I Lived In A Domestic Violence Shelter

Lily Rae
Nov 24
4 min read

Updated: Dec 1

⚠️ Trigger Warning: This post contains details about my personal experience with domestic violence and leaving domestic violence. The contents may be triggering. Remember that you are not alone, and my heart is with you. ✨ If you or someone you know needs support or resources, the National Domestic Violence Hotline was a great source of support to me. https://www.thehotline.org/get-help/ | 1 (800) 799-SAFE (7233) | Text START to 88788

After nearly 4 years of marriage, I fled my home with the clothes I was wearing to increasingly more dangerous abuse in our home. What started as controlling and jealous behaviors from my ex quickly morphed into physical violence and being locked away in rooms. I knew that when the opportunity was there, I would need to take it and run. I ran to a neighbor's house down the street and rang his bell. A young man answered the door and showed me grace, kindness, and compassion like I hadn’t known in years. The hours that followed felt like a blur – police and a detective asking questions and taking pictures of the marks on my body, handing me a paper and pen to write out my statement. The air felt heavy. I could feel my heart beating in my ears. It was all over, yet in that moment, I still didn’t feel safe. The panic was overwhelming. I was scared.

The question that had been playing in the back of my mind was finally spoken out loud, by the officer that had taken my statement. Is there somewhere you can go? Well, it’s safe to say I definitely did not have somewhere I could go. I explained to him that I had been no-contact with my own family for years and hadn’t been let out of the apartment by myself for 3 years with no phone or computer, so it’s safe to say I didn’t have any friends. I remember hearing myself speak, almost from a third-person perspective, and feeling my stomach drop. I didn’t know what I was going to do or what was going to happen to me. I must have looked like I was going to throw up (I was) because the officer told me to try and breathe and promised me we would figure it out. He left for a while – the silence was deafening – and when he came back, he told me they had a place for me to go: a women’s shelter for domestic violence victims in the city.

I will never forget pulling up in front of the shelter that day. The building felt massive and the city was daunting. There were a few small groups of women standing around smoking, but I tried not to make eye contact when the officer and I walked in through the front doors and waited to be buzzed into the lobby. From there, a case worker came and took me to do intake. I repeated my story and cried, and she listened and gently assured me that I was brave for leaving. I was strong.

During my marriage, there were padlocks and alarms on the doors, and I wasn’t allowed to leave or freely move around the apartment I lived in with my ex. So, when the case worker handed me the key to my room, I felt hopeful about the future for the first time in a long time. The hallway leading to my room felt oddly homey and clinical at the same time, and when we got to my door, I unlocked it and felt overwhelmed with a thousand different emotions, but my body and mind settled on one: safe. I remember it being like a sigh of relief. The bed was all made up with a pillow and big, fluffy comforter. There was a plastic basket on the dresser with all the essentials like shampoo, soap, toothbrush, and deodorant. It felt safe, and that was all I really cared about.

I could write a hundred stories about my time there. I could tell you about the amazing people I met who lifted me up while I rebuilt. I could tell you about the chaos of navigating the legal system. And while I do plan to share some of those stories here, there are some memories, built from quiet nights alone, picking up the pieces of my newly-shattered life, that I think will always remain locked away for only myself.