I walked through hell, divorced, and rediscovered myself—now I’m truly living.
Sometimes life drags you through darkness, burdening you with suitcases filled with pain, shame, exhaustion, and fear. But then comes a day when you simply drop them to 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, it feels as if the woman I was before the divorce was a completely different person—forgotten, lost, and broken.
My name is Laura. I’m from Bristol, and I’m 52. Once upon a time, I got married—not for love, but because it was “the right thing to do.” Back then and there, an unmarried woman at 25 was seen as damaged, a disgrace to the family. Pressure came from everywhere—parents, aunts, neighbors. I couldn’t go to the cinema with a friend without hearing, “Is there a boy? Is he serious? When are you getting married?”
So, I got married to an old schoolmate, Simon. He was ordinary, all too ordinary. No special qualities or ambitions. But he had a passport and a ring. My family sighed with relief. Happiness, however, did not follow.
Then our daughters were born, one after the other. That was my true happiness. I loved being a mom, sewing dresses, doing their hair. This was my world. Home, my girls, a needle and thread—this is where I could breathe. But we were constantly short of money. My husband neither knew how to work nor wanted to. He switched jobs, quit, searched again, and drank more each time, sinking deeper.
At first, I endured it. Then, I suggested, “Let me start sewing at home so we have some income.” He got angry: “A woman should stay at home, not be the breadwinner!” Soon, talking wasn’t even possible—he began to drink heavily. The bottles piled up in the cupboard like monuments to my dashed hopes.
Then came the economic downturn. The ’90s. Jobs vanished. My eldest was about to graduate, my younger on the brink of teenage years, and at home—a drunk husband and an empty fridge. The first time he attacked me with shouting and hands, I knew it was over. This wasn’t a family; it was survival.
The next day, he took it a step further—he squeezed my throat, growling in my ear, “Where’s the money, you witch?” I could barely breathe. My eldest daughter rushed in, pulled him off, and called the neighbors. He was kicked out. Then came the court, the divorce. There was nothing to divide—there was nothing.
I was left. A woman. With two daughters. Bruises on my body and a torn soul. In a city with no future. But—I remained. I lived. I rose.
My daughters became my wings. The eldest went to a correspondence course and worked as a waitress. I dusted off the sewing machine and got back to it. Sewing, mending, adjusting, altering. In those years, people dressed in whatever they could afford, and I quickly gained clients.
We slowly climbed out of the hole. Then—a miracle. My daughter met a foreigner. A gentle, kind man. They had a modest wedding and left. Within a year, I became a grandmother. They sent support. We could buy meat. I started sleeping at night again.
The younger daughter didn’t disappoint either. She studied hard, and eventually, with the eldest’s help and advice, she got into a university in the US. I was alone. Yes, it was hard, 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 a passport in the drawer? Look for it. I’ve booked you a cruise.”
At first, I thought I misheard. A cruise? Me? I found myself aboard a giant ship where everything gleamed, smelled exotic, where women laughed without glancing over their shoulders, and men looked you in the eye. I didn’t meet a prince there. But I did meet… myself. The real me.
I stood on the deck at night, watching as the water split against the hull, and thought: I survived. I did it. Walked away from the one who broke me and built a home anew. I wasn’t just alive—I began to dream again.
Upon returning, I decided not to stop. I picked up a camera. Now my hobby is traveling around England and photography. I go with friends; we explore small towns, nature reserves, and historical sites. I take pictures and send them to my daughters. They write back, “Mum, you’re the strongest, and the happiest.”
Now I may not be wealthy, but I have everything. Freedom. A smile. And belief in myself. Those dark years are behind me. Ahead lie light, new paths, and me. The real me.
