When the Past Knocks After a Decade

 There are moments in life that begin to shake you before they even arrive. Moments that make your chest heavy, your breath shallow, and your mind spiral into old rooms you fought so hard to escape. I’m standing at the edge of one of those moments.

After ten years, this isn’t a reunion. It’s not about closure or reconnection. It’s necessity. It'about her.

She’s nine now. A lifetime has passed since the last meet . She doesn’t remember much, not really. But she knows enough. She knows through my guarded silences, the papers she’s seen, the questions I still struggle to answer. She senses the tension. She feels the shift in my energy. And just like me, she’s anxious.

What breaks me is how we’re both trying to protect each other. She wants to be brave for me, and I want to be unshakeable for her. That silent pact between mother and daughter—unspoken, but deeply felt—wraps itself around my heart like armor and ache all at once.

No one understands the full weight of this. No one saw the bruises left behind—not just on my body, but on my spirit. No one saw the humiliation, the shame, the way I shrank under the weight of the verbal abuse. No one saw how I kept surviving while the world kept saying, “It’s over now. Move on.”

But how do you "move on" when your body still remembers the sound of slammed doors and broken promises? How do you heal when the system designed to protect you ends up draining you further—through courtrooms, paperwork, delays, and doubts?

Throughout my pregnancy, I was in and out of court. What should have been a time of joy, anticipation, and gentle preparation became a battlefield. Instead of baby showers and belly kicks, I had statements and anxiety. That sacred nine-month journey was stolen from me. And no one gives it back. No one even acknowledges what was lost.

And now, I’m expected to be “civil.” To be composed. To guide our daughter through a moment she never asked for. To suppress my anger, my fear, my grief—for her sake. And I will. I always will. Because she’s my reason. My strength.

But that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

I’m writing this because the world is quick to forget women like me. Quick to judge. Quick to dismiss. They see time passed and assume healing has occurred. But the truth is, healing isn’t a straight road. It's a spiral. Some days you’re fine. Other days, you're suddenly breathless with pain you thought you buried.

I carry a lot. Anger, grief, exhaustion. But I also carry pride. I carry ten years of growth, of strength built in the dark, of rising from wreckage. I carry my daughter’s trust, her laughter, her security—things I fought tooth and nail to protect. I carry the voice I once lost, and have slowly reclaimed.

So when the past knocks—when it demands my presence, my grace, my stillness—I show up. Not because I want to. But because I can now.

And that’s something no one can take from me.

Even if no one else understands.