I lost my home. I lost my savings. But I didn’t lose myself. This is what surviving looks like.
There are things we don’t talk about after divorce.
Not because we’re ashamed — though, for a while, I was.
But because the scale of it feels unfathomable.
And because when you’re a woman who stayed home to raise children,
people assume you’re to blame for not having a pension,
a paycheck, or a safety net.
So let me say it out loud:
I am half a million pounds in debt.
Not because I went shopping.
Not because I was reckless.
Not because I didn’t try.
But because I tried *so hard* to protect my children,
to fight for fairness, and to survive a system that wasn’t built with women like me in mind.
The Cost of Divorce Isn’t Just Emotional
Since 2018, I’ve been trapped in the legal system.
Family court. Financial hearings. CMS appeals.
Every time I thought it might be over, another wave hit.
Barristers. Bundles. School fees. Court dates.
No maintenance for years.
I borrowed to cover rent, to keep the lights on,
to pay for uniforms, for food,
to stop my children being pulled out of school mid-GCSEs because their father —
who obtained the school fees order —
decided he couldn’t pay anymore.
I borrowed to survive.
What Hurts Most
I gave twenty years of my life to being a mother.
To building a family.
To showing up, day in, day out, for my children.
And I came out of that financially with nothing but debt.
No house.
No assets.
No maintenance.
No equity.
Just bills, threats of court, and a constant voice in my head asking:
How did I get here?
What hurts most isn’t even the number.
It’s the fact that I spent so long being made to feel like I deserved it.
The Legal Fees That Broke Me
I’ve spent hundreds of thousands in legal fees. Just to seek fairness.
My ex spent far more trying to shut me down.
One solicitor filed applications in my name without my knowledge.
It led to a wasted costs order, negligence, and trauma I’m still unpacking.
Yes — I settled with the firm.
No — I didn’t walk away with money.
Just another lesson. Another scar. Another mess I had to clean up.
The Comfort Zone of Survival
When you live like that for long enough —
the stress, the juggling, the dread that today is the day it all collapses —
you stop noticing the toll it’s taking.
I was surviving. Barely.
Then I met a financial coach who changed everything.
She told me I was stuck in the comfort zone of survival.
Not comfort in the cosy sense. Comfort in the familiar.
I was used to spinning plates while they were on fire.
Used to feeding my kids while hiding letters from court.
Used to pretending I was fine when I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating,
wasn’t breathing.
She told me I needed to stop surviving and start rebuilding.
And that began with rewriting the story:
– “Debt” became “funding.”
– “Loss” became “lessons.”
– “Shame” became “strategy.”
I Wrote a Letter to My Future Self
One day, I sat down and wrote to the woman on the other side of this —
the one who paid it off, restructured, or out-earned it.
The one who didn’t just survive, but rose.
And I reminded her of everything I’ve already done:
– Raised three boys with integrity and grace.
– Outlasted a seven-year legal war.
– Built a brand from nothing.
– Never missed a meal, even when I missed every deadline.
– Kept going when most would’ve crumbled.
I might be £500,000 in debt.
But I’m also wealthy in strength, values, fight, and clarity.
No Shame, No Secrets
For years, I hid the truth. Even from friends. Especially from myself.
But silence is what shame feeds on — and I’ve decided to starve it.
I take full responsibility for my choices, but I refuse to carry blame for a system that failed me.
I don’t expect anyone else to fix this. But I won’t let it define me, either.
I’m in debt.
But I am not defeated.
I’m building something.
And this time, it’s mine.
My words. My voice. My story.
And it’s going to save me — I can feel it.
If You’re Quietly Drowning
Here’s what I want you to know:
💡Emotion drowns you. Knowledge saves you.
💡You’re not bad with money. You’ve just been surviving.
💡You already have the skills — resilience, strategy, hustle.
💡Write them down. Build from there.
This isn’t a cautionary tale.
This is a rallying cry.
If I can stand here, £500,000 in the red, and still tell my story with power —
then maybe you can take the first step too.
You don’t need to have it all figured out.
Just the courage to say:
“I’m not hiding anymore.”
A Final Note
If my story resonates with you—or if you’re navigating difficult relationships, debt, or rebuilding your life—I’m sharing more tools, survival strategies, and unfiltered truths on:
One of the red flag warning signs: anger that targets your vulnerabilities.
Red flag warning signs are the subtle tactics manipulators use to isolate you, control your money, or rewrite your reality. In this post, discover the 7 most common warning signs and how to protect yourself.
You think you’ve done the work. You’ve left the chaos. You’ve cried the tears. You’ve read the books, gone to therapy, spoken your truth.
You’ve told yourself, never again.
You’ve promised your kids, your friends, your future self — that next time will be different. And then someone walks into your life with warm eyes, soft hands, and all the right words.
And your guard, that you’ve spent years building, starts to loosen.
It doesn’t happen all at once. That’s the part people don’t talk about enough. It’s not a punch or a scream that gives it away. It’s that feeling in your gut you try to reason away. It’s the confusion you can’t quite name. It’s the kindness that feels just a little too intense — and the way you convince yourself this is what healing must feel like.
But sometimes healing doesn’t come dressed as safety. Sometimes it comes dressed as danger disguised as love.
This is how I slipped again. These are the signs I wish I hadn’t ignored.
And this time, I’m writing them down. Not as a list — but as a memory. A warning. A lifeline. For you, if you’re in it now. And for me, to never forget again.
Red Flag Warning Sign 1: Intrusive Questioning
He wanted to know it all. From the very first week. My childhood. My heartbreaks. What made me cry. What made me scared. What my ex did. What my ex said. What my ex didn’t say. He said he wanted to help me. He could make me feel safe.
At first, it felt incredible. Like someone was finally curious. Not critical. Not distant. Not distracted. Just fully present.
But it wasn’t presence. It was a mirror — one he was using to reflect everything I’d ever said I wanted, right back at me. And when you’ve been starved of that kind of attention, you don’t see it for what it is. You call it chemistry. Fate. Finally.
But looking back, it wasn’t connection. It was data collection. And I handed over every vulnerable piece of myself like it was a gift. Like he’d earned it. When really, he hadn’t even earned my time.
Red Flag 2: Silent Isolation
These red flag warning signs aren’t always dramatic—sometimes they whisper in questions or subtle exclusions.
There was no big argument. Not at first. Just moments. Fleeting. Strange.
He made it clear from the start: he was the good guy. The one who understood. He’d been through his own pain, done the work, read the books. He’d helped other women heal, and now, he said, he wanted to help me too.
He told me I’d been mistreated. That he could see the damage. That I’d been left “half-built” by people who didn’t know how to love someone properly. And maybe part of me wanted to believe that was true. That someone kind could help put me back together.
But then came the moments. Not big or obvious. Just sharp enough to make me pause.
I’d always feel bad. I started sending texts that began with “sorry” and ended with me explaining why I was feeling anxious. He told me I was too intense. Too sensitive. Too in my head.
And I started to believe he was right. I didn’t realise the ground was already shifting beneath my feet. That I was being trained to doubt myself — one quiet correction at a time.
Red Flag 3: Transactional Kindness
Beyond isolation and intrusive questions, more red flag warning signs lurk in the guise of kindness.
He didn’t ban me from seeing my friends. He just didn’t like them.
He’d mock them under his breath. “Look at them—who do they think they are?” Roll his eyes at their jobs, their clothes, their opinions. “You’ve changed now,” he’d say. “You’re growing. And they’re holding you back.”
And somehow, that sounded supportive. Even flattering. Like he saw something in me no one else had ever noticed.
Then it was my family. “Your parents have let you down.” “They should’ve supported you more.” “They didn’t help you when you needed it.”
And I started to wonder—had they? Because the truth is, they’d been there. In all the ways they knew how. But he had this way of reframing things. Of planting seeds that made me doubt what I already knew.
And so, the distance grew.
When a friend messaged, I’d reply late or not at all. I turned down catch-ups, ignored birthdays, let the calls go unanswered. Told myself I was just busy. Just in love. Just enjoying this new chapter.
But the truth is, I was disappearing. Slowly. Subtly. Willingly.
And I didn’t notice how far I’d drifted until I needed someone—and realised I’d already let them all go.
Red Flag 4: Reality Distortion
At the beginning, he was generous. Flashy, even. Lavish dinners. Spontaneous weekends away. He’d drop hundreds without blinking. It felt like abundance. Like care. Like proof that he meant it.
But then came my birthday. Nothing. No gift. Not even a kind word.
Christmas passed the same way. Nothing for me. Nothing for his own kids. So I stepped in. I made sure there were presents under the tree. Because someone had to.
That’s when the shift happened. He wasn’t just bad with money—he was reckless. No job. No income. No convincing plan. But somehow, it was never his fault.
He told me I needed to be more relaxed. That my stress around money was the problem. That I “didn’t know how to live.” Meanwhile, I was covering his bills. Whilst he was taking loans in my name. Thinking he could use child maintenance meant for my kids to meet his needs.
He expected it. Like it was normal. Like I should be grateful to help. He’d call me supportive one minute and controlling the next.
The money he did have vanished on things he didn’t need—gadgets, clothes, random impulsive purchases. Feast and famine. That was the cycle. And I was stuck trying to balance it.
I thought if I could just fix the finances, maybe everything else would calm down. But it never did. Because it was never about the money. It was about control.
Eventually, I landed in therapy with a financial coach from the stress of it all. Because he’d convinced me that I was the problem. That I was too rigid. Too anxious. Too much.
He couldn’t take much more of me, he said. But the truth is, I couldn’t take much more of him.
He didn’t want a partner. He wanted a provider. A clean-up crew. A financial safety net in human form.
And when the money ran dry, so did the kindness.
By now you’ve seen four red flag warning signs; let’s explore the last three.
Red Flag Warning Sign 5: Love-Bombing
Then came the outbursts.
It started with words—sharp, sudden, designed to wound. He’d explode over nothing, and then tell me I was the problem. “There’s nothing wrong with being angry,” he’d say. He threw a cushion at me once, hard and fast, and when I flinched, he scoffed: “That isn’t abuse. It’s a soft object.”
Objects flew. Doors slammed. Once, my hand got caught in the doorframe. He said it was an accident.
I tried to stay calm. Tried to be strong. Tried to be reasonable. I told myself he was stressed. That I could de-escalate things.
But the truth is—it got worse.
He told me I was the worst woman he’d ever been with. This, from a man with a trail of failed relationships behind him. They were all crazy, he said. Manipulative. Unfair. He was just “unlucky.” Women took advantage of his kind heart.
But I was the one paying the price.
He crossed a line he couldn’t uncross— He threw something at me. A sellotape dispenser. I froze. My body screamed to move, but I couldn’t.
And then, just moments later—tears. His tears. He collapsed onto the floor, sobbing. Said he was having a breakdown. Said I’d abandoned him. That I was cold. That I didn’t care.
But I’d just been hit.
And in that moment, I ignored his crying. I stood there, shaking, too numb to comfort him, too afraid to speak. And I hated that I even questioned myself— Was I heartless? Was he really broken? Had I pushed him too far?
That’s what abuse does. It twists the narrative until you’re not sure if you’re the victim or the villain.
So I stopped speaking up. I started swallowing the truth. Second-guessing every instinct. Trying to be more rational. More understanding. Less “dramatic.” Because his voice was always louder. His story always sadder. His pain always more important.
But the more I bent, the more I broke. Because when someone’s version of reality becomes louder than your own, you don’t just lose arguments.
You lose your sense of truth.
And without truth, there’s no way out.
Red Flag 6: Boundary Violations
He could be so kind. Romantic. Thoughtful. We had weekends that felt like magic. Inside jokes. Deep talks. Stolen moments that made it all feel worth it.
And that’s what made it so hard to end. Because every time I thought about it, my mind would flash to the good version of him. The one who made coffee in the mornings. Who walked the dogs with me. Who made me laugh.
But I’ve learned something brutal and true: The good times don’t cancel out the bad ones. They keep you hostage.
They keep you hoping. Waiting. Justifying. Remembering. And staying.
Red Flag Warning Sign 7: Ever-Moving Standards
He had his children’s photo on his dating profile. Said it showed how much they meant to him. Said he was a “family man.” And I wanted to believe it.
On our first date, he told me how wonderful I was. Said I was different. Held my hand like we were already a couple. Took me to an art gallery and bought a painting—just like that.
He made grand plans. Romantic dinners. Holidays. He wanted me to meet his kids straight away. That I was special. That he could see a future.
And I fell for it. Because after what I’d been through, it felt like love. Like maybe this time, it was finally real.
He told me stories—so many stories. Every single ex had hurt him. Betrayed him. Used him. He was just a good guy who hadn’t been loved right.
He talked a lot about being a great dad. But he lived in a different country to his children. His ex was “difficult,” he said. Wouldn’t let him be involved. His eldest daughter was estranged. But not his fault, of course. Never his fault.
Three months in, he booked a holiday. I thought it meant something—thought it was a sign of commitment. But while we were away, I found out he’d spent the night with another woman.
He cried. Swore it meant nothing. Told me I was his everything. His world. That he’d never loved anyone the way he loved me.
And even though every red flag was waving in my face, I stayed.
Because I confused the intensity for intimacy. Because I wanted to believe the fairytale more than I wanted to face the facts. Because it all happened so fast, I didn’t have time to think.
To breathe. To listen to the quiet little voice inside me whispering, this isn’t love.
By the time I saw it clearly, I was already in too deep to leave without bruises.
Recognising these red flag warning signs is the first step. Now you need to learn how to set firm boundaries and rebuild trust.
Additional Support If you’re facing financial abuse or economic control, the charity Surviving Economic Abuse offers free guides, toolkits, and a helpline to help you regain financial independence.
If you’re reading this because you’re living in something that feels off — something that’s hurting you but you can’t quite name — you’re not alone. I’ve lived it too. I’m still crawling my way through the aftermath of a trauma bond after abuse, trying to figure out how it even happened again.
Trauma Doesn’t Look Like a Monster
You never think it’ll happen again.
You got out. You rebuilt. You’re stronger now. Wiser. You can spot the red flags a mile off, right?
Wrong.
Abuse doesn’t walk through the door in a balaclava. It doesn’t introduce itself with a clenched fist. It shows up with romance, compliments and hand-written notes. It offers to cook dinner and rub your back and makes you feel — finally — chosen. Safe. Special.
Especially when you’ve survived an abusive relationship before. You want to believe this is your second chance at love. A good person. A new chapter.
That’s how it starts. This one started like that.
He was charming. A happy guy. The kind of magnetic that lights up the room. He was attentive, emotionally expressive, generous to me. It was intoxicating. I remember thinking, Wow, I’ve finally found someone who actually loves me.
The Cracks Start Slowly
And then, slowly — and I mean so slowly — things started to crack.
But not in the way you expect. Not like the movies. More like… confusion. Self-doubt. Conversations where I’d walk away wondering if I’d gone mad. The tiniest criticisms wrapped in jokes. The “anger” that hurt a bit more than it should, and anyway anger is a good quality (so he said). The first time I got pushed, it was because I was “winding him up.”
Then came the apologies. So many apologies.
“I’m so sorry, I’m ashamed of myself.” “It won’t happen again.” “That wouldn’t hurt you — it was just a cushion.” “That wasn’t abuse, babe.”
The terrifying thing is: part of me believed it.
What a Trauma Bond Really Feels Like
Because when someone is alternating cruelty with affection, pain with praise, your nervous system doesn’t know which way is up. You become addicted to the highs. That’s what a trauma bond is — it’s not weakness. It’s biology. It’s being trapped in a cycle of fear and relief, shame and hope. And it’s brutally hard to break.
The trauma bond after abuse is like an invisible tether — it keeps pulling you back, even when you know you should run.
Especially when they say they love you.
Especially when there are kids to think about.
Especially when you’ve already been through hell and you’re desperate not to “fail” at another relationship.
He started out with some money in the bank. Then he didn’t have money. He didn’t earn an income. He then needed me. I stayed longer than I care to admit.
When the Apologies Stop
Until one day, the apology didn’t come fast enough.
And the shove turned into a punch.
And the scream turned into silence.
And that was it.
There Is No Going Back
I picked myself up off the floor — literally. Keys in hand, I left. There was no looking back.
Not in the way it had before. Not in a breaking way. In a breaking free way. I walked out the door. And I knew: this time, there’s no going back.
Thank god for the Domestic Abuse Act.
Thank god for the police officers who listened, who believed, who acted. Thank god for the bail conditions that now keep him away. Thank god for the tiny flicker of strength I somehow found when I thought I had none left.
It’s still raw. The tears still come. The locks still get checked. And sometimes, I still wonder: was it really that bad? — because that’s how strong the gaslighting is. That’s how deep the trauma bond goes. But the silence that used to feel unbearable now feels like space. Like breathing room.
The worst part isn’t even the violence. It’s the way you lose yourself.
You stop recognising your own thoughts. You doubt your version of events. You replay conversations like crime scene footage, trying to piece together how things got so dark.
That’s what abuse does. It rewrites your story until you don’t trust your own pen.
But I’m slowly reclaiming it.
One sentence at a time.
I wanted to write this because there’s this myth that women who fall into abusive relationships are naïve. Uneducated. Weak. Dependent.
I’m not any of those things.
I’m smart. I’m independent. I run a business. I’ve rebuilt from nothing before. And I still got caught in another cycle of abuse — because they don’t show up looking like monsters. They show up like saviours.
Until they don’t.
And if you’re in one now — or you’ve just left one — and you feel broken, ashamed, stupid, exhausted, any of those things… please know that you are not the problem. You are the target.
And you’re not alone.
Writing this is part of breaking the trauma bond after abuse — reclaiming my own story. I don’t have a fairytale ending to offer yet. I’m still in the thick of it. Still making sense of what the hell just happened to my life. But I can say this:
Leaving isn’t the end of the story. But it is the beginning of the truth.
And that’s a start.
You Are Not Alone
If you recognise yourself in this, and you’re in the UK, please know there is help available. Visit National Domestic Abuse Helpline – www.nationaldahelpline.org.uk or call 0808 2000 247 for confidential support 24/7. You are never too late. You are never too much. You are never alone.
When you’re knee-deep in court papers, CMS letters, rogue solicitor drama, and trying to keep your kids’ lives afloat — it’s easy to feel like maybe they’re right.
But they weren’t.
They were wrong.
And the moment I stopped swallowing those old stories — that I wasn’t smart enough, strong enough, or “legal” enough — was the moment I started to rise.
The Breakdown Before the Breakthrough
Let’s rewind to a solicitor I used. The one who made court applications without my knowledge. Yep seriously! The one whose actions ended in a wasted costs order. You couldn’t make it up! It was messy, unjust, and downright damaging.
The fallout? I got hit with a litigation civil restraining order. On paper, it looked like defeat. Like I’d gone too far, pushed too hard, fought too loud.
But in reality? It was the beginning of the turnaround.
That order meant I finally had a gatekeeper. No more being passed around like a cautionary tale. No more random judges unfamiliar with my case. Just structure. Continuity. A real shot at being heard.
Enter: My Superstar Barrister
Here’s the part they don’t tell you in the UK system: most people don’t get to work directly with the person who’ll stand up for them in court.
You hire a solicitor. They brief a barrister. You might get 15 minutes with the person defending your life.
But after the chaos, I changed that. I went Public Access.
I found a barrister who believed in the case, and more importantly — believed in me. We worked side-by-side. I wasn’t just a client. I was part of the strategy, the evidence, the argument.
And something shifted.
I no longer felt like I was trying to survive the system. I started to use it effectively. Navigating it. Leveraging it to protect my future and rewrite my story.
The Mindset Shift That Changed Everything
Let’s be clear: I didn’t wake up one morning suddenly full of confidence and clarity. I’d been bruised, gaslit, financially drained, and legally cornered.
But I decided that believing in myself wasn’t optional anymore.
I couldn’t afford to play small. My boys were watching. My future depended on it. And no one was coming to save me.
So I saved myself.
With a sharp mind, a sharper barrister, and a total mindset reset, I started to win. Not just in hearings, but in how I showed up. In how I planned. How I communicated. How I stood my ground when the pressure mounted.
If You’re at Rock Bottom…
I see you. I’ve been you.
Maybe you’re still in the fog. Maybe your CMS letters are stacking up. Maybe your ex is still trying to manipulate the system. Maybe you haven’t had your “clued up” moment — yet.
But it can come.
Start with your mindset. That’s what changed everything for me. Not a magic formula. Not overnight success. Just a simple decision to stop letting other people define what I was capable of.
Your First Step Forward
If any part of my story feels even a little bit familiar — I want you to know, I didn’t forget you when I was rebuilding.
I made this guide to help you. For the version of me who used to lie awake at night wondering how I’d ever feel normal again. For the person staring at their inbox, frozen. For the parent wondering if they’re the only one who feels this lost. You’re not.
A lot of the beliefs that kept me stuck — they’re in this eBook. Named. Reframed. Replaced with truths I earned the hard way.
Because once we start flipping doubt into belief, something powerful happens: we shift. Our energy changes. Our thinking clears. And suddenly, momentum builds. Positivity breeds positivity. The first brave step makes the next one feel possible.
You won’t just read this guide — you’ll feel it. You’ll start to recognise your own strength. And from there?
There’s no stopping you.
📘 [Download the Limiting Beliefs eBook] Even if you only take one idea from it — let it be this: you were never clueless. You were climbing. And the toughest climbs grow the strongest people.
Welcome back to the fight — only this time, you’re clued up.
They say rock bottom will teach you lessons that mountaintops never will. I didn’t just hit rock bottom — I unpacked and lived there for a while.
The Clued Up Club wasn’t born from strategy sessions or business plans. It came from survival mode — post-divorce, emotionally wrecked, financially drained, caught in the thick fog of family court, CMS chaos, and solo parenting. It came from years of battling a system that felt cold and unjust. It came from being dismissed, underestimated, and, at times, downright ignored.
This isn’t just a blog — it’s a lifeline, a rebellion, and a real talk space rolled into one.
When You’re on Your Knees
There were days I felt like I was drowning in paperwork, legal jargon, and silence from the very people meant to help. Days when I didn’t know how I’d get through the week — or pay the school fees. Nights spent staring at spreadsheets, court dates, unread emails, and a bank account that told a story no one else saw.
All while trying to keep life feeling “normal” for my boys.
I didn’t have a backup plan, a wealthy family, or a safety net. I had grit, three children watching me, and an inner voice that refused to stay quiet any longer.
Why I’m Sharing This Now
Because no one prepared me for how lonely, broken, and misunderstood life after a toxic relationship can feel.
No one gave me the roadmap for rebuilding a life from scratch — emotionally, financially, practically. And certainly no one told me that years later, I’d still be navigating CMS battles and winning a tribunal against the Secretary of State after three relentless years of evidence, hearings, and stonewalling.
But I won. Not just legally — spiritually, emotionally, mentally.
And now, I want to make sure you don’t have to walk this path alone.
What You’ll Find Here
This blog isn’t about “perfectly curated” healing. It’s not about finding yourself on a yoga retreat in Bali. It’s about real-life resilience. The messy, beautiful, uncomfortable truth of rebuilding a life on your own terms.
We’ll talk about boundaries, burnout, co-parenting, money, healing, court, CMS, recovery, confidence, growth, mindset, mistakes, and milestones.
If you’re trying to find your way through it — or make sense of the wreckage you’re climbing out of — you’re in the right place.
You’re Not Clueless
You were never clueless — you just weren’t given the whole story. And now, you’re getting clued up. Step by step. On your terms. In your time.
I’ll be here every week, sharing what I’ve learned — the stuff I wish someone had handed me when I was in the thick of it. And if it helps you take one more clued-up step forward, then it’s worth every word.
