I’ve been through hell, divorced, and found my new self—now I’m truly living.
Sometimes life keeps you in the dark, burdened with suitcases full of pain, shame, exhaustion, and fear. But there comes a day when you drop them on the ground, straighten your shoulders, and take a step forward. A step into the unknown. Into freedom. Into yourself. That’s what happened to me. Looking back now, I feel like the woman I was before the divorce was a completely different person. Forgotten, lost, and broken.
My name is Laura. I’m originally from Manchester and I’m 52 now. Once upon a time, years ago, I got married not for love, but because it was “necessary.” In our community and at that time, being an unmarried woman at 25 was seen as tainted, a family disgrace. The pressure was constant—from parents, aunts, neighbors. I couldn’t go to a movie with a friend without being interrogated: “Do you have a boyfriend? Is he serious? When will you marry?”
So, I got married. To an old school friend named Simon. He was ordinary, maybe too much so. No outstanding qualities or ambitions. But he had a passport and a ring. The family sighed with relief. But it brought no happiness.
Then, my daughters were born—one after the other. That was my happiness. I loved being a mom, sewing dresses for them, doing their hair. That was my world. Home, the girls, needle and thread—that was where I thrived. But money was a constant issue. My husband wasn’t willing or capable of holding a job. He drifted from one job to another, then started drinking again, sinking deeper each time.
At first, I tolerated it. Then I suggested, “Let me start sewing from home, at least we’ll have some money.” He got angry: “A woman should stay home, not support the family!” Soon, there was no one to talk to—he was drinking heavily. Bottles piled up in the pantry like monuments to my lost hopes.
Then the economic downturn of the ’90s hit. No jobs anywhere. My eldest daughter was about to graduate, and my youngest was entering her teenage years, while at home there was a drunk husband and an empty fridge. The first time he attacked me with shouting and fists, I realized: this is the end. It’s no longer a family, just survival.
The next day brought another blow—he grabbed my throat, growling in my ear, “Where are you hiding the money, witch?” I could barely breathe. My eldest daughter intervened, dragged him away, and called neighbors for help. We got him out of the house. Then came court, the divorce. There was nothing to divide—nothing to share.
I was left. A woman. With two daughters. With bruises on my body and a torn soul. In a city without a future. But—I remained. I lived. I rose.
My girls became my wings. The eldest took a distance learning course and worked as a waitress. And I dug out my sewing machine and got back to work. I sewed, patched, adjusted, and altered. People weren’t splurging on clothes during those years, so I quickly gathered a client base.
We started to get by.
Then—a miracle. My daughter met a foreigner. A kind, gentle guy. They had a modest wedding and moved away. A year later, I became a grandmother. They sent help. We could afford to buy meat. I could finally sleep at night.
My youngest daughter didn’t disappoint either. She studied hard. Eventually, she got into a university in the U.S.—with her sister helping both financially and with guidance. I was left alone. Yes, it was tough, my heart ached. But I knew—it was for their future.
One day, my eldest called and said, “Mum, you deserve a holiday. Do you have your passport handy? Have a look. I’ve booked you on a cruise.”
At first, I thought I’d misheard. A cruise? Me? I found myself on board a massive ship, glittering and scented with exotic fragrances, where women laughed freely and men looked them in the eye. I didn’t meet a prince there. But I found… myself. The real me.
I stood on the deck at night, watching the water break under the hull, thinking: I survived. I did it. I walked away from someone who broke me and rebuilt my life. I wasn’t just living—I started to dream again.
On returning, I decided not to stop. I picked up a camera. Now my hobby is traveling across England and taking photographs. I travel with friends, we explore small towns, nature reserves, and ancient churches. I take pictures—and send them to my daughters. And they write back: “Mum, you’re the strongest. And the happiest.”
I’m not wealthy now, but I have everything. Freedom. A smile. And belief in myself. Those dark years are behind me. Ahead are light, new paths, and me. The true me.
