On average, couples date for three to five years before marriage. For me, getting to know my husband began after we were married.
Three months after our first meeting in 1993, I married the man I believed was the love of my life. At the time, this was not unusual in the Sikh Punjabi community. Long courtships were rare, and marriage itself was often the place where love was expected to grow. Everything appeared aligned; faith, family, careers, values. What felt like a bold leap of faith, however, began to tilt toward uncertainty soon after the wedding.
I stayed through the first five years because I believed in what we had begun. There were moments of connection, hope, and genuine affection. I wanted to believe that with time, understanding would deepen and challenges would soften. Living in a joint family initially felt like support, but over time I realized it also masked what was breaking between us. The presence of others filled the space where intimacy should have been, camouflaging the growing distance. I stayed because I hoped that love, family involvement, and patience could fix what was quietly unraveling.
During those early years, our three children were born. As our family grew, so did the imbalance. Looking back, I can see that the abuse has already begun; the control disguised as concern, manipulation framed as authority, anger justified as discipline. In 1999, after a major crisis and my ultimatum to leave, my husband began attending anger-management classes. I stayed again. It was not the life I had imagined, but I believed effort meant progress.
Over time, my reason for staying shifted. Protecting my children became my primary concern. I feared that leaving would expose them to his unpredictable behavior without my presence as a buffer. Staying under the same roof, though deeply painful, felt like the lesser evil. It allowed me to shield them, to absorb the volatility myself rather than leave them alone with it during court-ordered visitations. I stayed because I believed that my proximity was their protection. I told myself that having both parents, even in a broken marriage, was better than the alternative. I would later understand how flawed that belief was. But at the time, it was a decision rooted in fear and maternal instinct, not weakness.
After few years, I stepped away from my career to become a stay-at-home mother. It felt like the right choice for my children. I wanted to be present, vigilant, available. But that decision also tethered me financially and delayed my exit. Over time, the idea of rebuilding a career felt overwhelming. Leaving no longer meant just escaping abuse; it meant starting life over from the ground up, with no financial footing and three children depending on me.
As I began the slow process of reestablishing my career, another challenge emerged. Our older daughter began struggling with her mental health. I had no framework, no language, and no understanding of what we were facing. Watching her suffer without answers added a new layer of fear to an already fragile life. I was navigating her needs while still managing a home steeped in tension. The emotional weight was relentless.
Eight more years passed. Years spent searching for a diagnosis, learning through exhaustion, and living in constant uncertainty. Time blurred. Hope thinned. I wondered if this was simply our fate.
Then the pandemic arrived.
COVID stripped away distractions and distance. Forced proximity exposed truths I could no longer deny. In the isolation and stillness, I finally understood that I did not have to keep living this way. Survival was no longer enough.
In the fall of 2022, our older daughter became ill again. It was terrifying. As I began learning more about mental illness and defense mechanisms such as projection, another truth emerged alongside that knowledge. I started to see her father’s long-standing anger and abusive patterns through a clearer lens. In April 2023, during one of the most fragile moments of my parenting life , when our daughter needed steadiness and care above all else, I found myself without support. After a night in which we had spoken about setting aside our differences to focus on her well-being, the following morning brought accusations and a tone that made it clear trust and emotional safety were no longer intact. There was also a quiet awareness, long present in the background, that added to my unease. In that moment, clarity arrived; not gradually, but decisively. I understood that staying was no longer protective, and that realization landed with the weight of a physical blow.
For the first time, I understood that he, too, was deeply unwell; living with an undiagnosed mental illness that shaped his anger, lack of empathy, and inability to repair. This realization brought conflicting emotions; compassion for the suffering he never addressed, and grief for the damage it caused. Understanding explained his behavior; but it did not excuse it.
I reached a breaking point. Our daughter had already lost the steady presence of her siblings because of his behavior. Now, she needed them and she needed me. Fully. Strong, clear, and unwavering. For her to heal, she needed safety. Stability. A home free from fear and chaos. I made the most painful decision of my life. I chose my child over my marriage.It took me five days to secure a place to go and gather only what was essential. On the fifth morning, at Amrit Vela, I loaded my car with a single suitcase holding nearly three decades of life. I left quietly and arrived at a space that was empty, unfamiliar, and peaceful - a place I would begin to call home.
After nearly six months of suffering, I was finally able to get treatment for my daughter.
I left not because I stopped believing in family, not because I no longer valued commitment - our laavan, but because love without safety is not love. And staying would have cost my daughter her chance to heal and me my last remaining strength.
To my readers
When I decided to share my story of those years of the pandemic, the unraveling of my marriage, and the fractures within our family; I did not do so to assign blame or to seek validation. I shared it because silence had protected harm for too long, and truth, even when painful, is a form of dignity.For a long time, I believed that if I just tried harder, loved better, explained more gently, absorbed more pain, I could keep my family intact. I mistook endurance for strength. I mistook self-erasure for sacrifice. And like many women, especially mothers, I confused being “the glue” with being necessary. The truth is quieter and harder. No family can be held together by one person bleeding silently.
The most important shift did not come when people left, or when relationships went quiet. It came when I stopped calling fear “misunderstanding.” When I stopped asking my children to tolerate what I would never accept for them.
To the Ones Who See Themselves Here
If you are reading this and recognizing your own life between these lines, I want you to know this-
You are not weak for staying as long as you did.
You are not cruel for leaving when you did.
You are not failing your family by refusing to absorb harm.
Families do not fall apart because someone finally speaks. They fall apart when someone never listens.
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