For a long time, I thought “rising above” abuse meant being completely healed. Strong. Untouchable. That I’d suddenly stop missing them, stop looking back, stop asking “what if?” or “why me?”
But rising above doesn’t mean you never look back. It means you see it differently when you do.
Let’s refer to narcissistic abuse, shall we?
I still remember the day I packed up his things… not for the first time, but for the last. He’d left before. So many times. But he always came back with the same promises and the same empty eyes. And I always let him in.
The cycle made me feel like the abuse was my fault. Like I was weak, codependent, dramatic, or broken.
But the thing about narcissistic abuse? It teaches you to doubt your own strength. Your own instincts. Your own truth.
So how did I rise above it?
I didn’t do it all at once. I didn’t wake up one day “cured.” It was messy. It was slow. And it was layered with grief, anger, shame, and forgiveness… mostly of myself.
I rose above the day I stopped needing his version of the story to make mine feel real.
I rose above when I realized that the apologies I was waiting for were never going to come, and even if they did, they wouldn’t heal me.
I rose above the moment I stopped looking for closure from someone who found comfort in keeping doors half open.
I began to rise when I finally understood that love doesn’t feel like walking on eggshells. Love isn’t having to prove your worth on a daily basis. It’s not being adored one moment and degraded or discarded the next.
I rose above when I chose me.
When I started writing, sharing, and speaking the things I was once scared would make me look “crazy” or him look like the “bad guy.” Things I was taught to hide to protect the image of someone who never once protected me.
I rose above every time I told the truth, even when my voice shook.
I rose above every time I said no more, and never again, and I deserve better.
I rose above when I stopped letting trauma rewrite my worth.
And maybe the biggest shift of all?
I stopped seeing myself as a victim of his story… and reclaimed myself as the author of my own.
Yes…
There’s still pain. There are still scars.
But also?
There is power.
There is wisdom.
There is a version of me now that knows exactly what red flags look like, sounds the alarm when love turns manipulative, and refuses to romanticize cruelty in pretty packaging.
I’ve risen because I finally remember who I am.