I aimed to reach the pinnacle. Clinical ladder 4 represented that peak. As an ICU nurse, this was the highest accomplishment achievable.

Numerous prerequisites were necessary to attain this:

– Community service engagement.
– Having a published nursing article in a reputable nursing journal.
– Completing extensive hours as a charge nurse without receiving the differential pay.

Each year, I checked off all the requirements. It was labor-intensive and exhausting. The reward for this effort was $8,000.

We received a list of local community service opportunities. I selected a shelter for women and children affected by domestic violence, who found themselves homeless.

I educated the women on how to measure blood pressure. I explained the terms systolic and diastolic. We discussed nutritious food options.

It served as a safe haven.

The children had daycare or school each day. They received three meals daily. Each mother and her child or children occupied a small room with just enough space for beds, a toilet, and a shower.

The community room functioned as their living area, with access to a shared kitchen.

It felt like a village to me. Filled with profoundly sorrowful women. They would slowly enter the education room where I instructed twice a week. It was challenging to teach as they came in.

Women. Eyes filled with sadness. Unkempt appearances. Slowly shuffling into my classroom.

Some bore bruises on their arms. One had a severe black-and-blue mark around her eye, a result of being struck by her husband. She could hardly open that eye.

I was unaware that I was one of them.

When my assignment concluded, I couldn’t help but reflect. Those children—joyful, learning, and playing within a structured environment. The mothers felt secure, having escaped the turmoil they left behind. A roof over their heads. Nourishing meals. Love. Safety.

Our ICU manager approved my community service. Another requirement completed for my clinical ladder 4.

I returned to work. That hour-long drive to the hospital provided plenty of time for introspection.

With the ICU manager’s endorsement, I established a Christmas initiative each year for the children at that home. Toiletries and gift cards for the mothers. The children eagerly opened brand-new toys from our ICU team. It often required two vans to deliver the gifts.

Yet I still didn’t realize I was one of them.

I ultimately succeeded in becoming a clinical ladder 4 RN. There’s no denying the hard work I invested.

The $8,000 finally arrived, bringing immense joy to my children and husband. An abundance of blessings.

My husband never physically harmed me. He brought about a slow drip of disrespect and neglect instead. Dismissing me constantly. Insisting I wasn’t intelligent enough or attractive enough. Telling me that if I wanted to escape our trailer (this run-down two-bedroom trailer), I would have to handle it on my own.

And I did. I managed it myself. Frequently working 60 hours a week, I took a second job at a small hospital ICU to save for a down payment on a proper house. He stood by, never flinching at the countless hours I put in at work. I attended all my children’s birthday celebrations and acted as the class mother for all three. Admittedly, I sometimes seemed half-asleep from the night shifts. But I made it work.

One day, my eight-year-old daughter asked her father: “Why does mommy work so much?”

His response was: “She enjoys working; all her friends are there. She has fun with them.”

My daughter relayed this to me.

It was another truth I had to confront. Gaslighting.

The reality, I explained to her, was that I longed to spend more time with our children, but I needed to purchase that house and provide them with quality clothing. I wished for enjoyable vacations for them.

While my husband stood by. A quiet genius with a college education, capable of earning much more than his minimum wage job. He organized his “business trips.” A new woman, numerous infidelities.

It wasn’t until his death—cancer, liver, pancreas, with metastases to his lungs and lymph nodes—that I finally gazed into the mirror.

The image staring back at me revealed volumes of abuse.

Domestic abuse. The fabrications I created to convince myself we were a happy family. That I was blissfully married. I faced the truth in the mirror, and everything came rushing back.

Those women at that shelter years ago. They had faced physical assault, left broke and without homes. Domestic violence.

My husband never struck me. Instead, he gradually wore me down with verbal abuse. That incessant drip of self-doubt I experienced. The feeling of never being sufficient. Constant neglect and disrespect from him. Years of turmoil.