Introduction

Hi, my name is Kiya.

I’ve been married for 10 years, and that sentence alone holds more pain, hope, confusion, and heartbreak than I can fully explain. I come from a history of loss. My mom died by suicide when I was 8 years old. After that, my grandparents tried to raise me, but when they got too old, I was placed in foster care. I grew up with this deep feeling of abandonment and never really knowing where I belonged. I felt unwanted, like I was just being passed around from one place to another.

When I met my husband at 18, I was vulnerable. I thought I had found safety, a forever person. I married him just three months after we met. But it didn’t take long for things to become abusive—physically, emotionally, and mentally. He would accuse me constantly of cheating, even though he was the one cheating, using drugs, and hiding things from me. During our first year of marriage, he had a baby with another woman and didn’t tell me until the baby was almost one year old.

I was young, isolated, scared, and attached to him in a way I didn’t fully understand. He became the only person I had in the world, and even though the relationship was terrifying at times, I stayed because the thought of being alone again felt even scarier. I stopped reaching out to the world. I would stay in the house for weeks, even months at a time. I blocked out the sunlight—literally—by putting blankets over the windows. I lived in darkness, not just in my home, but inside myself.

He would beat me often—especially when he drank or used—and it became normal to walk on eggshells. Every time he misplaced something, I was accused of sneaking men into the house while he was at work. He’d use that as a reason to hurt me.

In 2019, he promised to change. He said if we moved to North Carolina, he would get clean and start over. I believed him. But when we got here, things only got worse. We ended up homeless, living in a car for a year. He started drinking heavily and became a violent drunk. When we finally got a place to stay, he brought more chaos—paying women for sex, threatening me, strangling me, and continuing to accuse me of cheating with people that didn’t exist.

I lived in a constant state of survival.

In 2021, I finally reached a breaking point. A neighbor saw him choking me through the window and called the police. That’s when I left and entered a domestic violence shelter. I stayed for six months. It was one of the most terrifying but also eye-opening periods of my life. I had never really been away from him, and I didn’t know how to exist without the chaos. But I met good people there—women who reminded me I wasn’t crazy and that I deserved more.

But the trauma bond was deep. When I found out he moved in with one of the women he used to pay for sex, I completely spiraled. I couldn’t understand how she was getting the version of him I had begged for. I left the shelter and rented a place near him, trying to manifest him back into my life. When she eventually had him arrested, I bailed him out. He moved in with me, and I thought this was our second chance.

From 2022 to early 2024, he was sober. I helped him through every step of getting back on his feet—getting his documents back (he’s a refugee from Africa and had lost everything), driving him to court, supporting him financially because he couldn’t work. I thought we were finally in a healthy place, even though I began struggling with alcohol myself. I had my own pain to numb, but I was never violent. I was just trying to cope.

When he finally got a job, I was hopeful again. But within three months, the accusations started all over again. He said I brought a man to the house on Valentine’s Day. He beat me multiple times, then left. I felt crushed. I started drinking more, texting him constantly, trying to make sense of why this kept happening. But then I got my own apartment, and as soon as I did, he started reaching back out. I let him move back in, hoping maybe this time would be different. But with him came the same old rules: no friends, no peace, no freedom. He didn’t like that I lived near a friend who supported me. He tried to isolate me again. And then he left—again.

He kept visiting on weekends until eventually he moved back in. Then he convinced me to move back to Greensboro and get a bigger house. It was a place I couldn’t afford, but he could. And now he uses that to control me. He installed cameras all over the house. He tracks my location. He still accuses me of cheating over the smallest things—like going to the store.

The physical abuse is gone now, but the mental abuse has only gotten worse. I finally told him I was done. I told him I didn’t love him anymore. That I didn’t want to be with him. At first, he didn’t believe me. He kept poking at me emotionally, trying to trigger the old version of me who would cry and beg. But this time, I didn’t. And I think that scared him.

Eventually, he sat down and said he wanted to really work on things. He offered me the same dream he’s been offering me since I was 18—the same one he used to get me to leave everything and move across the country. But I’m almost 30 now. That dream never showed up, and I’m starting to accept that it never will.

He has criminal charges in multiple states. He’s facing immigration issues that may not be fixable. And even now, after all the destruction, he still wants me to help him find peace. But I finally understand—he never wanted peace for us. He wanted control over me.

And now I want peace.

For the first time in my life, I want to choose me. I’ve lived my whole life being moved around—first in foster care, then in chaos with him—leaving everything behind over and over. But this time, I’m not running. I’m grounding. I’m staying. I’m healing.

And I’m ready to build a life that’s finally mine.