By Allison Ludwig 
When people ask how I’m doing, I’ve started saying, “We’re thriving… in a chaotic, heavily-caffeinated, emotionally-unraveling kind of way.” It’s not exactly inspirational, but it’s honest. I’m a mom of three girls, ages two, six, and eight, which means my days are a blur of Goldfish crumbs, emotional negotiations, and someone always losing a shoe right when we need to leave. I’m also in the middle of a divorce, which adds an exciting new layer of chaos—like juggling flaming torches while standing on a pile of LEGOs.
Here’s the thing: I didn’t plan to start over in my late thirties. I thought by now I’d be coasting— PTA meetings, a predictable marriage, a husband who knows what emotional labor means. Instead, I’m unlearning years of conditioning, Googling “how to fix a printer” like a grown-up, and remembering who I was before my life revolved around keeping everyone else comfortable.
When I met my soon-to-be ex-husband in college, I was nineteen, impressionable, and thought stability came with a mortgage and a man in a collared shirt. Spoiler: it does not. What it often comes with is control disguised as care, criticism framed as concern, and a lifetime subscription to self-doubt. But I didn’t know that yet. I thought I’d found safety. Turns out, I’d just found a different version of danger—the kind that whispers instead of shouts, that makes you question your own memory before breakfast.
Fast forward through the wedding, the kids, and the matching monogrammed towels. On the outside, it all looked picture-perfect. On the inside, I was slowly disappearing. Somewhere between the third pregnancy and the fifth load of laundry that day, I realized I’d built a life where I didn’t even exist in my own story anymore. I was the stagehand in someone else’s production—moving scenery, smiling on cue, and hoping no one noticed the exhaustion behind the curtain.
Leaving wasn’t some triumphant Hollywood moment with wind in my hair and a moving soundtrack. It was a slow unraveling—therapy sessions, crying in the car, and Googling “coercive control” at 2 a.m. It was realizing that the home I’d worked so hard to build was the very place I felt least safe.
Now I’m in the rebuilding phase. Which, by the way, is much less glamorous than Instagram makes it look. Healing isn’t bubble baths and journaling by candlelight. It’s more like chasing a toddler while processing generational trauma and trying to remember the password for your online banking.
Some days, I feel powerful—like a phoenix rising from the ashes of a minivan filled with stale Cheerios. Other days, I feel like the ashes. I’ve learned that empowerment doesn’t always look like progress. Sometimes it’s just surviving the school drop-off line without crying or sending that one text you’ll regret.
Therapy helped me put words to what I went through: coercive control, emotional abuse, and financial manipulation. But language doesn’t undo damage—it just helps you stop apologizing for it. I used to think being strong meant enduring. Now I think it means saying, “Actually, no,” even if your voice shakes. Especially if your voice shakes.
My three girls are my motivation and my mirror. They’ve seen me cry, stumble, and still show up anyway. I want them to know that starting over doesn’t mean you’ve failed—it means you finally stopped settling. I want them to see a mom who chooses peace over perfection and boundaries over appearances. I want them to know love shouldn’t require self-erasure.
And somewhere in the middle of all this rebuilding, I started dating again. Which is terrifying, hilarious, and oddly healing. Dating after trauma is like walking through a minefield in heels—you’re not sure which step will blow up, but you keep going because you remember what it feels like to laugh again. I’m learning that healthy love doesn’t make you small; it invites you to expand.
My new partner isn’t perfect (thank God—perfection is exhausting), but he’s kind. He listens. He’s patient when I flinch at things that shouldn’t be scary and reassures me when I apologize too much. It’s strange, learning safety after so many years of survival. It’s like realizing you’ve been holding your breath your whole life and finally exhaling.
People like to say, “Everything happens for a reason.” I don’t buy that. Some things happen because people choose cruelty or because systems fail. But I do believe we can create meaning from the mess. I’m not thankful for what I went through—but I’m thankful to still be here to tell the story.
If you asked me a year ago what I wanted most, I would have said peace. Today, I’d say laughter—and maybe a night of uninterrupted sleep. Peace is beautiful, but laughter is what reminds you that you’re still alive, that the story didn’t end where the pain began.
So that’s where I am now—somewhere between survival and revival. My house is messy, my coffee’s always cold, and my heart is still learning to trust itself. But for the first time in a long time, I’m not afraid of what comes next.
And if I’ve learned anything, it’s this: rebuilding your life as a single mom is less about having it all figured out and more about celebrating the tiny victories—like finding matching socks, setting boundaries, and remembering that your worth was never up for negotiation in the first place.
Because in the end, healing isn’t about becoming who you were before everything fell apart. It’s about becoming the version of yourself who finally feels at home in her own story.
by Katie Revai LeFevre 
by Bridgette Ross 
by Jordan Morgan 
