There was the time we were out together, on what was supposed to be a simple evening. We had just sat down to eat when I felt it — a slight tingle in my throat that quickly escalated. I realized, too late, that something I had eaten was triggering an allergic reaction. The nausea washed over me and the dizziness set in.

“I need to get home,” I croaked, barely able to form the words. My heart pounded as I reached for my bag, searching for Benadryl.

“Home?” he asked, frowning. “We just got here.”

“I think I’m having an allergic reaction,” I whispered, trying to stay calm. “I need to lie down and take something.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed, but got up and followed me to the car. As we drove, I kept my head down with my eyes closed, hoping to distract myself from intoxicating nausea.

“Are you seriously going to ignore me the whole way?” he snapped, breaking the tense silence.

I turned my head slightly, still unable to speak. “I’m not ignoring you,” I managed to whisper. “I feel so sick.”

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath. “You always ruin everything. I try to do something nice for us, and you have to pull this.”

I stared out the window, stunned by his reaction. My chest tightened further, not just from the allergy but from the weight of his words. This wasn’t about me being sick; this was about him feeling inconvenienced. In that moment, his anger overshadowed my safety, his frustration more potent than my need for care.

When we got home, I took the Benadryl and lay down, waiting for the symptoms to subside. He didn’t ask if I was okay. He didn’t check on me. Instead, he retreated to the other room, leaving me alone with the echo of his accusations.

I lay there, my body calming but my mind racing. This wasn’t normal. This wasn’t love. And yet, I told myself it was just one bad moment, just one time he didn’t understand. With my eyes wide open yet completely blinded, I reassured myself that, I can fix this. I can make myself better for him. If I can change myself and be more sensitive, this won’t happen anymore.

Deep down, though, I knew it wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.

I stopped recognizing myself about three months into my marriage. I looked in the mirror one day and saw a reflection of a girl I didn’t know, someone who had been trying too hard for too long. My world had narrowed to a series of negotiations — walking on eggshells to avoid conflict, trying to maintain peace, trying to convince myself that this was just our rookie season.

The weight of our finances had been pressing down on me for weeks, but I kept pushing it aside, telling myself everything would somehow work itself out. We were living in Israel while he learned in kollel, and I was in school, trying to juggle classes and part-time work. Our expenses were piling up faster than we could handle, and the small savings we had brought with us were quickly running out. I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t in a good place — financially or otherwise — and the uncertainty gnawed at me.

Finally, I decided to speak up. I knew the conversation would be uncomfortable, but it had to happen.

“Hey, can we talk about something?” I asked, my voice tentative. “I’ve been worried about our finances.”

He looked up, his eyes narrowing instantly. “What’s this about?” The defensiveness in his voice was clear, and my heart sank a little.

“I just think it would help if we went over the budget together,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral, though I could feel the nerves creeping into my chest. “Make sure we’re on track, so we don’t get caught off guard with bills or anything.”

He stiffened. “What do you mean, ‘on track’?” His voice was cold now. “Are you saying you don’t think I’m handling this properly?”

“No, not at all!” I rushed to reassure him. “I’m just saying it might be a good idea for both of us to be involved in looking at it. I just want to be sure we’re on the same page.”

His face flushed, and his fork hit the plate with a force that made me flinch. “So now I’m not good enough to handle things by myself? Now you don’t trust me?” His voice was rising, each word sharp, like a blow to my chest.

“No, that’s not it,” I stammered, panic starting to rise in my throat. “I’m not saying you’re not good enough — I just thought it might help us to check in, to be on the same page. It’s not about trust.”

“That’s exactly what it is!” he barked, his voice trembling with anger. “You don’t trust me. You think I’m incompetent. You think I’m a failure, and now you’re trying to control everything.” His fists clenched against the table, his knuckles white. “I’m doing everything I can, and this is how you repay me? By questioning my ability to take care of us?”

I could feel the walls closing in, the heat of the moment overwhelming me. “I’m not trying to control anything. I just want to make sure we’re both okay. This is about us working together, that’s all.”

He leaned forward, his eyes burning with frustration. “You’re always making everything about ‘working together.’ But when it comes down to it, you don’t trust me. You’re waiting for me to mess up. That’s what you think of me, isn’t it? You think I’m not good enough to be your husband, to take care of you.”

“No, that’s not what I think!” I almost screamed. But I couldn’t make him understand. The air between us felt thick, suffocating, and no matter how much I tried to explain myself, it was like we were speaking different languages.

“Then what is it?” His voice was low, dangerous now. “Why are you always doubting me? Why do you think I’m just one mistake away from falling apart?”

The words hit harder than I expected. I felt tears threatening to spill but I couldn’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him. Instead, I closed my eyes, took a shaky breath, and fought to steady my voice. “I’m not doubting you. I’m just scared, okay? I’m scared that we’re falling short of our budget.”

He stared at me, his gaze filled with disbelief, but also something darker — something that made me feel smaller than I ever had before. “You’re scared?” he repeated, his voice now dripping with disdain. “You think I’m not capable of taking care of us? Of being a good husband? You think I can’t handle things?”

I wanted to reach out, to explain that it wasn’t about him, that it was about the pressure I felt, the fear of us being overwhelmed by something neither of us could control. But it was too late. His words had already carved deep wounds. I tried to speak again, but my voice faltered.

“You’re the one making this hard,” he spat, standing up suddenly and storming toward the door. “I’m doing my best, but it’s never good enough for you.”

I sat there in silence, my heart sinking. He left the room without another word. And I was left alone with the heavy realization that no matter how hard I tried to communicate, no matter how much I wanted to build a life together, I couldn’t make him hear me. In those moments, my world shrank further. Every decision, every word became a potential landmine. I found myself constantly trying to preempt his anger, sacrificing pieces of my own peace to maintain a fragile calm.

But with each piece I gave up, a different kind of doubt crept in: Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am too critical. Maybe I’m ungrateful and insensitive. His accusations played on a loop in my mind, weaving themselves into the narrative I told myself. Overcoming that doubt was not an immediate process. At first, I internalized his words, bending over backward to prove I wasn’t the things he accused me of. I second-guessed my needs, my instincts, even my attempts at connection.

There was the time I told him I needed to run a quick errand, and his entire demeanor shifted. “Why do you need to leave the house without me?” he asked sharply, his tone leaving no room for compromise.

“I’ll only be gone for a little while,” I replied cautiously, but he cut me off. “No,” he said, his voice firm. “You don’t need to be wandering around by yourself. People will look at you, and I’m not okay with that.”

I tried to push back, to explain how ridiculous it sounded, but his glare froze me. “I’m your husband,” he said, his voice now quieter but no less sharp. “And it’s my job to protect you. You don’t need to get attention from anybody else.”

I stayed home that day, and many days after, but his words replayed in my head. Was it really about protection? Or was it about control? The lines blurred until I couldn’t tell anymore.

It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences that stretched on like unwelcome guests. It was the slow erosion of my spirit, a gradual chipping away at who I was. Maybe I’m overreacting, I would think after another tense exchange, the words hanging in the air, unspoken but heavy. Abuse isn’t always loud; sometimes it’s the quietest thing in the room. Is it really that bad, or am I imagining it? I would ask myself, the doubt creeping in like a shadow I couldn’t shake.

Sometimes it’s the insidious kind that seeps into your mind and makes you doubt your own reality. Maybe if I just try harder, it’ll get better, I’d reason, clutching on to the hope that things would change. It’s the subtle control over your decisions, your thoughts, your very core. “Why can’t I just get this right? Maybe it’s me?” became a constant refrain in my mind, slowly replacing the voice that once knew my worth.

Each thought chipped away at my confidence until I no longer trusted my own judgment. I’m not even sure what’s real anymore, I’d realize in quieter moments, the weight of the control pressing down on me, suffocating and silent.

Then I’d waver. “Maybe we just need more time to figure things out,” I’d suggest, more to myself than to him. “It’s only been a few months. We’re still learning.”

He’d scoff, shaking his head. “This isn’t normal.”

No, this wasn’t normal. I’d wonder, lying awake at night, replaying our conversations, dissecting every word. I convinced myself that all new marriages went through rough patches, that this was a common shanah rishonah challenge, and things would get better with time.

Yet deep down I knew I was clinging to a hope that felt more like an illusion with each passing day.

Over time, I began to notice a pattern. No matter how much I gave, no matter how much I silenced myself or softened my words, his response was always the same. I started to reclaim my perspective, grounding myself in the truths I knew deep down: that asking to be heard wasn’t ungrateful, that having needs wasn’t a flaw, and that love wasn’t supposed to make me feel like I was walking on eggshells. Slowly, I began to separate his narrative from my reality, to remember the person I was before his words became my inner dialogue. I started to see the truth clearly: It wasn’t that I wasn’t enough — it was that no amount of effort could ever be enough for someone who refused to see me.

Sometimes trying harder isn’t the answer. Sometimes the best thing you can do is to stop trying to hold something together that was never meant to last.

At Shabbos tables, I often overheard conversations about young couples getting divorced, with comments that seemed to dismiss the complexity of their situations. “It’s the lack of communication that’s ruining marriages these days, especially with the younger generation,” someone would say, shaking their head. “If they only tried harder, they’d still be together.” Others would chime in, agreeing that young couples these days don’t have the grit to make it through tough times. “It’s too easy for them to walk away,” they’d argue. “They get married so young and don’t even know how to handle the challenges that come with it.” It was always the same narrative: If only they had communicated better, or been more persistent, their marriages would have lasted. But no one ever spoke about the deeper, quieter struggles that often go unnoticed — the things that can’t be easily fixed with just a conversation or a little more effort. As much as people liked to place blame on communication or perseverance, I knew my story was far more complicated than the oversimplified judgments tossed around at those tables.

Staying in a marriage that was slowly crushing me would have been the real failure. Leaving was an act of self-preservation. As a child of divorced parents, my greatest fear when stepping into shidduchim was the possibility of facing divorce myself. I spent years working on healing, believing that by doing so, my future marriage would be different — that my husband and I would break the cycle simply by staying together. I’ve come to realize how deeply I misunderstood what breaking the cycle truly meant. It wasn’t about avoiding divorce at all costs; it was about having the strength to recognize when to let go. The real act of breaking the cycle was choosing to end what wasn’t meant to be and finding freedom in that choice.

The day I decided to leave was both devastating and liberating. There’s a form of grief that comes with ending something that once held so much hope. But there’s also a strange relief, the soundless realization that you’ve chosen yourself, even when it’s the hardest thing to do.

At the time, I didn’t let anyone know what was really happening. I convinced myself that keeping it to myself was the only way to manage it. That was my shame taking the stage.

It wasn’t until a few close relatives flew in for a wedding that the facade began to crack. They didn’t need me to say a word — within hours, they picked up on the tension that hung in the air and saw what I’d worked so hard to conceal. They intervened immediately, breaking open a door I’d kept bolted shut.

Before that, the only person I confided in, even in small ways, was my kallah teacher. I’d drop pieces of my reality into our conversations, testing the waters. Her advice was always clear yet gentle: “Take space for your emotional safety,” she would say. “You need to tell someone who can help you. You can’t carry this alone.” Her words echoed in my mind constantly, even as I hesitated to act on them.

Only after I had separated for my own safety did I finally reach out to mentors and rabbis. Their reactions were unanimous — shock, sadness, and a resolute clarity about what needed to happen next. They didn’t mince words: This was not a marriage to endure. Their support gave me the validation and strength I desperately needed, but it was only after so much damage had already been done. Looking back, I wonder how different things might have been had I opened up sooner, inviting the people who cared about me into my world.

The process of getting a get was another battle. It wasn’t just a legal process; it was a spiritual struggle, a fight for my own autonomy within the framework of halachah.

It was a yearlong painful process, filled with frustration and moments of deep uncertainty. Each step felt like navigating a maze where the walls could shift without warning, leaving me uncertain of whether I’d ever find my way out. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, each filled with meetings that left me drained, and phone calls that ended in frustration. There were moments when the uncertainty pressed down on me so heavily that I wondered if I would ever truly be free. I would sit in quiet corners, head in hands, asking myself if the struggle would ever end, or if I was destined to remain bound by invisible chains that I couldn’t break alone.

What made it take so long? In a word: control. The process of getting my get wasn’t tangled in halachah; it was deliberately dragged out by someone who knew exactly how to manipulate the system. My husband refused to give me the get until a civil divorce was finalized, which seemed straightforward enough — until I realized he had no intention of finalizing the civil divorce either.

Every step forward felt like two steps back. He refused to sign the divorce papers, delayed hearings, and ultimately pushed for a court trial, despite the fact that there were no children, no shared property, and no financial disputes. It was clear to everyone involved, including the lawyers, that this wasn’t about logistics — it was about punishing me.

The most excruciating part was the way he manipulated the beis din. When they pressed him, he would act cooperative, assuring them he was ready to give the get but claiming he was entitled to a civil divorce first. “It’s just procedure,” he would tell them, playing the part of the reasonable party. But behind closed doors, he made it clear this wasn’t about legalities. “If you leave, I’ll make your life miserable,” he warned.

I remember sitting in a meeting with my lawyer, who was visibly baffled. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” he said, shaking his head. “There’s nothing to litigate here. He’s just stalling.”

Stalling became his weapon, and with each delay, the uncertainty deepened. There were moments when I felt completely paralyzed, unsure if I’d ever truly be free. That’s when I began placing myself in Hashem’s Hands.

One night, after another pointless legal proceeding, I sat on the couch, tears streaming down my face. “Hashem,” I whispered, “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t have the strength to fight him. You have to fight for me.” It was a plea born of desperation but also of faith. If I couldn’t untangle this web of control and deceit, surely Hashem could.

From that moment, I chose to surrender to what I couldn’t control. I would take the steps I needed to protect myself, but the rest — I left to Him. It didn’t make the delays any less painful or the process less grueling, but it gave me a lifeline, a thread of hope to hold on to when everything else felt impossibly heavy.

I made a deliberate choice to place my trust in Hashem, allowing Him to resolve this seemingly endless technical battle in His own time. In this type of crisis, I quickly realized how alone I truly was. The system that was supposed to help felt cold and indifferent, bound by rules that seemed to prioritize formality. Each disappointment deepened my sense of abandonment, leaving me feeling like I was fighting an uphill battle with no allies in sight. But there was Hashem. In the void left by others, He was the constant presence that didn’t waver. “I’m placing this in Your hands because I have no one else,” I would say, my voice trembling. In those moments, I found a strength I didn’t know I had, a quiet resolve to keep moving forward, even when the path was dark and uncertain. There were moments of anger, too, when I questioned why the process had to be so grueling. “Why does it have to be this hard, Hashem? Haven’t I gone through enough?” These raw conversations were my anchor. They were a mixture of hope and fear, faith and doubt, but always a reminder that even when the path seemed endless, I wasn’t walking it alone.

I came to realize that my ex-husband never truly had control over me, and with every conscious decision to keep moving forward, to persevere with dignity, I reclaimed my power. In trusting the process and refusing to be broken, I ensured that he would never hold that control over me again.

Looking back on that time now, I can see how far I’ve come. The journey didn’t end with the get — it began there. I’ve had to rebuild my life, piece by piece, rediscovering who I am. It’s been a process of healing, of growing, of learning to trust myself again. And it’s been a journey of deepening my emunah — not in the way that others may expect, but in a way that is personal and true to me. The phrase, “We shouldn’t let trauma or abuse define us,” is often misunderstood. In trying to push past pain, we risk cutting our stories in half, denying the full weight of our experiences. But true healing isn’t about erasing what happened — it’s about integrating it into our lives, holding space for the parts of our story we’d rather forget, and finding ways to expand those narratives creatively — transforming pain into a deeper, more powerful understanding of ourselves.

My journey is far from over. There are still days when the weight of what I’ve been through feels heavy. But there are also days when I feel lighter than I have in years, when I can see the horizon ahead and know that there is so much more life waiting for me.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 932)