Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

Travel, for most families, is a mix of excitement and chaos. For us, it was also a minefield. Whether road-tripping across states or navigating the cobbled streets of Europe, it was always a gamble—an adventure laced with dread. On the surface, we were a family of six setting out to make memories. Underneath, we were walking on eggshells, never knowing when the next explosion would come.

In the tight spaces of cars, planes, and hotel rooms, there was no escape—for any of us. And for him, that was the problem. No buffer. No distraction. Just us. Just noise. Just need.

He had no tolerance for chaos, yet we traveled with four kids. Noise, bathroom breaks, hunger pangs, whines and giggles—life—was unavoidable. But every pit stop we made without his approval lit the fuse. A request for a snack? A child needing to use the restroom? It was met with mounting irritation—first a sigh, then a biting comment, then finally a storm.

We braced for it. The slamming of the steering wheel. His voice rising to a roar. We’d gone too far. Eyes down, shoulders tight, we sat in silence. Afraid. Just waiting for it to be over.

But nothing compared to what happened in Italy.

It was hot the day we visited Pisa—one of those European summer days that melts the edges of your patience. The kids were tired, thirsty, and hungry. Our eldest, always the one he scapegoated, asked for ice cream. A simple, human request from a child. But it was enough to send him over the edge. He snapped at her—cutting, cruel. And then, he snapped at all of us. He threw money at me like an afterthought, turned on his heel, and stormed off.

There I was—alone, trembling inside, on a busy street in a foreign country with four young children.

And yet I had to smile.

I had to smile and say, “It’s okay,” even though I didn’t know how we were going to get back to Florence. I had to be strong for them, to be calm, to look like I wasn’t terrified. My kids looked up at me, eyes wide and unsure, asking, “How will we get back, Mommy?” I smiled, swallowed the lump in my throat, and said with a voice far steadier than I felt, “We’ve got this.”

I took their hands. I led us to the train station. I fumbled through the ticket machine. I reassured them, even though I couldn’t reassure myself. The sun was still blazing. We were exhausted, hungry, scared. And still—I was the one holding it all together.

When we got on the train, I silently exhaled. We were doing it. I was doing it.

And then—he was back.

Smiling. Relaxed. Laughing. As if nothing had happened. No apology. No acknowledgment of the fear, the abandonment, the stress. When I confronted him later, trying to explain how scary it was to be left behind, he brushed it off. He claimed he just went for a walk. Said he gave us money—what more did I want?

And just like that, he flipped the script.

Maybe I had misread the moment? Maybe it wasn’t as dramatic as I thought? He acted so normal… maybe I had overreacted?

That’s gaslighting.

It’s the erosion of truth. It’s the rewriting of events to suit the abuser. It’s being left stranded with your children in a foreign country and later questioning if it really was that bad.

It’s emotional abuse.

It’s real.

And it’s invisible to everyone but the person living it.