When I look back on my childhood, it’s hard to separate who I am from what I went through. I grew up experiencing abuse and moving between care placements, and like a lot of young people in that situation, I just wanted one thing – stability. A place to belong. Someone who wouldn’t leave.
There was one message I heard over and over again growing up: everyone just needs one person who will stand by them no matter what. At the time, it felt comforting. Hopeful, even. I held onto it tightly.
But I’ve learned later in life that idea can be really complicated.
When my time in care ended, I threw myself into relationships, searching for that “one person”. My first serious relationship started well — we built a home together, had a child — but cracks soon appeared. He became distant, unfaithful, and before long, I found myself reliving those old feelings of being unwanted. So, I left.
Then I met someone new. He seemed to be everything I’d been longing for — affectionate, attentive, someone who made me feel safe. There were warning signs, though. Other people raised concerns about him, but he always had an explanation. He spoke about his own trauma, and I felt for him. I thought if I loved and supported him enough, things would change.
I think a lot of us fall into that trap.
When he said that everyone always left him, I felt like it was my job to be the one who didn’t. That belief that I needed to stay no matter what became one of the biggest reasons I didn’t recognise the abuse for what it was.
Because it wasn’t always obvious. It wasn’t just physical. It was emotional, controlling, manipulative — the kind of behaviour that creeps in quietly and makes you question yourself. I blamed myself. I told myself things would get better.
There were so many barriers to leaving. Pressure to keep the family together. Professionals focusing more on preserving the relationship than really understanding what I was going through. I tried to leave more than once, but guilt and hope pulled me back every time.
Then Covid hit, and everything became even harder. Care proceedings started, my children were removed, and I felt completely alone. Ironically, the person I had the most contact with during that time was my ex, which made it even easier for the cycle to continue.
Things finally began to shift when I joined the Breathe Free programme. For the first time, I was in a space where I didn’t feel judged. I was surrounded by women who got it. I felt seen, heard, and most importantly, believed.
That experience changed everything.
I started to understand that the abuse was never my fault. I learned how my childhood had shaped my relationships, what healthy relationships actually look like, and how manipulation and control can show up in ways you don’t always recognise.
But the biggest shift? Letting go of that idea that I only needed one person.
Because the truth is, we don’t. We need connection, community, and support — not one person carrying everything.
As I rebuilt my confidence, I also started to find my voice again. Eventually, my children were returned to me, and I was given the chance to become a co-facilitator with Breathe Free. At first, I doubted myself, but it’s been one of the most important parts of my journey.
Now, I use my experiences to support other women. I’ve built a career working in domestic abuse services, developing programmes for women who’ve been through similar things to me. I now deliver a new support programme, Our Circle, for women and girls who are pregnant or have a child and have had experience of the care system.
And today? I have healthy relationships, a strong support network, and a sense of purpose I never thought possible.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: you don’t have to stay to prove your worth. And you definitely don’t have to do life alone.