It came to pass that I found myself a refugee in my own land. I no longer recognized the landscapes around me, nor my reflection in the mirror. I lived in constant fear for my children’s lives, and the uncertain future ahead. Domestic violence was a landscape I had no map for. The fear was suffocating, rewriting the very rhythm of my heart.

The long dark nights were not generous to me. How can you rest when terrified? The phone was always under my pillow, unlocked and ready to call 911. So many nights I held my sleeping children close and prayed for wings to fly us away, as I braced against the headboard in paralyzing fear. Would the lock on the bedroom door hold?

And then one day the clouds parted, and an escape route appeared. I stepped through that door and I ran—from my home, my career, my friends, and even my identity. And just like that, poof—we were gone, erased from the life we once knew. There was no safe place for us. Every night brought more questions, and in the morning, survival always felt like a fragile proposal.

Even 20 years later, that terror hasn’t left my body. Safety feels temporary. Plans feel impossible. Roots feel dangerous. Living in intense danger rewires your nervous system. My children were under four years old when we fled, and I had to teach them things no child should ever know. They learned to scan their surroundings for hidden threats. They were taught to scream loudly and make a disturbance if their father tried to take them. So much innocence was lost, and I carry that ache with me every day.

One day, another survivor gave me a gift of perspective. She turned to me and said, “Don’t call yourself a victim, honey. Victims are the women who don’t make it out alive.” That one sentence shifted everything for me. It took six years, but I finally found a small trembling voice to speak out with. It was clear that no one was coming to save us. Sometimes you have to be your own hero.

In 2012, I launched this blog with a simple post, and named it Rebel Thriver. Since then, my path has been one of deep healing. I have excavated layers of generational trauma and studied its impact on the brain and nervous system. I have mentored, coached, and held space for thousands of women from around the world. And most importantly, I have guided my children into adulthood. What I have discovered is that even in the aftermath of complete devastation, the human spirit has the power to rise.

And now, when I see families displaced from their homes, I don’t just see strangers—I see myself. I see mothers tucking their children into bed with danger pressing up against the door. I feel their fear rushing through my veins, as if I am standing there with them. I understand what it means when safety is not a promise, but a fragile illusion.

Displacement is not only about borders; it is about the soul.

It is about losing the ground beneath your feet and still finding a way to rise.

We must not look away. When we turn away from suffering, we unravel what makes us human. But when we bear witness, when we choose compassion, we stitch the world back together—thread by fragile thread.

Ella xx