I’m Not Healed. I’m Recalibrating.

There is a loneliness that arrives after you leave an abusive relationship.

Not the loneliness of being unseen or unsafe — but a quieter, more disorienting one.

It appears once the chaos ends.

Once the decisions are made.

Once the door is closed.

For a long time, survival kept me company. There was always something urgent to manage, someone to stabilise, something to endure. Leaving didn’t immediately bring peace — it brought space. And space can feel unfamiliar when your nervous system has been trained to remain on high alert.

What follows is recalibration.

The mind has to learn that silence is not danger.

The heart has to learn that intensity is not intimacy.

And the body has to slow down enough to reflect who you are now — not who you needed to be to survive.

Loneliness in this season doesn’t mean something is missing. Often, it means something heavy has finally been put down.

I notice it most in the in-between moments: calm evenings, quiet weekends, decisions that no longer require defence or explanation. These moments are good — and they can still ache.

And then there are the small freedoms.

I can listen to music again. Freely.

I can play a song because it feels right — loud or soft, joyful or reflective — without tension or justification. That freedom feels bigger than it should, but it isn’t really about the music. It’s about choosing pleasure without bracing for consequence. It’s about my body learning that enjoyment no longer leads to conflict.

Music has become one of the ways my nervous system relearns safety.

Starting again in a new place magnifies all of this. New surroundings. New rhythms. Familiar strength on unfamiliar ground.

Rebuilding a life after abuse is not about becoming someone new. It is about unlearning urgency, releasing hyper-responsibility, and allowing safety to land where it already exists.

I’m not healed.

But I am no longer in survival mode.

And right now, that is enough.