We were introduced through a mutual friend—one who was absolutely convinced we would be “perfect” for each other. She invited me to a birthday party she knew he would be attending, and her contagious excitement slowly became my own. On the night of the party, however, I was miserably sick. Coughing, sneezing, stuffed up—every symptom a NyQuil commercial warns you about. I arrived late, fully intending not to stay long, but that plan quickly changed the moment she introduced me to him.
We talked, laughed, and danced for hours, and by the end of the night, he asked for my phone number. I declined, explaining that I had just ended a long-term relationship and didn’t think I was ready for anything new. Yet only hours later, I reached out to our mutual friend and asked for his number anyway. Years later, I often wonder if she realized that was the exact moment everything in my life began to change.
Two months after that birthday party, I was just as smitten as I had been during our first conversation. He seemed unlike anyone I had ever dated before. Beyond the obvious difference—this being an interracial relationship—he appeared to truly have his life together. He had a great job, was a devoted father to his daughters, and seemed firmly on a promising path. Around that time, he confronted me about text messages he had seen on my phone between my ex and me, discussing a possible reconciliation. He was understandably hurt and told me he felt betrayed. I was suddenly forced to choose between trying to fix a past relationship or leaving it behind to build a future with him. I chose him, never once questioning the fact that he had gone through my phone.
We continued dating and eventually decided to make our relationship exclusive, but by then it was already too late—he never trusted me again. If he called and I let it ring too long, or worse, didn’t answer, I was cheating. If I had to cancel a date because I couldn’t find a babysitter or had to work late, I was cheating. In his mind, I was either sleeping with my ex or every male friend I had—or wanted to. My second job as a part-time waitress at a local sports bar caused endless arguments. He would even show up unexpectedly, posing as a customer, just to watch how I interacted with other patrons. Slowly, every ounce of free time I had outside of my children became consumed by him. Eventually, I found myself alienating my friends, my family, and every hobby I loved—including my passion for writing and performing Spoken Word poetry.
The first time he hit me, it was with a pillow. We were sitting on the bed, arguing over yet another accusation, when the verbal abuse—which had already been happening for two years—was worse than ever. I had endured more insults than I could count: “stupid cnt,” “dumb black btch,” “worthless whore,” and so much more. As I prepared to leave, he grabbed a pillow and slapped me across the face so hard that I fell off the bed. I don’t know what shocked me more—the pain, the humiliation, or the realization that I couldn’t do this anymore. I jumped up, crying, fists clenched, but when he charged at me, he threw me to the ground and began kicking, hitting, and choking me. I fought back with everything I had, but I was no match for his strength or his rage. I was left bruised, broken, and defeated—and heartbreakingly, it would take many more incidents like this before I would leave for good.
March 24th, 2012 was the last time he ever put his hands on me. That day left me with two broken ribs and a type 2 concussion. I went to work once again hiding my bruises, but this time I was also using a doctor-prescribed asthma inhaler to prevent pneumonia from the fractured ribs. By then, the weight of everything I had endured caught up with me. I was battling severe depression and suicidal thoughts. Six months earlier, I had lost my home due to financial hardship. I had temporarily sent my children to live with their father, and I was now living with the man who was abusing me—all while desperately trying to get back on my feet. He eventually began counseling and promised things would change. While the physical abuse stopped, the emotional and verbal abuse did not. I finally left for good several months later after he called my mother and sisters the “n” word during an argument.
Seven years later, I stand before you as a strong, bad-ass, and unstoppable survivor, mentor, and advocate—often sharing my story through my Spoken Word poetry. Just this week, I was honored to receive the Survivor Activist Award at the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence Voices in Action Awards Gala. Imagine being afraid to use your voice for years, only to later win awards for refusing to shut up.
I am also the founder of an incredible 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization, the G.R.O.W. Foundation (Girls Recognizing Our Worth), which provides victim and survivor advocacy, awareness, and community outreach.
I am married to an amazing man who loves me wholeheartedly and treats me with the respect I deserve. But most importantly, I stand here as a woman who truly loves herself and knows her worth.
To anyone who is currently in—or may someday find themselves in—an abusive relationship, please hear me: talk to someone. You are not alone, and you do not have to fight this battle by yourself. You are not worthless—you are priceless. And real love would never force you to choose between the two.
With love,
Neisha
