Posted by Sam Taylor
on December 18, 2025
I wanted to write and share my story because I don’t think people really understand what it’s like unless you’ve been there. And honestly, even now, writing it down makes me feel a bit exposed, because it’s raw, and it’s real. I hope it helps someone see why what you’re building at Finally Free CIC is so important.
When I finally left, it wasn’t some heroic, cinematic moment. There were no spotlights, no big declarations. There was just survival. I left because staying felt like the only other option was not surviving at all. And the truth is, for years, I didn’t even realise I was in danger. The abuse started small - little put-downs, controlling behaviour, the subtle eroding of my confidence. “You can’t do anything right,” “You’ll never manage without me,” “No one else will ever want you.” At first, I thought it was my fault. I thought I was just being dramatic.
Then it escalated. The yelling started. The threats. The slamming doors. Objects thrown. Sometimes it was verbal, sometimes physical, and sometimes it was the terrifying silence of knowing that the next outburst could be anything. He controlled everything - who I saw, what I wore, even what I ate. My friends stopped calling, or I stopped answering, afraid of triggering an argument. I lost track of who I was. I started hiding bruises, faking smiles, pretending everything was fine. I started to disappear under the weight of fear and shame.
There were nights I would lie awake, listening to the smallest sound, wondering what mood he would be in when he came home. Every little thing became a test. I’d calculate every word, every glance, every movement. I became a prisoner in my own home, trapped by someone who was supposed to love me. And the worst part was that I didn’t know where to turn. I felt like there was no one who could really help me. The helplines, the leaflets, the police… it felt like a system that existed to tick boxes, not to actually support women in the moment when they were terrified and exhausted.
Leaving was the hardest, scariest thing I’ve ever done. I had to plan it quietly, secretly. I packed a bag while the kids slept, checking over my shoulder constantly, making sure nothing would give me away. I took what I could carry - clothes, toiletries, a few coins, and the tiny bit of courage I had managed to hold on to. I didn’t know where we would sleep that night, or how we would eat the next day. I didn’t even know if we would be safe once we got out. But I knew staying wasn’t an option anymore. Staying meant risking everything.
I remember walking out and feeling this impossible mix of relief and terror. Relief that we were finally free from him, and terror because I had no idea what came next. I remember sitting on a friend’s sofa that first night, the kids asleep beside me, and thinking, I wish there was something. Somewhere. Someone. A proper safety net for women like me. Not a helpline that rings out, not a shelter that says “we’re full,” not a pamphlet with generic advice. Something real. Something that understood what it felt like to be exhausted, scared, and completely alone, and that didn’t treat women like a problem to process or a case number to tick off.
For months after leaving, I was on autopilot. I had to learn to trust my own instincts again, to remember that my feelings mattered. I had to figure out how to support my children through their own fear and trauma, all while trying to rebuild a life with nothing but the smallest fragments of stability. Every interaction with systems that were supposed to help - social services, housing, benefits - felt bureaucratic and impersonal. I had to fight for everything, even when I was at my weakest. I became hyper-vigilant, anxious, exhausted, and still, somehow, I had to smile and appear “okay” to the outside world.
Finding out about Finally Free CIC later on hit me hard. I cried for the version of me that had to navigate all of that alone, that had to scrape together survival with no proper guidance, no understanding, no community. Everything you’re doing - the emotional support, the way you actually listen, the trauma-informed approach, the plans for safe housing and real recovery - it’s exactly what I needed back then.
Sam, you and your team genuinely get it. You don’t just tick boxes or follow protocol. You listen, you empathise, and you act. You don’t just offer a temporary safe space - you’re building something that changes the whole recovery journey, something that helps women reclaim their lives, piece by piece. You get the fear, the exhaustion, the constant questioning of your own judgment that comes with leaving an abusive relationship. And most importantly, you provide hope - hope that women can survive this, that they can rebuild, and that they’re not alone.
If something like Finally Free had existed when I left, I wouldn’t have had to fight half of it alone. I wouldn’t have had to constantly calculate risk, or sleep in fear, or feel like my children and I were invisible in a system that was meant to protect us. I wouldn’t have had to relearn how to feel safe, how to trust myself, how to even just breathe again.
I want you to know that what you’re building isn’t small. It isn’t just another project or charity. It’s life-changing. It’s practical. It’s emotional. It’s visionary. Women like me needed this. Women like me still do. And for those women who will come after me, who will leave tonight or tomorrow or next week, what you’re creating could mean the difference between surviving and thriving.
Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for doing what so many others don’t. Thank you for believing in women when the world seems to have stopped believing. Thank you for seeing us, hearing us, and for actually building solutions that reflect what survivors need.
I hope one day every woman who walks out with nothing but hope and a bag of clothes will find you, and find a team that makes the journey feel possible. Because women like me deserved this. Women like me still do.
