This Body is Bullshit

I left him when she was two years old.
I didn’t leave because I suddenly found my strength—I left because she deserved better.

There was a time when I didn’t recognize myself. I was hollowed out by a relationship that chipped away at me little by little. The damage he caused went beyond words. It left marks no one could see. The kind that linger in your body long after you’ve left. The kind that make you flinch even when no one’s raising their voice.

I don’t talk about all of it—some things I’ve kept quiet. But trust me when I say, it was dark. And getting out was the bravest thing I’ve ever done… until I had to rebuild myself with a toddler on my hip.

Even after I left, I still tried. I wanted her to have a dad. I wanted her to have some version of a family. So I gave him chance after chance. We tried. She tried. But he kept doing the same damage. He made her feel small. Scared. Unworthy. And one day, she just… stopped. She cut ties. She chose herself.

It’s been over ten years since they’ve spoken. I fully support her choice. She knew what she needed long before most adults do.

She’s always been like that—intuitive. Emotionally sharp. Fiercely self-protective, even when it hurt.

People see her now—Grace, with her master’s degree in forensic psychology, her job in trauma prevention, her independence—and they say, “You must be so proud.” And I am. God, I am. But we didn’t get here on a straight path. It was jagged, messy, and lonely. It was cereal for dinner and quiet crying in the bathroom. It was holding things together with duct tape and dark humor.

We were a team. I was 23, barely more than a kid myself, but I had her—and that gave me purpose. We didn’t have much, but we made it work. Road trips in shitty cars. Nights in watching Disney movies and eating popcorn. The kind of closeness that’s born out of survival.

I always overcompensated on her birthdays—made sure the whole family was there, spent more than I had just to make it fun and memorable. I needed her to feel loved. To know she was loved. Because I never wanted her to feel like she came second to anyone.

She’s still healing. She recently had her heart broken by someone I never saw the magic in. I won’t pretend I was upset when it ended—but watching it break her was brutal. She told me she never wants to date again. I get it. But I still hope she finds someone one day who truly sees her, respects her, and loves her for exactly who she is.

I carry guilt about what I couldn’t give her. The money. The calm. The two-parent stability. But she got something else. She got fight. She got honesty. She got a love so big it spilled over, even when I had nothing left to give.

And somehow, she turned that into power. She’s self-sufficient. Fierce. Kind. She doesn’t rely on me financially, even though I wish I could do more. She’s out there doing real work—helping people in under-resourced, traumatized communities break cycles most of us can’t even imagine.

I still worry about her, of course. I worry that she’s internalized more than she lets on. That she inherited my anxiety. That she carries invisible weight. But I’m in awe of her. She’s healing out loud in ways I never knew how to.

And if I’m being honest, she saved me. Not with a grand gesture. Just with her being. She gave me the push I needed to leave. To try. To believe I could be more than someone’s shadow.

So no, I didn’t do this alone. Not cancer. Not motherhood. Not any of it.

She saved me first.