Finding My Voice After Domestic Violence

My Voice Matters

My story with domestic violence began in childhood. Before I fully understood what abuse was, I was already learning how to survive it. I learned to observe, to remain quiet, to read the room, and to pay attention to what was happening around me. Home was supposed to be a place of safety, but for me, safety and fear existed side by side.

As a child, I witnessed things no child should have to witness. I remember living with the fear of coming home and finding my mother dead in a pool of blood. I was exposed to violence at such a young age that, over time, I became conditioned to believe that what was happening in my home was normal.

I was also taught to remain silent. I was threatened with the possibility that if I told someone what was happening, Children’s Aid Society (CAS) would come and take us away, and I would never see my family again. The fear of losing my home and the people I loved made silence feel safer than speaking the truth.

Home became a place I longed to remain, even when it was not safe.

I learned to navigate the fear I saw in my mother’s eyes and the anger I witnessed in my father’s. I learned when to speak, when to remain quiet, and how to observe the people around me to anticipate what might happen next.

I became a child who was seen but not heard.

By the time I reached elementary school, silence had become part of my survival. I rarely spoke at home, and I did not speak at school. I became what I now understand as a child who had learned to silence herself to feel safer in an unpredictable environment.

When I look back, I recognize how much of my childhood was shaped by fear, threats, and the expectation that I should see what was happening without speaking about it.

I did not yet understand how deeply those experiences would influence my identity, my relationships, my parenting, and the way I would eventually find my voice.

But even in that silence, something in me was learning.

I became a keen observer of body language. I noticed the difference between what people said and what their bodies communicated. I paid attention to facial expressions, changes in energy, tension, and the emotions people struggled to put into words.

What began as a way to navigate an unsafe childhood would eventually become an important part of how I connect with others.

What once helped me survive now helps me listen deeply.

Finding My Voice: When Anger Became My First Expression

Growing up, I was quiet. People often assumed I was shy, but they did not know the experiences that had taught me to remain silent.

Although I struggled to speak up for myself, I found myself standing up for others.

When I witnessed bullying or saw someone being mistreated, something in me changed. I was willing to defend those who could not defend themselves.

I remember an incident in elementary school when my sister came to me after a boy called her a racist slur. I was only in Grade 2. I went looking for the boy, and the anger I had carried inside me came pouring out. I physically confronted him.

At school, I became known for fighting bullies. I did not always have the words to express what I was feeling, but I knew how to respond when I believed someone was being treated unfairly.

Looking back, I recognize that my anger was one of the first ways I found my voice.

It was the expression of feelings I had not been able to communicate about my own experiences. I could stand up for my sisters, my friends, and other people who were being mistreated, but when it came to my own pain, I struggled to speak.

My experiences of abuse continued as I grew older. At age 11, I experienced sexual abuse, and once again, I was silenced.

I learned to hide my pain while continuing to protect others.

I became someone who could recognize injustice and speak against it, yet still struggle to acknowledge what was happening within me.

At age 22, I experienced a turning point. As a young mother, fresh out of college and beginning a job supporting other students, I faced racism and recognized that I needed to advocate for myself.

I had already experienced the pain of speaking about abuse and still feeling unheard. This time, I chose to use my voice to address what was happening to me and make changes that would protect my well-being.

That experience helped me recognize the power of speaking up for myself.

I began to understand that my voice was not only something I could use to protect others. It was something I deserved to use to protect myself.

From that point forward, I continued to speak, advocate, and challenge what I believed was wrong.

Finding my voice was not a single moment of transformation. It was a gradual process of recognizing that I mattered, that my experiences mattered, and that I had the right to be heard.

When Pain Hides Behind the Mask

For years, I learned how to hide my pain.

I learned how to function, how to show up for others, and how to keep moving forward, even when there were parts of me that had not yet healed.

I became accustomed to carrying difficult experiences without necessarily showing the world what I was experiencing internally.

Looking back, I understand how easily trauma can be masked.

Sometimes, the person who appears to be doing well is the person who has learned to become exceptionally good at hiding their struggles. They may be raising children, building a career, supporting their family, or caring for everyone around them while quietly struggling within themselves.

Sometimes, they have learned to minimize what happened to them because acknowledging the full weight of their experiences feels overwhelming.

Others may use humour, remain constantly busy, become the dependable person everyone turns to, or focus on other people’s needs to avoid confronting their own pain.

These responses do not necessarily mean someone is unwilling to heal. They may reflect strategies that once helped the person cope with difficult or unsafe circumstances.

Even within therapeutic spaces, it can be difficult for someone to recognize or express the full extent of their pain. A person may discuss painful experiences without feeling emotionally connected to them, or they may not yet have the words to describe what those experiences have meant.

This is not about blaming therapists or assuming that someone has failed because trauma was not immediately recognized. Trauma is complex, and people reveal their experiences at different times and in different ways.

It is about recognizing that trauma does not always present itself as we expect.

As a trauma therapist, my lived experience reminds me of the importance of approaching each person with curiosity, compassion, and an understanding that healing unfolds differently for everyone.

I pay attention not only to what people say but also to the emotions they may struggle to express. I recognize that a person may want to be heard while simultaneously feeling afraid of what might happen if they allow themselves to be vulnerable.

However, body language alone cannot tell us exactly what someone is feeling or experiencing. It is an invitation to remain curious, ask thoughtful questions, and allow the person to describe their own experience in their own words.

I want the people who enter my therapeutic space to know that they do not have to perform strength, minimize their pain, or rush their healing to make others comfortable.

They deserve a space where they can begin to understand themselves without judgment.

We cannot always see the pain someone carries, but we can help create the conditions in which they feel safe enough to share it.

My journey has taught me that healing involves more than telling our stories. It also involves understanding how those experiences shaped us, recognizing the ways we learned to survive, and gently making room for the parts of ourselves we once had to silence.

Breaking Generational Cycles: Choosing a Different Way to Parent

One of the most significant turning points in my healing journey came when I became a mother.

My first child was active, expressive, and full of energy. Having grown up in a household with girls, I struggled to understand how to manage his behaviour.

I found myself repeating what I had known growing up. When I became frustrated, I used physical punishment, including slapping him.

I knew I wanted to be a better mother than the one I had experienced, but I had not yet learned how to parent differently.

I had grown up knowing punishment and violence. Those were the tools I had been shown, and when I felt overwhelmed, I reached for what was familiar.

One day, my grandmother spoke to me about the way I was disciplining my son. She told me that I needed to stop beating him because it was not working and that I needed to find another way to discipline him.

Her words caused me to pause.

My grandmother was a wise woman, and her words carried a deeper meaning for me. She had also raised children using some of the same practices that had been passed down through our family. Yet, in that moment, she recognized that things did not have to continue in the same way.

She was now a great-grandmother, and she could see that the patterns passed down through generations did not have to continue with my son.

Her words left me with an important question: If I do not discipline my child the way I was disciplined, what do I do instead?

I knew I wanted to change, but wanting to change and knowing how to change were two different things.

I decided to educate myself.

I loved reading, and I began looking for books and information that could help me become a better parent. I also learned through television programs, including The Oprah Winfrey Show, where experts shared different approaches to parenting and discipline.

I discovered that discipline did not have to involve aggression, fear, or physical punishment.

I began experimenting with different ways of responding to my children’s behaviour. Instead of immediately reacting with anger, I started sitting down with them and asking questions.

What happened?

What were you thinking at the time?

How do you think you could have handled the situation differently?

I began listening to their responses instead of assuming I already knew what they were thinking.

I learned to use appropriate consequences, such as temporarily removing privileges, while explaining the reasons behind those consequences.

I also began recognizing something important: my children responded better when I communicated calmly rather than yelling at them.

I understood this because I knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of anger. I knew how difficult it was to communicate when fear was present.

Slowly, I began to understand that discipline could involve teaching, accountability, communication, and respect.

It did not have to involve violence.

My grandmother’s wisdom opened the door, but I had to choose to walk through it.

Her words encouraged me to learn, question what I had been taught, and develop a different mindset.

That was one of the first times I consciously recognized that I was breaking a generational cycle.

I was not simply changing how I disciplined my children. I was changing how we communicated, how we handled conflict, and how we understood respect within our family.

I began teaching my children that respect works both ways. We respect one another, our home, our family, our friends, and our community.

I also learned the importance of accountability and repair. When I made mistakes as a mother, I could acknowledge them and apologize. My children could also learn to recognize their behaviour, take responsibility, and make different choices.

We could have conversations about what happened, how we felt, and what needed to change.

I wanted my children to know that making mistakes did not mean they were unworthy of love. It meant there was an opportunity to learn, reflect, and grow.

I wanted them to understand that they could come to me when something was wrong, when they were struggling at school, when they were having difficulties with friends, or when they needed someone to listen.

I wanted them to have what I had needed as a child: a parent who was interested in their experiences and willing to hear them.

The Importance of Being Seen and Heard

One of the people who made a lasting difference in my childhood was my grandfather.

Every day when I came home from school, he would ask me how my day had been.

My mother did not ask me that question, but my grandfather did. I looked forward to those conversations because they gave me an opportunity to share something about my day and feel that someone was interested in my life.

That simple question stayed with me.

My grandfather is no longer with me, but the impact of those conversations continues to shape the way I parent.

I made a conscious decision to ask my own children about their days.

I wanted to know what was happening in their classrooms, how they felt about their teachers and friends, what they were learning, and how they viewed themselves as they explored the world around them.

I wanted to understand not only what they were doing but also how they were feeling.

I wanted them to know that their experiences mattered.

Sometimes, the most meaningful thing we can offer a child is the opportunity to speak without fear of being dismissed, criticized, or punished for having feelings.

Children need boundaries, guidance, and accountability. They also need warmth, communication, and the reassurance that they can make mistakes without losing their parent’s love.

As a mother, I learned that parenting is not simply about correcting behaviour. It is also about understanding the child, building trust, and creating opportunities for growth.

I was learning to offer my children some of the things I had needed myself.

In many ways, I was also learning to care for the younger version of me who had not always felt seen or heard.

Breaking generational cycles meant changing the way I responded to my children, but it also meant changing the way I understood myself.

It meant recognizing that the practices I had inherited did not have to define the practices I passed on.

I could honour my family and my cultural roots while choosing different ways of parenting.

I could acknowledge what previous generations had endured without repeating every response they had learned.

I could love my family while making room for change.

Coming Home to Myself

My grandmother’s wisdom continued to influence me long after that conversation.

I carried with me a hunger to learn, grow, and do better for myself and my children.

Even when I was told that I was not good enough or that I would never become a social worker, I continued to pursue my dream.

I wanted to further my education, challenge the beliefs that had been placed upon me, and discover what was possible when I stopped allowing other people’s expectations to define my future.

Looking back, I recognize that my journey was about more than becoming a social worker. It was also about becoming more fully myself.

Coming home to myself means understanding my roots, acknowledging the trauma within my family history, and recognizing how different generations responded to the experiences they endured.

It means learning without judgment and acknowledging that understanding the past does not require me to excuse the harm that occurred.

It means recognizing that I can honor the people who came before me while making different choices for myself and the generations that follow.

I have come to understand that I am not simply someone who survived trauma. I am also someone who has made conscious decisions about what I want to create from my experiences.

I am a cycle breaker.

That realization carries responsibility, and at times, that responsibility feels heavy. Breaking patterns that have existed for generations requires awareness, courage, and a willingness to challenge what once seemed normal.

It requires me to reflect on my own responses, acknowledge my mistakes, and remain open to learning.

It also requires compassion for myself.

Healing has meant allowing myself to cry, to feel, to be seen, and to be understood. It has meant recognizing that growth is not always comfortable and that becoming a different version of myself does not require me to reject who I have been.

I have learned to reconnect with the parts of myself that brought me joy.

Journaling, painting, playing soccer, participating in track and field, singing, and dancing have all been meaningful parts of my journey.

Movement helps me reconnect with my body. Creative expression gives me another way to explore my feelings. These activities remind me that healing can involve more than talking about painful experiences. It can also involve rediscovering what makes us feel alive.

Little by little, I have been learning to return to myself.

Coming home to myself means making room for every part of who I am: the child who survived, the woman who found her voice, the mother who chose a different path, and the person who continues to grow.

My life is not defined solely by the trauma that happened to me.

My life is also shaped by what I have learned, the choices I have made, the relationships I have nurtured, and the person I continue to become.

I am learning to fall in love with myself, perhaps in ways I could not fully understand before.

I am learning that I deserve the same compassion I offer others.

I am learning that healing is not about becoming someone who has never been hurt. It is about building a relationship with myself that allows me to acknowledge what happened without allowing it to define everything that comes next.

My story is still unfolding.

And today, I choose to meet that unfolding with greater understanding, compassion, and intention.

Supporting Someone Experiencing Domestic Violence

My experiences have shaped my understanding of how difficult it can be for someone to speak about abuse.

A person experiencing intimate partner violence may feel afraid, ashamed, isolated, confused, or uncertain about what to do next. They may love their partner while also fearing them. They may want the abuse to stop but feel unable to leave because of financial circumstances, children, housing, immigration concerns, threats, or fear of what their partner might do.

Sometimes, the person may not identify their experience as abuse at all.

Other times, they may know that something is wrong but feel unable to talk about it.

If someone you care about is experiencing domestic violence, your response can make a difference.

You do not need to have all the answers. What matters is approaching the person with compassion, respecting their choices, and helping them access support without increasing their risk.

1. Listen without judgment

Allow the person to share their experience at their own pace.

Avoid questioning why they stayed, why they returned, or why they did not speak up sooner.

Instead, you might say:

“I’m glad you told me. You do not deserve to be treated this way, and I am here to listen.”

Remember that trust takes time, particularly when someone has experienced manipulation, threats, or repeated violations of their boundaries.

2. Believe them and acknowledge their experience

People experiencing abuse may already be questioning their own judgment because of what they have been told or how they have been treated.

Listen without minimizing what happened or making excuses for the abusive behaviour.

You can acknowledge their experience without pressuring them to make a particular decision.

Let them know that the abuse is not their fault and that they deserve to feel safe.

3. Avoid pressuring them to leave

Leaving an abusive relationship can be complicated and, in some circumstances, dangerous.

The risk of harm can increase when an abusive partner believes they are losing control of the relationship.

Rather than insisting that the person leave immediately, ask what they need and whether they feel safe.

Offer support with exploring options, contacting an advocate, or developing a safety plan.

Respecting their autonomy does not mean ignoring the danger. It means helping them consider their options while recognizing that they know aspects of their circumstances that you may not.

4. Offer practical support

Sometimes, meaningful support involves small, concrete actions.

You might offer to help them find information about local services, arrange transportation, accompany them to an appointment, or identify a safe person they can contact.

If they wish to develop a safety plan, a domestic violence advocate can help them consider their circumstances, including the safety of their children, access to important documents, medication, finances, and a safe place to go.

Do not make decisions on their behalf without their consent unless there is an immediate emergency requiring action.

5. Be mindful of privacy and technology

If someone is experiencing abuse, their phone, email, location, or online activity may be monitored.

Ask what communication method is safest before sending messages, leaving voicemails, or sharing information.

Do not post their situation on social media or disclose their whereabouts without permission.

If they are planning to seek help, support them in contacting an appropriate service through a safe device or communication channel.

6. Know when to seek urgent help

If someone is in immediate danger, call 911 in Canada.

If it is safe to do so, help the person connect with a domestic violence service that can provide confidential guidance, safety planning, and information about available resources.

In Ontario, the Assaulted Women’s Helpline offers support to women experiencing abuse, including crisis counselling, safety planning, and referrals.

Assaulted Women’s Helpline:
1-866-863-0511
TTY: 1-866-863-7868
Website: https://www.awhl.org/

For additional information about family violence and available services across Canada, visit the Government of Canada’s family violence resources:

https://www.canada.ca/en/public-health/services/health-promotion/stop-family-violence.html

If someone is not ready to take action, continue to offer appropriate support without judgment. Let them know they can return to the conversation when they are ready.

You cannot make another person’s decisions for them, but you can help them understand that they do not have to face their circumstances alone.

7. Remember that supporting someone can affect you, too

Supporting a loved one who is experiencing abuse can be emotionally difficult.

You may feel frustrated, worried, helpless, or afraid for their safety.

Seek guidance from appropriate professionals when needed, maintain your own boundaries, and remember that you do not have to carry the entire situation alone.

The goal is not to become someone’s only source of support. It is to help them connect with safe, appropriate resources while offering compassion and consistency.

Sometimes, the most powerful message we can offer is simple:

“You deserve to be safe. You deserve to be heard. And you do not have to figure everything out today.”

A Message to Anyone Still Finding Their Voice

If you have experienced domestic violence, childhood trauma, or circumstances that taught you to remain silent, I want you to know that your experiences matter.

You may have learned to survive by pleasing others, hiding your emotions, staying quiet, or becoming the person everyone else depends on.

Perhaps you have spent years protecting others while struggling to acknowledge your own needs.

Perhaps you have become so accustomed to being strong that allowing yourself to feel vulnerable seems unfamiliar.

Whatever your story, you deserve the opportunity to understand yourself beyond the experiences that shaped you.

Healing does not happen all at once.

It may begin with recognizing that something was not right. It may involve learning to express emotions you once suppressed, setting boundaries you were never taught to establish, or asking for support when you have spent years believing you must manage everything alone.

It may involve learning to trust yourself again.

There will be moments when growth feels uncomfortable. There may be times when you recognize patterns you wish you had understood sooner. You may discover that some of the ways you learned to survive no longer serve the person you are becoming.

Meet those discoveries with honesty and compassion.

You are allowed to learn.

You are allowed to change.

You are allowed to create relationships that are different from the ones you experienced growing up.

And you are allowed to build a life in which safety, respect, connection, and joy are not things you must continually fight to deserve.

For me, the journey from fear to freedom has been about more than finding my voice. It has been about understanding why I lost it.

Your experiences matter. You don’t have to face it alone.