Beautiful Lies

New here? Good.

You probably don’t care about my trauma yet, but I didn't write this for sympathy.

I wrote it because I know someone else needs it. Maybe that someone is you.

I wasn't born tough. I had to learn it the hard way.
And I didn't just leave a bad marriage, I left an entire life that was eroding me from the inside out.

Some kids dreamed about prom. I dreamed about escape.

I wanted air that didn’t taste like tension and floorboards that didn’t constantly give you away.
My idea of safety was silence, and freedom was anywhere but there.

I can’t always remember what year things happened (time tends to blur things when your nervous system is constantly on alert).

But I remember that feeling in my stomach when I heard certain footsteps in the hall.
The way the door opened…that alone could tell me everything about how the night would go.

Back then, I didn’t know to call it trauma, and I definitely didn’t think of it as training.

But in hindsight, that’s exactly what it was, because I remember rehearsing escapes I’d never make.

Accepting apologies no one ever gave and creating entire arguments in my head, coming up with epic mic-drop bombs that no one ever heard.

I became a master of reading a room and always staying two steps ahead. I learned how to keep myself small and quiet, and sometimes, that worked.

My bedroom was the safest place in the house (which really isn’t saying much). My mother had me keep peanut butter and saltines under my bed for when she wasn't home l so I wouldn’t have to come out and risk running into him.

She thought it was about his temper, his insults. But she didn’t know the whole story.

He used guilt, fear, and shame to keep me quiet with the threat of what might happen if I ever said the truth out loud.
And then one day, I said it anyway.

It was an elementary school play, of all things, that resembled my life a little too much.
And so I said the thing I wasn’t supposed to say to the people that I wasn’t supposed to say it to.

But even after he left, those instincts stayed; the guilt, the hypervigilance, all of it. They don’t magically disappear when the threat is gone; they just…wait for the next signal. Still do, sometimes.

But so did something else.

📬Hooked? Get stories like this (plus extras) straight to your inbox every Thursday.

I’ve always needed a story to keep me going.

When I was little, I danced in front of my bedroom mirror, holding my curling iron like a microphone and lip-syncing to Celine, Whitney, Tina, or Debbi Gibson (look, it was the 80s, OK?).

When I wasn’t nailing routines in our grimy garage under an imaginary spotlight, I was memorizing movies line for line.
Not necessarily because I loved them, but because they were predictable and safe.

Nothing bad ever happened in those worlds unless the script said so.
Real life didn't offer that kind of guarantee.

Looking back, I don’t know if I ever truly wanted fame. I think what I really just wanted was control, some sort of ‘authority over the storyline’, if you will.

Because when your earliest memories are built around a father whose presence did more damage than his absence ever could, daydreaming is oxygen for survival.

But eventually, that lifeline became a strategy.

When I was fourteen, I got into the top performing arts school in the state. It was competitive, intense, full of talent, chaos, and drama, and I earned my spot there.
I loved every moment of it. I had real chops, maybe enough to make it.

But after graduation, while my classmates headed off to LA, Juilliard, or some obscure-but-impressive theatre program in Europe, I stayed.
I let someone else’s fears talk me out of the risk, and I called it being realistic.

But if we’re being honest (and we are, now), I was just scared. Mostly of being seen. That little nugget of fear hasn’t fully left me either. More on that later.

I don’t blame anyone else for the choice I made, but I’d be lying if I said I never wondered what would’ve happened if I’d gone anyway.

Instead, I got married. I regret everything about that marriage except the daughter it gave me.

I used to think all the beautiful lies were mine, just daydreams I created to survive through visions of being special, chosen, maybe even celebrated.

But the real damage came from the ones he told me.

He said he’d always love me. That I was beautiful and amazing, and that he respected me.
That we were in it together. He said allll the right things, and I believed him. I needed to.

Back then, I thought if I just tried harder, stayed longer, got better, if I did everything right, I could make those lies come true.

He didn’t break his promises. He just never meant them.
And somehow, that felt worse because I had built an entire life around words he had used to keep me anchored to him.

He was going blind when we met, and I felt responsible, like I’d signed some unspoken emotional contract.
But just to be crystal clear, it wasn't the blindness that made me doubt myself. It was literally everything else I believed about my own worth.

For every sweet word he said, there were red flags I pretended weren't there. I thought that was just how love worked.
I’m ashamed to admit it now, but I didn’t think I could do better, wasn’t even sure I deserved better. And what started as compassion became codependency.

And still, I wanted to be good-a good wife, a good mom, a good person, useful, supportive, capable-the kind of person who just…handles it.

So I handled it.

I handled his moods, his dog, his appointments, our daughter, our house, our jobs, and his lies. I got blamed when things broke and dismissed when I tried to fix them.
And every time I threatened to leave, he’d threaten himself.

I begged for a couple's therapist. He said, “Going to therapy means admitting there's a problem.”

Which, ironically, might be the most honest thing he ever said.

💡 Know someone stuck in a cycle that needs breaking? Share this with them. Sometimes bravery needs backup.

Meanwhile, I was drowning.

I didn’t stop retreating into my imagination because I was more mature; I just didn’t have the capacity.
My entire existence had become this endless sort of triage. I forgot what it was like to imagine a life I wanted, let alone believe I could have it.   

Still, when we were at our lowest point, I convinced myself I could fix it.  That if I were strong enough, patient enough, and selfless enough, I could pave our way to a normal life.

It was delusional, but I’ve learned that survival usually is.

So I went back to college and tried to claw my way toward something better for all of us.
And instead of his support, I got his suspicion. “You’re just going to college to find someone better and leave me,” he said.

Le sigh. More red flags than a matador parade, and I still stayed and put up with it.

I really wish I could go back in time and just…smack the stupid right out of myself, you know?

But I know why I stayed: hope, hope that was constantly used against me. And I was still in too deep to really see it.

I remember driving down a busy road, rattling off another list only I could finish. He’d already called several times that morning, supposedly “checking in,” but it was never really about that.

It was about control, making sure I wasn’t out doing anything I shouldn’t be. God forbid I have a moment to myself or speak to someone who wasn’t him.

The irony of it all was I was swamped with responsibilities he refused to share; there wasn’t time for me to breathe, let alone cheat, even if I were the type, which I’m absolutely not.

There were no thank-yous. No, "I see you. I appreciate you." Just more weight on my back. More expectations and more of damn near everything except help.

And it hit me, this visceral truth that I felt deep in my bones:

This is it.
This is the rest of my life.
This was all it would ever be.

The same arguments, loneliness, and never-ending loop of thankless obligations would be the same when I was fifty as they were then in my twenties, and that terrified me.

Not long after that, someone asked: "So, tell me about yourself." And I had nothing.
I had no identity that didn’t involve someone else’s needs. I wasn’t a beloved wife. I didn’t even feel like me. I was nothing but a utility.

That’s when I knew I had to go.

At the time, I didn’t have the language for it; I was just sick of playing the part of the dutiful, doting spouse in a one-woman show. So I detached.
I stopped trying to make him understand, stopped engaging, stopped reacting. I was just...there.

Nowadays, they call it gray rocking. He noticed pretty much right away, of course. He cried and told me I didn’t love him anymore.

I didn’t lie.
"I don’t want to be in this marriage anymore," I replied, my voice flat and emotionless.

That’s when he suggested therapy.

But it was too late. I was already gone in every way but legally.
And of course, the very first thing he asked was if there was someone else.

That was always his go-to assumption, this immediate suspicion that I must’ve had someone else all lined up.
As if he couldn’t imagine that he might be the reason I was done.

That accusation pissed me off more than it should have. I had taken my vows seriously. I had made promises before God, and I meant them.
I even sat down with my minister before I left, unsure if leaving was “allowed.”

But I’ll never forget what he told me: “God doesn’t want His children suffering. Divorce isn’t always a failure. Sometimes it’s a blessing.”

That conversation gave me the clarity I needed. I hadn’t been lying for the past nine years, and I wasn’t breaking my vows in that moment.

I was just finally honoring the part where I mattered, too.

Then came the threats to himself again. And what used to guilt me into staying now just pissed me right the eff off.
In that moment, I finally saw it for the disgusting manipulation tactic it was, a last-ditch power play.

So I called his bluff.
And I’m not real proud of this, but I replied, “Fine, then do it in the bathroom with the door shut so your daughter doesn’t have to see it.”

Was it harsh? Maybe.
But I'd spent years swallowing guilt while he played the martyr. That day, I finally stopped.
Because even in that moment, I was the only one thinking about her, and I needed him to know I wasn’t buying his act anymore.

And don’t worry, y’all, he’s still very much alive.
Probably still waiting on that Oscar.

☕ Support the stories; buy me a coffee (or two)

His family called me selfish and demanded that I “do my job.” Left voicemails badgering me about who was going to take care of him now.

Yes, they literally said exactly that. Like I was the goddamned hired help they refused to acknowledge until it inconvenienced them.

But I had a daughter watching all of this.
And I was not letting her grow up thinking that this was love.

That thought became my line in the sand. I didn’t care how messy it got, I wasn’t letting this continue, or god forbid, become generational. Not on my watch.

So I kept pushing, even when it got brutal. Even when it felt like everyone wanted me to go back to being quiet and selfless and agreeable.

The divorce should’ve been the end of it. But it wasn’t.
Even after the divorce, he kept calling, ostensibly about parenting schedules, but it was really about keeping access to me, and for a while, I let him keep it.

But eventually, I remember thinking, more than once,  “Didn’t I pay a lot of money to not have to deal with this?”

I hadn’t accomplished very much by getting the divorce I thought would magically change me. I had to set the boundaries myself and stick to them.
That was truly what ended the cycle.

And slowly, I remembered that version of me who used to imagine so much more.

I kind of stumbled around at first, trying to reconnect with myself. I didn’t even know what I liked anymore, so I tried everything, even stuff that felt ridiculous.

I let myself suck at things and gave myself permission to be new at my own life.
It was this weird, no-man’s-land of figuring shit out and unlearning what my former life had taught me.

It takes time to believe that your goals aren’t delusions, and you aren’t ungrateful for wanting more.
And finally, I stopped waiting for everything to be perfect enough for me to be ready and just started acting like I was.

It’s literally how the weight came off the second time, both physically and emotionally.
I learned to live with intention and lost the burden of constantly explaining myself to people who never wanted to understand in the first place.

I didn’t need another beautiful lie; I needed a goddamned plan.

🔥 Waiting for your ‘aha’ moment? Stick around, there's more.

I still live in my head, probably more than I should.
But now I use those visions to move forward and level up.  

When I run or lift, I’m in an intense training montage. (I know it sounds goofy as hell, but I swear it helps.)
When I clean house, I pretend I’m prepping for VIP guests, who are, for the record, just me and my family.

But still. Why shouldn’t we be the VIPs in our lives?

When I used to run marathons (okay, mostly halves, but whatever), I didn’t really care about the medals (although yes, I’ve kept them all).
I cared about finishing, about proving I could embrace the suck and keep going when everything in me wanted to quit.

Every mile was personal.

And yeah, now I get to say things like “when I used to run marathons,” which is just... obnoxious, I know. I’m working on it.

And now, after a decade of digging out of the brutal winters up here, I've decided I'm moving somewhere that doesn't even sell snow shovels. Not maybe, it’s gonna happen.  

I picture the grocery runs, the beach walks, the everyday rituals of that life I’m building, and plan accordingly.
I make choices like she already exists, because in my mind, she does. I just haven’t caught up to her yet.

Same tool, different mission.

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the future, especially the big, audacious goals that still scare me a little.

At eighteen, I didn’t know how to picture myself in a life that wasn’t handed down to me.
I’d internalized this idea that big, ambitious dreams were for people who were…better. Thinner. Prettier. Smarter. Chosen.

I had already decided I wasn’t, so I built a life around whatever seemed realistic and easier to explain.

But now, when doubt creeps in, when I start to think I can’t possibly do this thing, I ask myself the one question that literally changes everything:

“What if I can?”

That one thought is my secret to my success, and I’m not near done yet.
Because I want range, and even more so, impact.
I want to take the life I scraped together and launch something audacious from it.

Even if some part of me still wants to hide under my desk every time I hit “publish”.
Visibility still makes me twitchy, but so did underwire, and I got used to that, so...

You can't create something authentic and stay invisible. I’ve tried; it doesn’t work.

So when that voice creeps in and whispers Who do you think you are?
I answer: I’m someone who has already survived worse and made it beautiful.

And I already have damn good reasons to keep going that surpass the visions in my mind.

If I want to be strong and self-sufficient in my 70s, I have to keep showing up for myself now.
If I want peace in my home, I have to create it every day.
If I want to be damn sure the damage I lived through doesn’t become a family tradition, then I have to break the cycles, every time.

And when all that gets too hard, then I just keep going out of spite.
Whether we admit it or not, we all have someone out there rooting against us, who gets a little thrill at the thought of us breaking or giving up.

They’re gonna be waiting a while.
I’ve got work to do, and nothing sweetens a comeback like real-life villains.

I used to escape into beautiful lies.
Now I create a life that doesn’t require them.

Heather is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing real stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in nearly 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.

Heather is an essayist and longtime ghostwriter publishing real stories about trauma, reinvention, and the absurdity of real life.

Creator of Unfinished Business, a platform reaching readers in nearly 20 countries for its dark humor, emotional precision, and refusal of performative healing, whether the story is about grief, growth, or just getting through Tuesday.