The saying goes, "You can never go home again." But I believe that in a way, you can. If home is where the heart is, then you can always return. You just need to recover your heart.

When I left my husband, my son and I had to learn how to live all over again. I’d spent years being conditioned to think and act in certain ways, and leaving did not automatically change years of learned behavior. Leaving did remove the person I had allowed to dictate my thoughts, my feelings and my behavior. But even thought he was gone, I still lived in that reactionary frame of mind. I didn’t relate to others; I reacted to them. I needed to re-learn how to relate.

I filed for an order of protection, rented an apartment and begin the long, slow process of learning how to live again. Each day, I took a new step. First I arranged the furniture the way I wanted to—without the fear of ridicule. I bought the food I wanted to eat—and made pizza with cheese, only cheese, the way Stephen and I liked it but Ed had never allowed. "I’m not paying $10 for bread and cheese!" He’d screamed when I’d stood up for us. His words rang in my ears as the melted sweetness slid down my throat and made each piece a victory.

I found a pre-school with the atmosphere and philosophy I thought was right for Stephen. I found an entry-level job, and learned how to interact in a healthy way with people who cared about me, and people who did not. I learned how to be a neighbor, and a friend, on my own terms, without checking every word, every interaction, against the list of ways it might set off Ed. I went back to church on Sundays. I found a babysitter and went out one night a month, precious time just for me. I learned how to prioritize my life according to what I thought was best for us, not according to what I would pay for later.

One night, not long after Stephen and I had moved into our apartment, he smashed his fingers in the accordion door of the laundry closet. His cry pierced my heart. Immediately, I ran to him, held him, inspected his hand and reached for the ice.

As sat rocking Stephen, and singing softly in his ear as I used to do behind his locked bedroom door, cell phone on the changing table just in case, the difference between life with Ed and life without Ed became startlingly clear.

With Ed, any emergency became a battle. I would need to ward Ed off with one arm while comforting Stephen with the other. More than once Stephen had stopped crying, baby eyes wide with shock, as Ed hovered over us and screamed, "What happened! Where were you! How could you let him get hurt! What were you thinking?!" Without Ed, I was free to inspect my son’s hand, comfort him; give him the attention he needed. I was able, simply, to be his mother. And the moment I realized that leaving Ed meant I was finally able to care for Stephen, I knew I would never go back.

Living with domestic violence is like living with an elephant in the living room. It is always there, a hulking presence that must be accounted for with every thought. Every task, every decision becomes complicated, time consuming, and as fraught with danger as a stroll though a minefield. And it is much, much worse with a child.

"Walk over here, by the wall" I want to tell him, "so you won’t get stepped on if the elephant moves." But the elephant is something you don’t talk about. To name the elephant means you see the elephant, and then you need to deal with the elephant. The trick to living with an elephant in the living room is to pretend it’s not there. So, to keep my son safe in a house with an elephant, I must pull his sleeve while he walks, until he learns to walk close to the walls.

This warped thinking infiltrates every area of life. But to ‘keep the family together’, to not ‘rock the boat’, to not have to put my child in pre-school--away from mommy 45 hours a week--I did it. And millions of other women do too.

After all, how do you explain to your child that daddy is dangerous? How do you come clean and, after adjusting your entire world to sneaking around the invisible hulking presence, name the elephant? How do people living with their own invisible elephant react to your new assertion? And how do you support yourself and your child after being cut off from the world, sometimes for years?

It is not easy.

But it is necessary.

Leaving Ed was incredibly difficult. People asked me, "Why don’t you just leave?" But leaving is not as simple as finding a job and changing houses, if either of those is simple.

In order to name the elephant, I needed to admit that I saw it. Only then could I take the steps to deal with it.

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