Matriarch of Mayhem

This season of change pushed me to get intentional about keeping the boys grounded in their responsibilities—without losing the joy of being kids.

So, for the first time, I’m introducing our “YES DAY” rewards system.

Monday through Friday is where we focus—structure, accountability, follow-through.
Weekends? Those are for excitement, a little chaos, and our educational adventure days.

Because life isn’t just about rules—it’s a continuous journey of learning, exploring, and becoming better than we were yesterday.

My job is bigger than just raising them.
It’s showing them the world without blinders.
Teaching them respect for every soul they encounter.
And instilling a deep love for learning, growth, and experience.

That’s the foundation we’re building—one intentional day at a time.

Leaving the abuse didn’t end it.
It followed me straight into the system that was supposed to protect us.

Unfounded DFACS calls.
False allegations.
Trauma for my children that no one accounts for.

My son is now terrified of doctors.
My children are afraid to sleep in their own home.

And I’m told to “be patient.”

This isn’t about co-parenting.
This is about control.

A system that calls domestic violence “drama” because it’s messy—
and easier to ignore than to fix.

But I’m not staying in survival mode.

I will not be a victim.
And I will not allow my children to be victimized any further.

I’m shifting gears.

I’m not just fighting for my family anymore—
I’m preparing to fight for systemic change.

Co-parenting isn’t the hard part.
It’s being expected to co-parent with someone who was never safe for me, and somehow is supposed to show up as emotionally aware and supportive for our children.

This was never going to stay about the life we planned or the future we worked toward.
For him, it’s about control. And I’ve accepted that.

So here’s my second quarter resolution, in this year of the fire horse:
His behavior, his inconsistency, his inability—none of it gets to dictate how I show up for my children.

He can withhold communication.
He can disrupt plans.
He can try to take moments.

What he can’t take anymore is my ability to pivot, to create joy anyway, and to give my boys a childhood filled with love, stability, and core memories that matter.

They deserve better than chaos.
And I will do everything in my power to make sure they feel as little of it as possible.

They are safe.
They are happy.
They are loved.
And I will always protect that.

Cheers to solo parenting—
building our own traditions, creating our own magic, and never outgrowing the laughter.

The hardest part of “coparenting” with my abuser… is that he is my abuser.

He has shown me, time and time again, that our children are not the priority — control is. They are used as pawns in a game I never agreed to play.

Pickups turn into performances instead of moments that help our children feel safe and supported.
Serious matters are twisted in attempts to weaponize systems like DFACS and CID, with complete disregard for truth or consequence.
And decisions are made that place our children in environments I would never choose for them — all while calling it “normal” or “family.”

He asks for flexibility when it benefits him, but the moment I advocate for changes that support stability and routine for our boys, suddenly the order becomes rigid and absolute.

Let me be clear:
I cannot coparent with someone who refuses to prioritize our children’s well-being.
I will not coparent with someone who compromises their safety, their peace, or their childhood.

You cannot convince me that a man who was not safe for me is somehow safe for them.

I am not the “baby mama.”
I am not the “crazy ex.”

I am my children’s safe place.
I am the protective parent.
I am the primary parent.

“Getting out” is hardly the finish line for survivors of domestic violence — it’s the starting line.

Now comes the part no one prepares you for:
rebuilding your entire life from the ground up.

Housing. Income. Credit. Identity. Stability for your children.

And you’re expected to do all of this while carrying the weight of what you survived… while still being pulled back into it through chaos — courts, attorneys who don’t understand, financial strain, and the reality of co-parenting with someone who hurt you.

This isn’t freedom wrapped in relief.
This is survival in a different form.

And still — we are here.
We are fighting through all of it.
And we are still fu***ng standing.

So don’t be so arrogant as to think “it could never be me.”
Don’t assume how you would have handled it.

And most importantly — don’t judge the struggles you see when you don’t understand the situation behind them.

Some days I’m exhausted.
Some days I’m full of energy.
Some days I don’t give a f**k… and some days I care way too fu***ng much.

But every single day—I am a mother.

Grounded by the responsibility to raise children who don’t have to recover from their childhood.
Driven to be the person I once needed.
Obsessed with giving them experiences that expand their world and fill their hearts and minds with knowledge and discernment.
Dedicated to being their safe place—their freedom, their calm, their home.

I lead with a soft heart and a sharp teeth.
I protect children—not egos.

No matter what kind of day I’m having… that part of me never wavers.

Domestic violence doesn’t always leave bruises you can see.

It’s the mental warfare. The constant gaslighting that makes you question your own reality.
It’s the financial control—being trapped, monitored, stripped of independence.
It’s the sexual coercion that gets dismissed or minimized.
It’s the abuse of power, the manipulation, the systems bent in favor of the one causing harm.
It’s coercive control—slow, calculated, suffocating.

And surviving it? That’s a battle most people will never fully understand.

I fought my way out of that.
I clawed my way to freedom.

But no one prepares you for what comes next.

Because now, the abuse looks different.

Now it wears a suit.
Now it speaks in legal terms.
Now it sits inside a courtroom and calls itself “procedure.”

I am being asked to relive everything—
without emotion.
To lay out trauma like it’s just paperwork.
To prove, with evidence and timelines and documentation, the hell I endured.

To prove I was a good mother.
To prove my routines.
To prove I showed up.
To prove I loved my children.

As if love is something you can submit as an exhibit.

Going back through the messages, the photos, the timelines…
the memories.

It’s a different kind of pain.
A different kind of exhaustion.

But I’m still here.

I am holding onto everything I know to be true.
I am holding onto my children.
I am holding onto the life I fought so hard to rebuild.

And I will keep going—
because this is not the end of our story.

Healing is still ahead of us.
Peace is still ahead of us.

And I refuse to let any system, any person, or any past take that away.

There’s a version of my story I’ve stayed quiet about for a long time.

Not because I didn’t have the words…
But because I was told that telling the truth would make me look too emotional, too angry, too difficult.

So like a lot of women, I learned to shrink parts of my story to make other people comfortable.

But here’s the truth:
Silence doesn’t heal anything. It just protects the people who caused the damage.

Over the last few years my life has been chaos, courtrooms, survival, healing, rebuilding, and learning how to stand back up after being knocked down more times than I can count.

I’m a mother raising boys who will grow up knowing what real strength looks like.
I’m a woman learning that anger can be transformed into power.
And I’m someone who refuses to stay small just because the system prefers quiet women.

This page isn’t about revenge.
It’s about truth.

It’s about what happens to women who are told to stay calm while their lives burn down around them.

It’s about survival, rebuilding, and refusing to disappear.

Some of what I share here will be messy.
Some of it will be uncomfortable.

But it will always be honest.

If you’ve ever been told to be quiet when your whole soul was screaming, you’re in the right place.

Welcome to the beginning of my story.

— Matriarch of Mayhem