I didn’t just leave my marriage, I ran. Not because I was brave, but because I was scared. Scared I might not make it if I stayed. Scared of what might happen to me if I didn’t go. And somewhere in the middle of that fear, clarity found me.
My son was three years old when I left his father, a man who abused me emotionally, physically, financially, and spiritually. And as I stood in the thick fog of maybe I should go back, a single thought sliced through the noise: Caelan is watching.
At three years old, he was watching me. Absorbing the energy of our home. Forming memories, even if they were blurry. Learning about love before he even knew how to spell it.
And in that moment, I made a decision that changed everything.
I did not want my son to grow up thinking abuse was normal.
To feel responsible for saving me.
I did not want him to ever become the kind of man a woman needed therapy to recover from.I left for me. But I stayed gone for him.
And that decision shaped everything that’s come after, every “no,” every “almost,” every heartbreak, every boundary I’ve had to draw in lipstick and grit. Because no matter what I’m going through, I know one thing for sure:
My sons are watching.
They get honesty from me, but never brutality. We don’t weaponize the truth in this house. We practice honesty with care.
They’re Watching How I Love Myself
My sons don’t know the details of my heartbreaks. And honestly, they shouldn’t. They’re still just kids, nine and two. They deserve their childhood, not front-row seats to grown-up pain. But even without the full story, they’re watching.
Caelan sees me get dressed up, put on my makeup, and spritz my favorite perfume even when there’s no one to impress but myself. He’s told me, “Mom, you’re pretty. You don’t even need makeup.” And I always smile and say, “I know, baby, I just like how it makes me feel.” He’s learning that self-love isn’t selfish. That it’s okay to want to feel good in your skin. That beauty can be sacred, not performative.
He doesn’t hear me cry after someone leaves or disappoints me, I save those tears for the shower, the pillow, the friend group chat. But he does see how I bounce back. How I choose peace over chaos, even when it’s lonely. How I don’t let people linger in our lives who don’t bring safety or goodness.
I don’t introduce my sons to just anyone. In all the years I’ve been divorced, only two men have ever met them. That’s not because I haven’t dated, I have. But access to my children is sacred. They are not practice rounds for someone’s personal growth.
More importantly, Caelan is learning to name his own feelings. He’s been in therapy, not because anything’s “wrong” with him, but because I want him to have what most men are taught to suppress, emotional literacy. We talk about friendship, about how real connection should feel. That it’s okay to walk away from people who don’t treat you well. That choosing yourself isn’t mean, it’s wise. He may be only nine. But I want him to be lightyears ahead of where most grown men start when it comes to emotional intelligence.
And Caisen, even at two, is soaking in the love we model in our home. One day, I’ll have these same talks with him. But for now, he’s learning from the rhythm of my routines, the way I smile at him, the way I hold space for myself and for both of them. Because even when I don’t think they’re paying attention, they are.
How I love myself is setting the tone for how they will love themselves, and others, for the rest of their lives.
They’re Watching How I Let Men Love Me
Caelan doesn’t know the names of the men I’ve dated. He’s only met two in the entire time I’ve been divorced, and that’s not by accident. I’ve dated charm. I’ve dated potential. But what I will not do is let my sons learn the difference between love and manipulation by watching their mother entertain men who don’t know how to show up.
So when I do let them know I have a “friend,” I choose my words and my energy carefully. I’ll tell Caelan, “My friend did something thoughtful,” or, “We had a good conversation.” I’ll mention the kind ways I’ve been treated, and the ways I reciprocated. I do this because I want him to understand what mutual care looks like, that you don’t have to beg to be treated well. That people who value you show it. And when they don’t? You don’t stay.
There is a huge difference between being pursued and being tolerated. And though I don’t let my boys see my heartbreak in full color, I do let them know, even in the simplest terms, that when someone isn’t treating you with kindness, consistency, and care, you can choose yourself.
I talk to Caelan about friendships the same way I talk to myself about men. If you’re constantly chasing someone, trying to get them to treat you right, trying to get them to be a good friend, that’s not the relationship you deserve. You don’t have to force anyone to be in your life, and the ones who want to be there will never make you feel like you’re too much or not enough.
And while I preach that to him, I’m still learning it myself. I’ve stayed too long. Fought for things that were hurting me. I’ve ignored the misalignment because the hope felt bigger than the harm. And sometimes, I’ve allowed things into my life that my kids never saw, but that still affected the energy in our home.
So, I teach him what I had to learn the hard way: People treat you how you let them.
That goes for friends. For partners. That goes for jobs. And it especially goes for love. Because what I allow in my life becomes the blueprint for what my sons think is normal. And I refuse to let them think that struggle is a prerequisite for love.
They’re Watching How I Love Them
If my sons know nothing else, they know they are loved. Loudly. Daily. Without conditions.
We’re an affectionate household. Caelan tells me all the time his favorite thing I do is hug him. And Caisen, he’s my two-year-old cuddle monster. He wants to hug and kiss everyone he loves. That wasn’t from the cartoons. He learned it from home. But love in this house isn’t just sweet, it’s structured.
They get honesty from me, but never brutality. We don’t weaponize the truth in this house. We practice honesty with care. Because I want them to know that telling the truth doesn’t have to hurt, but lying always does. And I need them to grow up understanding that love and lies don’t coexist.
They also get apologies from me. When I overreact or let frustration turn into snapping, I come back and own it. “Mommy was tired. That wasn’t fair to you. I’m sorry.” I don’t sweep it under the rug or expect them to get over it because I’m the adult. I model accountability, so they’ll understand that even people in authority, even people who love you, can be wrong and should apologize.
They see me hold space for their feelings, and sometimes, they try to hold space for mine. Caelan, with his big heart, has said things like, “You take care of me, I want to take care of you.” And while it melts me, I gently remind him: I’m the mom. You don’t ever have to carry me. Because I’m raising sons, not stand-ins. I want them to know that their love is beautiful, but their role is not to save me. That responsibility belongs to me, and God.
And boundaries? We live by them. They don’t always like them, but they know they’re rooted in love. They know, even when I say no, it’s because I want them safe, not because I want to control them. And one day, I hope that it will help them understand how to respect the boundaries of others, especially the people they love.
I tell Caelan often: If someone makes you feel small, confused, or constantly unsure, that’s not love. Love doesn’t live in your nervous system like that. And I remind him that love, real love, should feel like what he feels at home: safe, steady, seen.
Because I never want them to guess whether they’re loved. And I never want them to grow up thinking they have to guess in relationships either.
They’re Watching Me Heal in Real Time
I don’t cry in front of my sons often, but I do cry. I don’t crumble in front of them, but they’ve seen me pause, take a breath, take a break, take a moment.
They don’t see the full scope of my healing, but they feel its rhythm. When I set a boundary and stick to it. They feel it when I choose calm over chaos. They feel it when I let something go that no longer serves me, even when I wanted to hold on.
Caelan has seen me talk through things with intention. He’s seen me go to therapy. Seen me correct myself in real time, admit when I’m wrong, and pivot when I’ve been triggered. He’s seen me learn.
And as he’s gotten older, I’ve been able to share more, not in a way that burdens him, but in a way that helps him understand that emotional pain doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re human. That healing doesn’t always look like moving on, sometimes it looks like standing still until you remember who you are again.
I tell him: Feelings don’t make you weak. Naming them is strong. Processing them is wise. And honoring them is mature.
Caisen is still too young to grasp any of this, but even now, he knows what joy feels like. He knows what safety feels like. And one day, when he starts to ask deeper questions, I’ll tell him the truth, that his mama didn’t just survive, she chose to heal. That she didn’t let what happened to her become what defined her. Because this, too, is part of what I want my sons to learn:
That it is never too late to choose yourself.
That softness is strength.
That healing is not just about what you’ve been through, it’s about who you’re becoming.
And they’re watching me become.
I don’t get everything right. I’ve stayed too long. Left too late. I’ve tried to alchemize red flags into potential. I’ve let the wrong people close and kept the right people at arm’s length while I figured myself out. But even in the mess of it all, I’ve moved with one truth in mind:
My sons are watching
They’re watching how I recover, how I recalibrate, how I choose myself after choosing wrong. Watching how I set the tone for what love should feel like, not just for me, but for them. They’re watching who gets access, who gets corrected, and who doesn’t get to come back.
And maybe one day, when they’re standing at their own crossroads, deciding whether to stay or walk away, whether to speak up or stay silent, whether to love themselves or lose themselves, they’ll remember how I did it.
Not perfectly. But intentionally.
Because I’m not just raising sons. I’m raising safe partners. Undoubtedly, I’m raising kind men.
I’m raising future homes for other people’s daughters and sons and I want those homes to be built on honesty, peace, care, and real love.
And it starts here. With me.
