For almost the last ten years, I was certain that I was searching for peace. Peace from the noise and chaos of an abusive marriage and the rebuild that followed the separation and divorce. Peace from the bruises you couldn't see - the ones that impacted your nervous system and infiltrated thought patterns and behaviours. Peace from the pretending, from the smiling and the appearance of having it all together, whilst everything inside was screaming. Peace from the whispers, the side-eyes, the unsolicited advice from those who never lived a day in our shoes. Peace from the court documents, the affidavits, and the inbox that never stopped pinging with demands and deadlines. Peace from the lies, the twisting of truths, the accusations that tried to rewrite our story, and the energy it took to fight for every morsel of truth. Peace from the mess that always followed the rage, and the silence that followed the mess. Peace from the weight of parenting alone, with no map, no mirror, no help, and three small hearts depending on mine. Peace from the complete upheaval of my life and that of my children. Peace from the pressure of it all, and promise of peace that a new life would bring.
And so I searched, chased, and fought for my peace. And for a while, I found it - usually in the smallest, most unexpected moments. I found it in choosing new furniture, without needing to ask or explain. I found it in picking out bedsheets and towels that felt like me. I found it in the quiet thrill of buying a car I actually wanted—because I could. I found it in the freedom to decide what to spend, what to save, and what to let go. I found it in the stillness after the court case ended, when the noise finally stopped. I found it in parenting decisions that were mine alone—guided by love, not control.
I found it in planning family trips with the kids, listening to their ideas, but knowing the final call was mine.
I found it in the absence of someone talking over me, undermining me, or punishing me for choosing differently.
I found it in the sovereignty of my own choices. And in those moments, peace wasn’t just something I chased—it was something I claimed.
But I was still searching for something more. Something deeper than peaceful moments.
For a long time, I couldn’t name it.
I thought it was money. I thought it was owning a home again, so we didn’t have to rent.
But it was more than that—because whether it was rent or a mortgage, the pressure still lingered.
It wasn’t about the numbers.
It wasn’t even about the house.
It was about what I thought those things would give me.
And then one day, it hit me.
I was never really searching for peace.
I wasn’t even chasing money.
I was yearning for safety.
Safety wasn’t just a locked door or a steady income.
It was the feeling that no one could take my choices away.
It was knowing I wouldn’t be punished for saying no.
It was the absence of walking on eggshells.
It was the presence of breath—deep, full, unguarded.
Safety was being able to cry without being mocked, to laugh without being watched, and to speak without being silenced.
Safety was the quiet miracle of waking up and knowing the day was mine to shape.
And once I named it—once I realised that safety was the thing I’d been aching for all along—everything shifted.
I stopped chasing peace like it was something outside of me.
I started building safety like it was something sacred.
One boundary at a time.
One decision at a time.
One moment of self-trust at a time.
Safety became something I started to reframe—and something I began teaching my children, not just through words, but through the way we lived.
It became a quiet rhythm in our home.
A language we spoke through boundaries, through honesty, through the way we showed up for each other.
Safety wasn’t just a concept—it became our family’s foundation.
And now, I see how that foundation is shaping their futures.
Each of them, in their own way, is choosing a path that honours safety—not just for themselves, but for others.
My eldest is studying criminology and psychology.
She wants to understand the ‘why’ behind harmful behaviours—so that prevention becomes possible, and safety becomes the norm, not the exception.
She’s drawn to the roots, not just the symptoms; To healing, not just reacting.
My son is exploring careers that play to his strengths—and also promise financial stability.
He’s clear-eyed and intentional.
He wants to build a life where safety isn’t compromised by stress, scarcity, or dependence.
He’s choosing abundance as a form of protection.
And my youngest is looking toward the police force.
Not for power, but for presence.
She wants to be the one who steps in when protection is needed.
She carries a quiet courage—and a fierce sense of justice.
Each of them is weaving safety into their story.
Not because I told them to.
But because they lived it.
Because we rebuilt it together, one moment at a time.
I look at them now—with their clarity, their compassion, their courage—and I feel something deeper than pride. I feel awe. Not just at who they’re becoming, but at what we’ve survived to get here. We didn’t just escape an abusive beginning—we alchemised it. We turned pain into wisdom, chaos into clarity, fear into fierce love. And though the road was long and brutal, we walked it together. We learned, we unlearned, we grew. And now, the legacy we’re building isn’t one of trauma—it’s one of truth, safety, and sovereign strength. That is what I’m proud of. That is what we’ve claimed.
Our story is far from over.
There’s still more to learn, more to grow, more to feel.
But now, we walk forward with a foundation built not from what broke us, but from what we chose to rebuild.
I’m excited for what comes next—not because it will be perfect, but because we’ll meet it with truth.
And most of all, I’m grateful.
Grateful that what I was searching for wasn’t lost—it was waiting.
Waiting in the quiet, in the courage, in the love.
The search for safety was never just about escaping harm.
It was about remembering who we are beneath it.
It was about reclaiming choice, rewriting legacy, and anchoring love in places where fear once lived.
I’m proud—not just of what we’ve survived, but of how we’ve grown.
Of the way my children now walk with clarity, courage, and compassion.
Of the way we’ve turned pain into purpose.
Our lives aren't perfect, but now we walk forward with safety in our bones, and with peace no longer as a distant dream, but as a quiet companion.
Not all was lost because so much was found.