Healing isn’t linear.
Some days, I felt like I was flying—confident, purposeful, glowing with a sense of freedom I once thought I didn’t deserve. Other days, I’d wake up with fear crawling over my skin, reliving memories I tried so hard to bury.
But through it all, one thing remained constant:
I wasn’t going back.
Not to Chuka.
Not to silence.
Not to that life where I wasn’t allowed to exist outside his shadow.
Instead, I pressed forward—scared, shaky, but determined.
My writing career began to blossom in the most unexpected way.
What started as a simple page turned into something far bigger. After the magazine published a piece titled “Trapped in Lace: My Marriage Was a Beautiful Lie”, emails began to pour in. I was invited to speak at a women’s forum. Me. Adaeze. A woman who used to be afraid of greeting her neighbor.
I remember standing before that crowd of about 40 women, holding a microphone with trembling hands. For a second, I almost walked off the stage.
But then I looked into their eyes. Some were brimming with tears, others with curiosity. And I realized—they weren’t here for perfection.
They were here for truth.
So I spoke.
From my gut. From the scars. From the rawest parts of my journey.
And when I finished, the applause wasn’t what touched me—it was the line of women who came up afterward to hug me, to say “Thank you. You told my story.”
That night, I went home and cried—not from pain, but from purpose.
I was finally becoming the woman I was meant to be.
I began to dress differently.
Not for attention, but for myself.
Bright colors. Free hair. I pierced my ears again—something Chuka forbade because he said it made women look “wild.” I laughed at that thought as I slipped in a pair of small gold hoops I bought from a street vendor.
Wild?
Maybe.
But free? Definitely.
I enrolled in a creative writing course online, bought a second-hand laptop with my first magazine cheque, and started working on a book—part memoir, part guide for women trying to escape emotional control. I titled it “Caged in Gold.”
Chioma helped me edit. Bisi read my chapters and cried. My support group cheered me on.
It felt like I had built a new tribe. A family of women who saw me—really saw me—and didn’t ask me to shrink.
Then came something I didn’t expect: a man.
His name was Emeka. A soft-spoken photojournalist I met at a creative writing workshop in Yaba.
He was gentle in the ways that shook me.
He opened doors, not because he wanted to control me, but because he respected me. He listened without interrupting. He asked before touching. And the first time he asked me out for coffee, I nearly said no—not because I wasn’t interested, but because I was scared of losing myself again.
But I remembered what my therapist told me:
“Healing doesn’t mean avoiding love. It means choosing better love.”
So I said yes.
And slowly, he taught me that not all men were prisons.
Some could be gardens.
One evening, while walking through Freedom Park, he asked me a question I’ll never forget:
“Adaeze, do you think you’re happy now?”
I paused.
Happiness used to be a concept I couldn’t grasp. It felt like something you chased but never caught. But standing there, in a city that once felt like a battlefield, I realized something:
“I’m not happy every day,” I said, “but I’m free. And I think that’s better.”
He nodded, smiling. “Freedom is happiness in its truest form.”
He got it.
He wasn’t trying to save me.
He was walking beside me.
There are moments in a woman’s life that redefine everything.
Not when she falls in love.
Not when she gets married.
But when she looks in the mirror and decides to stop betraying herself.
That moment came for me not when I walked out of Chuka’s house, but when I stopped feeling guilty for doing it.
Because for months, even in my new life, a part of me kept whispering:
Maybe you were too dramatic. Maybe you should have tried harder. Maybe if you had just kept quiet…
But here’s the truth I finally accepted:
You can’t fix a man who enjoys breaking you.
And I was done breaking.
I finished writing my book.
“Caged in Gold: My Escape from Love Gone Wrong” hit the shelves quietly but began spreading fast among women’s circles, reading clubs, and even therapy groups. I started getting invites to speak not just in Lagos, but in Port Harcourt, Abuja, and even Nairobi.
Women of all ages came up to me and said things like,
“I thought I was crazy until I read your words,”
or,
“You gave me the courage to finally leave.”
That was when I knew—I didn’t just survive.
I had transformed.
Not into someone new, but into the woman I was always meant to be, before I was silenced by gold rings and sweet words that turned bitter.
Chuka tried again.
He sent messages through lawyers, family members, mutual friends.
Some of them even asked me to “consider reconciliation for the sake of peace.”
But I had already made peace—with myself.
That was the only peace that mattered.
I didn’t need closure from the man who locked the cage.
I was the closure.
One morning, as I stood at the balcony of my small but warm apartment in Lekki, sipping tea and watching the sun rise over a city that once crushed me, I smiled.
The woman I saw in the reflection on the glass wasn’t perfect. She had scars, both visible and hidden. She still had days when fear tried to creep back in.
But she was free.
She was powerful.
She was me.
I ignored red flags because I thought money would solve everything. But wealth is only golden when paired with respect, kindness, and equality.
If you’re reading this, and you’re in a cage—no matter how beautiful it looks—please know:
You deserve more.
You are not selfish for wanting to be seen.
You are not difficult for wanting a voice.
You are not wrong for walking away.
I did.
And I never looked back.
And in walking away,
I finally found myself.
Final Reflections
I once believed love was meant to be endured. That suffering made it real. That submission was proof of commitment.
But now I know:
-
Love without freedom is slavery.
-
Control is not care.
-
Luxury without liberty is still a prison.
-
Healing is messy but necessary. Every tear had a purpose.
-
Telling your story may save someone else. Never underestimate your voice.
-
You can fall in love again—this time with boundaries, self-worth, and wisdom.
-
You don’t owe anyone the old version of yourself. Reinvention is your right.
-
Freedom is the foundation of any healthy love—romantic or otherwise.
