Rebuilding Life with Grace

Tag: faith

  • It Started Small

    It Started Small

    It started small. Over a pair of shoes, of all things.

    I used to be a runner. It was one of the few things that made me feel strong, free, alive. But he insisted that if I were going to keep running, I needed to wear high-top shoes. “To protect your ankles,” he said. I tried, but I couldn’t run in them—they felt heavy, unnatural. Eventually, I just stopped running.

    Then it was the books I read. The clothes I wore. The food I ate. Makeup, friendships, how I laughed, how I prayed. Bit by bit, my choices were no longer my own. Each small thing, on its own, might not have seemed like much. But together, they created a slow unraveling. The me I once knew began to disappear beneath layers of compromise, silence, and self-editing.

    Even in our wedding—what should have been a celebration of us—my voice was barely present. My input was overridden. My preferences erased. I didn’t know it at the time, but the ceremony was more than symbolic. It was a reflection of the story that was beginning to unfold: a life where his wants always came first.

    I wish I had known then what I understand now.

    Control doesn’t always shout. Sometimes it whispers. It hides behind “helpful advice,” behind concern that feels like protection—but costs your autonomy. It reshapes you until you forget the sound of your own voice.

    I’m still learning to hear mine again.

    This isn’t the part of the story where everything is fixed. I’m not out. I’m not free. Not yet. But I am awake. I’m paying attention. I’m rebuilding inwardly, even while things outwardly remain the same. I’m holding on to what I can—small pieces of myself, fragments of hope, glimpses of who I used to be and who I still am, deep down.

    And I’m writing. That, too, is a step. A quiet rebellion. A gentle remembering. A reminder that my story is still mine to tell.

    If you’re reading this and quietly nodding because it feels familiar—please know you are not alone. Your voice matters. Your story matters. And even if you’re not ready to leave, you’re allowed to begin healing right where you are.

    If you ever need someone to talk to, or if you just want to learn more about what emotional abuse can look like, help is available—safely, and confidentially.

    👉 Click here to visit The National Domestic Violence Hotline or call 1-800-799-7233.
    (They’re available 24/7, and there’s a “quick exit” button on their site for safety.)

    Be gentle with yourself. Every small act of remembering who you are is an act of strength.

    Be blessed and stay safe,

    Michaela Noelle Grace

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

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

    Silouette of a discouraged woman looking into the distance

    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