When I was younger, I didn’t understand the pain I carried—or maybe I just didn’t want to. I ran from it, hiding behind distractions, diving headfirst into new relationships after every breakup like they were lifeboats keeping me afloat. Grief never stayed long. I’d cry for a bit, wipe my face, and convince myself I was fine. I never paused to ask, “Why did this hurt? What did I do wrong?” Instead, I told myself it was always them—their problems, their flaws, their mistakes. I never looked in the mirror long enough to see the reflection of my own.

Have you ever done that—blamed others because it was easier than facing your own mistakes?

What’s scarier for you: losing someone, or realizing you were the one who caused the loss?

Some relationships ended quietly. Others ended in chaos, tangled in fear and domestic violence. When things turned violent, I left without explanation. I didn’t have the words—I just had fear. So I moved forward, leaving behind people and pieces of myself without looking back. For a while, I thought that was growth: “Just keep moving.” But running isn’t healing.

Eventually, I decided to stay single for three years. I thought I was “enjoying life,” but really, I was just giving my wounds space to hide, untouched. Then I met Jenna.

With Jenna, things felt different—or at least I wanted them to be. But even in love, my patterns followed me like shadows I couldn’t shake. Miscommunication crept in, leaving both of us frustrated, despite trying our best. One day, I lost my temper. I threw my eyeglasses into the grass—not at her, not near her, just…away from me. But it scared her. To me, it was just an outburst, a moment of frustration. To Jenna, it was domestic violence.

I was confused. Angry, even. “How could that be domestic violence? I didn’t hurt anyone.” But confusion doesn’t erase impact. I tried to see it from her perspective, but I didn’t understand—not yet. So I attended domestic violence (DV) training and therapy sessions, logging 20 hours that would change my life more than I expected.

Have you ever thought your actions weren’t that serious until you saw them through someone else’s eyes?

How do you react when someone tells you that you’ve hurt them, even if it wasn’t your intention?

Through therapy, I uncovered memories I had buried deep. I saw flashes of my childhood: my parents quarreling, the sound of shouting echoing through walls, and the image of my mother holding a gun, pointing it at my father. I remembered the stories my mom shared—stories laced with violence, fear, and survival. I realized I had been exposed to domestic violence long before I even knew what to call it. It had seeped into me quietly, like smoke, invisible but suffocating.

I also started to see the patterns in my past relationships—the triggers I normalized, the behaviors I excused because they felt familiar. I finally understood why Jenna couldn’t accept any form of domestic violence, no matter how “small” I thought it was. I learned. I faced my mistakes. I changed.

Jenna and I got back together, and for a while, it felt like things were getting better. But healing isn’t linear, and self-awareness doesn’t erase the past. After four months, I opened up to Jenna about my status—something I had hidden from her. She was devastated. I had lied. I cried, apologized, begged for forgiveness, and somehow, we stayed together. But I still didn’t fully understand what it meant to be honest—not just with her, but with myself.

Why do you think it’s easier to lie sometimes, even when we know the truth will eventually come out?

Is it fear of hurting others—or fear of facing who we really are?

In 2022, it happened again. Another lie. Another betrayal. Jenna found out, and this time, she was done. Her anger burned through me like wildfire. I freaked out, apologized, pleaded—but it was too late. She decided to leave, and with her decision, my world collapsed. I woke up to a reality I couldn’t outrun. She was gone. Our marriage was over.

For two years, Jenna struggled to heal, and I struggled to accept that I had shattered something beautiful. Eventually, she asked for separation. I didn’t fight it. I knew it was time to face the truth: I was the one who broke us.

We both sought individual therapy, unpacking years of buried emotions and unspoken truths. It was uncomfortable. Painful. I hated peeling back layers I had worked so hard to cover. But I realized I needed to sit with my discomfort, to feel the grief I’d always dodged. It was the only way forward.

What’s the hardest truth you’ve ever had to face about yourself?

When was the last time you sat with your own pain instead of running from it?

I started to see the patterns—the lies, the fear of vulnerability, the inability to face my mistakes. I finally understood why people had cut me off, why I had left trails of broken hearts behind me. I had hurt people, not just with my actions but with my avoidance of accountability.

Sometimes, I wish I could rewind time, rewrite my mistakes, offer the apologies I never gave. But life doesn’t work that way. I can’t undo the past. All I can do is move forward, carrying both my grief and my growth.

I’m proud of myself—not because I’m perfect, but because I finally stopped running. I’ve faced my uncomfortable truths. I’ve reached out to people I’ve hurt, asked for forgiveness, not to ease my guilt but to acknowledge their pain. Whether they choose to forgive me or not is their choice, and I respect that.

Have you ever asked for forgiveness, not to clear your conscience, but to truly honor someone else’s pain?

What would you say to the people you’ve hurt if you had one more chance?

This journey isn’t about redemption in someone else’s eyes. It’s about reclaiming my humanity, piece by piece, mistake by mistake.

And for the first time in my life, I’m not afraid to sit with the discomfort. Because that’s where healing begins.

What does healing look like for you?

Are you ready to face it, even if it hurts?