She is getting divorced. She is still coming to terms with that word. They are separated. He slammed her against the wall and held her by the throat. It happened only once. Should she forgive him? The world will tell her to. Family, culture, society—everyone has an opinion. But she is wise beyond her years. She understands something I learned the hard way, after many years and much heartbreak:

That moment—the audacity of that once—is not isolated. It is the result of countless smaller transgressions. The disregard, the dismissals, the subtle manipulations that built up over time. And the moment she lets it go, the moment she rationalizes it away, she starts the slow, dangerous slide downhill.

She knows this. She is wise. But wisdom does not erase fear. She texts me often, her thoughts spiralling. Her fears creeping in. The pressure from society pushing her to the edge—Will she be okay? Will her son be fine? We talk. We breathe. We build hope. We look for possibilities. And then, we move forward—picking up the pieces of our lives, however fractured they may be.

Today, she asked me, How do I deal with the resentment?

I thought about it. And felt I should put it out there in case you need to hear this, too.

Some questions don’t have simple answers. Resentment is not a switch you turn off. It lingers. It festers. But if you let it take root, it consumes you.

Healing takes time—if it ever fully happens. Some things are softened by wisdom, some by distance, some by sheer survival.

And then, there is responsibility. The hardest part. Acknowledging your own role—not in the abuse, not in his choices, but in the patterns that led you there. Forgiving yourself for what you didn’t see, for what you tolerated, for what you excused. Understanding the gaps within yourself that made you seek something in him—what was the relationship offering that you were longing for?

It takes growing up. It takes acceptance. It takes doing the work, over and over again, until the resentment no longer dictates your days. Until you can breathe without the weight of it.

And one day, when you least expect it, you’ll realize you’ve moved on—not just physically, not just legally, but truly, deeply, entirely.

Until then, we talk. We breathe. We build hope. And we move forward.