the person I had once been.
Then came Boxing Day 2021.
I don't know exactly what changed in me that day. I had tried to leave before. More than once. But this time, I had reached a point where I could not keep living the way I had been living.
I needed the panic attacks to stop.
I needed the cheating, gaslighting, manipulation, and lies to stop.
I wanted something better for my boys, and I wanted something better for myself.
I went through his belongings and found three flash drives. One of them contained child sexual abuse material.
I called my neighbour and asked them to take me to an Airbnb up the road with my 2 year old and 3 month old sons. I brought the drives with me so they could be turned over to police.
That decision changed the course of my life.
Leaving was not the end of the story.
Testifying in court was one of the hardest things I have ever done. During the criminal proceedings, I learned that the assault I had experienced had been recorded. I was required to watch the video repeatedly to identify myself and answer questions about what happened and what I could see. Questioned about my consent, and offered insulting theories of what might have actually happened that day.
There is a particular cruelty in having to revisit the worst moments of your life in order to prove that they happened.
After that, I had to rebuild my life from the ashes.
I had to learn how to solo parent. I had to navigate systems that often felt cold and difficult to understand. I had to manage family court and criminal court at the same time, while raising two neurodivergent children and navigating the unique challenges that come with that.
It has not been glamorous. It has not been easy. There are still plenty of hard days.
I do not believe that the systems survivors are asked to navigate are always capable of delivering the kind of justice, safety, and support that survivors actually need. I know what it feels like to be reduced to a case, a file, a witness, or a series of incidents when what you are really trying to do is rebuild an entire life.
That is why I believe so deeply in the work of SAFE.
My experience taught me that survivors need more than a place to report what happened to them. They need to be believed. They need support that recognizes the realities of trauma and abuse. They need people who understand that leaving is not the end of the story, and that surviving does not mean you should have to navigate everything that comes afterward alone.
I cannot change what happened to me.
But I can decide what I do with what I survived.
My story is not just about what was done to me. It is about the life I am building afterward, and about making sure that other survivors have someone beside them while they build theirs.
