Finding My Rhythm: Healing, Leading, Becoming

We were in Hawaii. On the surface, it looked like a dream — palm trees swaying gently, the golden sun slipping into the ocean, the warm breeze brushing my skin. We had been in couples therapy for a while. But not anymore. I had quietly stepped away, continuing only with individual therapy. Because deep down, I already knew.

I was going to leave him.

It wasn’t a decision made in anger. It was made in silence, over time, through therapy and reflection and grief. I knew he wouldn’t take it well. I feared his rage, the volatility I had come to know too well. I didn’t know how far he might go — whether his anger would stay verbal, or spill into something more dangerous. So, I prepared, like a woman quietly packing for war.

I started stashing cash — small bills here and there — opening my own checking account. I packed a go-bag for myself and the children and kept it hidden in the trunk of my car. I researched shelters, safe houses. And all the while, I danced carefully around him. I didn’t say the words out loud. Not yet. I hoped — maybe foolishly — that I could make space between us without making fire. That maybe, if I didn’t close the door completely, he wouldn’t explode.

Then came the cruise. He wanted to take me on a sunset sail. Just the two of us. He said it would be romantic — a way to reconnect. I agreed. Not because I wanted to, but because I was still trying to avoid what I feared might happen if I refused.

So, we left the kids in the hotel with movies and snacks and boarded a catamaran.

The night was breathtaking. The waves lapped gently. The sky was painted in impossible pinks and golds. For a moment, I let myself feel it — the peace, the beauty.

Then he started talking.

“Have you made up your mind?”

“What are you going to do?”

“Are you going to commit to this marriage?”

And I knew — this was my moment. I spoke softly, cautiously, each word measured like I was walking across ice.

“I think… it would be best if we took some space.”

His face changed instantly. I watched the warmth drain from his features. His eyes sharpened, his jaw tightened, his voice dropped into a quiet fury.

“If you leave me,” he said through clenched teeth, “I will take the children from you. I will fight you all the way. No one will want you.”

My hands went cold. My heart pounded in my ears. I fought to stay calm, to keep from trembling. Because the worst part was — I believed him. I knew the kind of power he held. I knew his family had money, influence, resources I didn’t. I knew how charming he could be in public, how easily people believed his version of things. And I knew if I walked away, the battle ahead would be long, ugly, and bruising.

We got back to the hotel. The children were still awake, and my son reached for me — wanting to be held, to be read to, like always. I moved to take him into my arms.

But my husband got there first. He physically took him out of my grasp.

“You can’t have him,” he said.

My son screamed for me — confused, frightened. My other children watched, frozen, wide-eyed. And I just stood there, stunned.

What kind of father uses his child as a pawn?

I had known the cruelty he was capable of, but this… this was a different kind of cruelty. One that weaponized innocence.

I looked at him. Really looked. And said quietly, “Really? You’re going to use your child like this just to hurt me?”

He didn’t answer. He just stared, as if daring me to stop him.

Eventually — maybe because he realized how far he had gone, or maybe because there was nothing left to win in that moment — he tossed our son to me and stormed out.

I held my crying child, shaking. And I knew: this was no longer about a broken marriage. This was a battlefield. And the children were at the center.

That night changed everything.

I had always known something wasn’t right. The control, the gaslighting, the manipulation disguised as love. But that night in Hawaii was the first time I saw it. The mask had slipped. The man who said he loved me had turned into the man who would try to destroy me. Not because I was wrong. But because I was leaving.

I knew then that the road ahead would be long — a high-conflict divorce, the kind that twists everything into war. I would have to be smart, calm, resilient. I would have to protect my children, and myself, from the kind of damage no one sees from the outside.

But I also knew this: I wasn’t going back.

Because no sunset, no vacation, no pretty picture could hide what I now saw with clarity. And once you see it, you can never unsee it.

This was the beginning of the end. And the beginning of my fight for peace, safety, and healing.

For my children. And for myself.