The Ones With Me While I’m Still in the Middle

People think once you decide to leave, the hard part is over.

But what they don’t tell you is how hard it is to still share a roof with someone you’ve emotionally outgrown.

We’re separated but not apart. Not yet and I don't know for how long this arrangement will be.

We live in different rooms.We exchange words only when necessary. Sometimes we pretend everything’s fine for the kids. Sometimes I cry in the shower so no one hears me.I mean, let's be real here, if I'm not having a mental breakdown every now and then, am I even human?

This is what in-home separation feels like - like being a ghost in your own life.

And in this strange in-between, the not married, not free, I’ve had to find lifelines. Therapy. And good friends.
Because without them, I think I’d still be convincing myself that this half-life is love.

When you’re still living with the person who hurt you, your mind plays tricks. You question whether things were really that bad. Seriously, this happens way more often than I care to admit. You tell yourself to hang on. You wonder if leaving will make things more complicated, not better.

But my therapist sees through the fog. He helps me remember why I made the decision in the first place and helps me recognise that emotional abuse doesn’t stop just because the relationship is “technically” over.

In that hour, even when I feel numb or angry or guilty, I get to be real. No pretending. No placating.
Just me, naming what I’ve survived and slowly becoming someone who doesn’t apologise for needing peace.

Then come the friends. The people who’ve stayed close during this time are sacred.

They don’t ask why I’m still here. They don’t push me to leave faster. They just show up. Text. Call. Sit with me when the thoughts in my head get loud.

They remind me that my failed marriage doesn't define me as I struggle through the millions of self-doubting thoughts. They see me on days when my trauma-filled persona shows up, and they remind me of who I really am. They remind me that I’m not weak for still being here, that I’m strategic. I’m patient. I’m protecting my kids. I’m planning a way forward.

Every day isn’t brave. Some days are just survival. I smile for the kids. I breathe through the tension. But thanks to therapy, I no longer gaslight myself.

And thanks to my friends, I no longer feel completely alone because I need them; they are just a call or even a text away.

I’m still in the middle, but the middle is not the end. And the people who hold me here, the ones who remind me who I am and what I deserve, they are part of the reason I’ll make it all the way out.

So if you’re reading this and you’re still in it – I see you. You’re not failing. You’re surviving with grace, and healing doesn’t wait for the keys to change hands. It begins the moment you say, This is not love. And I deserve better.