Many years ago, I got married. I thought I was doing the honorable thing by marrying someone I felt empathy for after many years of dating. I knew how his family treated him, and I knew he was ill. My heart led me to believe that loving him, standing beside him, and becoming his wife would somehow heal what life had broken in him.
At 21, I met my husband. At 37, we were divorced. In between those years, something very simple and very painful happened: I grew up. He didn’t.
Growing While the Other Person Stays the Same
When we first met, I was young and still figuring life out. I had dreams, but I also had patience. I believed in potential—his and mine. I told myself that with time, love, and understanding, he would mature, step into responsibility, and build a stable life with me.
But as the years passed, I changed and he stayed the same.
I started wanting more out of life—emotional growth, stability, purpose, alignment. I wanted a partner who could walk with me, not someone I had to drag behind me or rescue over and over again. His mindset, however, remained stuck. Sixteen years later, he still chased the streets, old habits, and old patterns. I was evolving; he was circling the same block in life.
There comes a point where love is no longer enough to carry a relationship that refuses to grow. I reached that point.
The Night Everything Broke
One night, we had a party at our home. Everyone was drinking, laughing, loosened by alcohol and the illusion of a “good time.” His nephew spent the night and fell asleep on the living room chaise.
Later that night, I lay down to sleep in my own home, in what should’ve been my safest place. At some point, I drifted off, tipsy but unaware of what was coming.
I woke up to his nephew performing a sexual act on me without my consent.
Let me be clear:
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I was not awake to invite it.
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I did not consent to it.
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I did not want it.
Although he was drunk, it was still rape.
Alcohol does not turn assault into “a mistake.” Being related does not turn a violation into “a misunderstanding.” And being in your own home does not mean you “should have known better.”
It means your safety was taken from you by someone who chose to cross a boundary that should never be crossed. He spent 20 years in the Army, he knew better.
When the Person Who Should Protect You, Fails You
Shaking, shocked, and violated, I told my husband what had happened.
His response pierced me in a different way. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t rage on my behalf. He didn’t comfort me as a husband should comfort a wife who has just been assaulted.
Instead, he said, “We shouldn’t have been drinking.”
In that moment, I wasn’t just dealing with the trauma of being raped by a family member—I was dealing with the betrayal of a husband who shifted the blame onto circumstances and onto me, rather than placing it where it belonged: on the person who violated me.
Yes, we had been drinking. No, that does not excuse what happened. No, that does not make it my fault.
A woman has the right to be safe in her own home—sober or tipsy, asleep or awake, alone or surrounded by people she trusts. My body was not public property because there was alcohol in the room.
His failure to protect me, to stand with me, to call what happened by its real name, was another kind of violence.
The Silence of Shame
I did not call the police.
Not because it wasn’t serious. Not because I was confused about what happened. Not because it didn’t matter.
I didn’t call because of shame.
Shame is powerful. It whispers:
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“People will blame you.”
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“They’ll say you were drunk.”
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“They’ll say you wanted it.”
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“They’ll judge your marriage, your choices, your character.”
So I stayed quiet—publicly. But inside, something was breaking and something else was waking up.
Shame kept me from seeking justice, but it could not stop me from seeking freedom.
Leaving Tennessee: A Call to Ministry and Another Betrayal
After the divorce, I left Tennessee when God called me to ministry. I left to grow—spiritually, mentally, and emotionally. I stepped out in faith, not fully understanding where God was leading me, only knowing I couldn’t stay where I had been.
Five years later, I came back.
When I returned, I dated a lawyer. He knew the real reason I had divorced my ex-husband. He even went with me one night to see if my ex-husband was drinking at a bar. He knew my ex would take Lortabs and Ambien, and how he would get so intoxicated—combining alcohol and medication—that he lost the ability to reason. He knew my ex had threatened to kill me, and he knew I had to put a stop to that.
But what I did not expect was that the lawyer himself would later become another source of betrayal.
Out of malice, he recreated the rape I had experienced many years before. I believe he did this because he had several criminal friends who wanted revenge, and hurting me was their way of sending a message.
At the same time, my ex-husband continued to threaten me and refused to let the divorce go. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation (TBI) was informed that my ex-husband was using his brother’s Social Security number illegally. That is a federal offense. My ex-husbands brother was also, previous army national guard. They knew better.
Through all of this, one thing became very clear to me: you cannot force a marriage that is not built upon God. I wanted it to be over—emotionally, legally, spiritually. I wanted every tie to that chaos cut.
Mercy, the System, and the Cost of Kindness
In court, I was not as awake—spiritually and emotionally—as I am now. I still felt sorry for my husband, even after all that drama, all those threats, and all he had put me through. I did not prosecute him for threatening to kill me.
I showed him mercy.
I had nursed him back to health after a failing kidney. I had cared for him when his body was weak. I had stood by him when others did not. My heart chose compassion when the law would have supported justice.
But years later, I realized something painful: sometimes the very system you try to spare will turn around and seek revenge on you for not pressing charges when you had the chance. There are moments when it feels like the world punishes mercy and rewards madness.
Sometimes people—and society—do not use common sense. They look at paperwork, not at the heart. They look at what you didn’t do legally, not at what you had to survive emotionally and spiritually.
Still, I don’t regret being a person of compassion. I regret that others did not value it.
Choosing Myself: Filing for Divorce and Beyond
Shortly after that night of the original assault, I filed for divorce.
From the outside, some might have said we divorced because we “grew apart” or because he “liked the streets.” But I know the truth: the moment I realized I was not safe in my own home, and that the man who vowed to love and protect me would not truly stand for me, something in me refused to stay.
That was the turning point.
I did what many women are afraid to do after so many years invested: I chose myself.
I chose my mental health. I chose my emotional healing. I chose the version of me that refused to stay in a life built on denial, immaturity, and unsafe silence.
When I walked away, I didn’t just leave a husband. I left:
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The need to rescue a grown man from his own refusal to grow.
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The belief that I had to shrink my needs to keep a relationship.
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The lie that what happened to me was somehow my fault.
I took my life back.
What I Want Other Women to Know
My story is personal, but it’s not unique. There are many women who:
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Stay in relationships out of empathy instead of alignment.
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Minimize their own pain to protect someone else’s image.
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Are violated by people they know, then silenced by shame and lack of support.
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Show mercy, only to later feel like the system turned on them anyway.
So if you see yourself in any part of my story, here’s what I want you to hear:
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You have the right to be safe in your own home. Your body is not a consequence of someone else’s drunkenness, ignorance, or entitlement.
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It is still rape, even if you knew the person. Familiarity does not equal consent. Marriage, family, alcohol—none of these erase the violation.
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You are allowed to leave. You are not obligated to stay in a marriage where you are emotionally neglected, spiritually drained, or physically unsafe.
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Mercy does not make you weak. Showing kindness in the face of cruelty reveals your character, not your foolishness. But you can be merciful and still choose boundaries and protection.
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Your healing may start the day you decide to choose you. Sometimes healing begins not with an apology from them, but with a decision from you—to no longer live a life that betrays your own soul.
Through It All, I Rose Stronger
Through all of this—marriage, rape, betrayal, threats, legal systems, and spiritual battles—I arose stronger than ever in God.
I learned that:
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God can use even the darkest chapters to awaken you.
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You reap what you sow. Those who sow destruction, manipulation, and violence will one day face the harvest of their own actions.
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Those who sow love, mercy, and truth—even when misunderstood—will also reap, in time, strength, peace, and a deeper relationship with God.
When I look back now, I don’t only see pain. I see a woman who grew up. I see a woman who finally realized that compassion without boundaries can become self-betrayal. I see a woman who refused to let a house of brokenness become her permanent address.
I met my husband at 21. I divorced him at 37. I left Tennessee, followed God’s call, came back, was tested again—and still, I stand.
I may carry the memory of what happened, but I no longer carry the shame of it. That shame was never mine to begin with.
I filed for divorce. I chose my future. I clung to God.
I took my life back—and I am never giving it away again.
Judges, Lawyers, DA and Pastors blamed me, but I chose to save myself, and would do it again. God has purpose for each of us. I will never feel guilty for saving myself.
#justice #rape #divorce #systematicignorance