Before that, I worked full-time at a community service agency in a rural part of North Carolina. No matter how hard I tried, it felt like I was never giving enough—to my clients or to my daughters. The commute from my apartment to daycare, then school, then to work was an hour and a half each way. For weeks, I woke up at 5 a.m. to leave by 7, getting the girls ready in between, and stayed up late after they were asleep to study for my clinical exam. I was running on fumes.

 

Private practice felt like my ticket to both financial and emotional freedom. I held tightly to the hope of working from home via Telehealth, making my own schedule, and finally creating balance. I dreamed of taking my daughters on vacations, of putting a down payment on a home with a backyard where we could grow a garden together.

 

I cried on the drive home after passing my clinical exam.

I thought, Finally. Finally. Finally.

Everything is going to get better.

​

But I see now how naive I was.

Abusers don’t just let you go.

They adapt.

They evolve.

They change their tactics.