Why I Haven’t Left Yet: The Silent Struggle You Don’t See

I want to start by saying something that’s hard for me to admit:
I haven’t left yet.

I’m still here. Still trying to survive. Still hoping, praying, bargaining with God that something will change. And if you’re reading this and wondering how I can stay in something that’s breaking me—I get it. I ask myself the same thing almost every day.

But the truth is, it’s not that simple.

From the outside, things look relatively normal. But from the inside, it’s confusing. Manipulative. Subtle. It twists love into control and convinces you that the pain is your fault. That if you just tried harder, prayed harder, were more patient or submissive or forgiving—things would be different.

I’ve told myself that more times than I can count.

Some days I feel strong enough to leave. I pack a mental suitcase in my head. I play out conversations I might have. I imagine what it would feel like to breathe without tension, to sleep without fear. But then that voice in my head starts up again:

“Where would you go?”
“What if no one believes you?”
“Maybe it’s not really abuse—maybe you’re just too sensitive.”
“What if God is testing you to see how much you’ll endure?”

I’ve stayed because of fear. Because of guilt. Because of what people at church might think. Because I don’t want to “break the family.” Because I’m scared of the unknown. Because part of me still believes the version of me he created—someone small, someone unlovable, someone who can’t do life on her own.

But I’m starting to see through the cracks.

I’m starting to remember that I used to laugh freely. That I used to have dreams. That there is a version of me buried beneath the silence and shame—one who hasn’t given up completely.

I don’t have a clean ending to this post. I don’t have a rescue story or a triumphant escape—yet. All I have is the truth I’m finally brave enough to say:

This is not love.
This is not what God meant for me.
And I don’t want to stay like this forever.

I’m writing this for anyone else who hasn’t left yet. Maybe you’ve been told that you’re overreacting. Maybe no one else sees what goes on behind closed doors. Maybe you’ve been holding on for so long that you’ve forgotten how to let go.

You are not crazy. You are not weak. You are not alone.

And you don’t have to explain your story to people who haven’t lived it.
You just have to keep waking up. Keep breathing. Keep hoping.
Keep remembering that your safety matters. Your peace matters.
You matter.

I’m still here—but I’m not blind anymore.
And one day, when I’m ready, I’ll write the post that starts with the words:
“I left.”

Until then,
Michaela Noelle Grace