Surviving the Storm: A Love Letter to My Healing Journey

Its been two months since I found out the man I thought I was building a life with had been cheating on me.

The heartbreak wasn’t just emotional — it felt like a thousand swords stabbing my heart all at once, over and over again.

Since then, I’ve been trying to exist inside a nightmare I can’t yet wake up from.

On the outside, it might look like I’m holding it together — navigating my complicated relationship with my mother, managing my home, raising my daughter — but inside, I’m still fighting waves of pain that come without warning.

Some days, like today, I even find myself laughing and smiling around him.

Not because the pain is gone — but because survival sometimes looks like choosing not to bleed in front of the person who wounded you.

I think back to the times when I would have curled up next to him on the couch after putting our daughter to bed.

But now, even in fleeting memories, the betrayal slices through any warmth I might feel.

I’ve moved on — I know that. I don’t want him back.

But moving forward? That’s the part that feels impossible some days.

Not because I’m stuck in love, but because the practical steps — finding financial stability, building a way out — take time.

It’s torture living under the same roof, watching him prepare himself for other women, watching him glow for them the way he couldn’t even pretend to for us.

And yet, every morning, I wake up and fight.

Because I have a little girl who deserves better.

I fight not for him, not even for the version of myself that he broke —

I fight for her.

Because if something were to happen to me, I need to know that I did everything in my power to protect her from a future where someone like him could ever hurt her.

Some days I feel like he’s a cancer, draining the very soul out of me.

I know that no simple stitches will fix what he’s done — my healing needs surgery, chemotherapy, an entire rebirth.

And still — I survive.

I breathe through the heartbreak.

I resist the urge to engage in his cruelty.

I choose silence when silence is safer.

I choose peace when my spirit aches for justice.

I’m carrying more than heartbreak.

I’m carrying the weight of breaking generational curses, of healing patterns that run deeper than anyone sees.

It feels like everything, all at once — and still, somehow, I float.

I survive.

I endure.

I keep showing up.

Not because it’s easy. Not because I don’t cry behind closed doors.

But because my daughter deserves a mother who fought for both of them.

I pray every day for a lifeline — for the day when someone sees the battle I’m fighting and says,

“You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. We see you. We are here.”

Until then, I carry my own torch.

And every flicker of light I create is proof:

I am my own rescue.