A New Baseline

When each of my children were born, he never left my side. I think I’ve mentioned that before, but it’s definitely worth noting because I want to begin with the expression of his dedication to our children. He loved them with all of his heart. There was never a question. If he could have pushed for me, he would have. And on some days, he even acted as if he carried the babies to term. I’m not saying he was always engaged after they were born, but there was never a doubt—he loved them with all of his heart. He loved all of us the same, including me.

So when I decided that I would leave—to spare my children the life I lived without a father, and because of my faith in his unwavering love for his children—I decided it would benefit our kids for us to share equal time with them. A 50/50 custody split with a week-on, week-off schedule. I never would have thought that his contempt for me would radiate through his relationship with them. Especially with our girls.

After our divorce was final and we were required to begin following our parenting plan, things seemed to go well. Apart from my usual breakdowns when the kids were away, I was handling the mental weight of it. For the most part, the kids were fine. At first, when they came back home to me, they would complain about him not really knowing what to do. I thought that was hilarious. They talked about eating frozen pizzas and fast food all week. Not taking showers (which still happens—mostly their own fault though). Thank goodness my girls have locs because I have no idea how I would fix whatever monstrosity he would have come up with. Their time with him was comical in my eyes.

But things started to shift the more he began to show his colors to our children.

Our oldest daughter started to clock the tea first. She would say “He acts like a big baby.” She was 13 at the time. She attempted to prove her point by describing his temper tantrums. When she didn’t give him kisses in the mornings, he would get upset with her. He would also get upset if she didn’t come to the car fast enough during school pickup. To enforce discipline (imagine my sarcastic quote fingers here), he would prohibit her from going to dance, volleyball, or piano practice. If she showed anything other than acceptance of his punishment, he would extend the time away, claiming those things are privileges.

I know some people may agree with that approach, but I do not. Music and sports—any extracurricular activities—are just as crucial for a child’s development as basic schooling, in my opinion. We wouldn’t punish our children by making them stay home from school. Why would we restrict their enrichment? I always encouraged a different method of discipline, but since we were no longer together, my words held no weight.

After repeated offenses, he and our oldest daughter often bumped heads. The more she fought back, the more creative he became with punishments. Making her stand outside in the backyard, leaving her there while he took our other two to school. Ignoring her. Icing her out the way he used to do with me.

I tried to tell him how hurtful that could be to a 13 going on 14-year-old girl. I reminded him that these years go by so fast and that her mindset is not like our other two anymore. After twelve, girls’ mindsets shift every year. His response to my suggestions was that I was trying to dictate how he parents our children.

Things kept escalating between them. Then our middle baby girl began to notice. She didn’t like what her sister was experiencing. She would insert herself, trying to apply some form of justice to the situation by pleading her sister’s case or blatantly disagreeing with his philosophies of child rearing. He started punishing her too.

This is about the time he started to suspect me of foul play. I must be poisoning our girls against him. Just them—not our son, who still worships him.

I often reminded him that the 50/50 custody split was my idea. “Why would I suggest that just to tear you down?” I led every conversation about our kids by saying, “I think you are a great dad.” During those conversations, I truly believed that. But the more emotionally damaged his actions were towards our children, I started to second guess my decision to share custody.  

2024 became a series of cascading events, progressing in detriment. He would fight with the girls and then randomly drop them off to me because they didn’t want to be around him. He would keep our son, though.

At one point, I purchased phones for our kids so they could FaceTime me when they wanted or needed to. Since he did not approve, he would keep their phones during his parenting time. According to our kids, If they asked to call me using his phone he would tell them no. 

In 2026—present day—nothing has changed. In fact, it has gotten worse. He now refuses to let the kids pick up their things from my home when it’s time for them to spend time with me. He has given an order for me to stay away unless “allowed,” preventing me from retrieving their belongings during my parenting time. Of course, this is a direct violation of our court order and even with warning, he refuses.

All of this used to ignite a fire in my chest and then it would spread like wildfire. I wanted to get back at him for mistreating our girls. Isolating them from their brother. Providing examples of sexism to our son. Punishing our girls for having a spirit similar to mine.

I tried to take him back to court, but I felt like I failed because I couldn’t afford the lawyer fees and had to dismiss the case. I thought maybe we could mediate instead—no lawyers, less intimidation. He agreed. Then the day before mediation, he canceled.

I broke down into a manic episode. I was furious. I felt like he kept “winning.” Not that I was trying to compete for a prize, but I hated how he could do whatever he wanted to our kids and ignore my efforts to co-parent. He still had power over me. I was still the victim.

During the summer, our oldest was playing in the Fort Worth volleyball league and doing so well. Her team made it to the championships and she was chosen to be captain for those last games. He was not going to let her play because, two weeks prior, she “didn’t earn the right.” I had enough. I told him I would be keeping her so she could go to the game. This wasn’t good for her mental health. She earned that opportunity!

Of course, our middle baby wasn’t going with dad if big sister wasn’t going. So I kept both of them. He said nothing. He watched me take their bags from his car and didn’t protest. I kept them for three months with no word from him to me or to our girls. Our oldest called him on his birthday—no response. Yet he told people I was keeping his kids from him. Not true. If he had asked, I wouldn’t have stopped contact. Gentle reminder: I insisted on 50/50.

His rumors still scorched my soul, even though most people knew they weren’t true. I was still the victim. He could say something about me and ruin my day. I would cry for days. Stay angry for days. Feel defeated. Deflated.

But when the kids weren’t complaining, I could reset. I could regulate because I believed their emotional well-being was safe.

Occasionally our son would tell me his father called him fat or gay. And then I would be emotionally activated. It felt like he was indirectly killing me—one stab at a time with each insult, restriction, isolation, or withdrawal of love from our kids.

Now that I think about it, my exhaustion with co-parenting may have been one of the things that propelled me into a mindshift. I started writing. Loving solitude. Feeling stable on my own two feet. Feeling life in my bones again. Reading again. I am expanding my world and my perspective.

So when this last offense happened, I didn’t react as I normally would have.

I picked up the kids from school and they told me their dad had their phones and wouldn’t give them back. I called to ask if I could pick them up—since I apparently need permission to approach his residence. He said he was busy and would keep the phones until the girls “earned” them. Our son had his phone though.

I gently reminded him that I pay for the phones—they are my property. He proceeded to remind me that he instructed me not to let the kids bring them back or he would destroy them. He said, almost graciously, that he hadn’t destroyed them. He was insinuating that I was lucky that he was just keeping them indefinitely. 

He began serving his usual word salad on a platter, but since I had already eaten lunch, I declined the offer to be gluttonous and hung up. Before I did though, he directed me to call the police. So I did.

Needless to say, we got the phones back without confrontation.

But what mattered most was how I felt.

After years with him, I had adapted a role to my identity: the victim turned soldier. I was always fighting during our marriage, constantly trying to reclaim my value. I wanted him to see it. To respect it.

When I understood that about myself, I realized I could shed that identity. It no longer fits the person I’ve grown into.

I discovered solitude is comfort and safety for me. I’ve created a new regulating baseline. I’ve grown into someone I care about deeply. So deeply that I want to protect myself by sitting down instead of standing on the front line of war. 

My value has been restored by me, not his validation.

I am seen by the most important person in my life—me.

Shedding that identity allows me to minimize the frustration he can provoke. In this situation I still responded to his dictatorship and threats over my property, but not to the extent I would have just months prior. I regulated. I breathed. I reminded myself of who he is—the same person I left. His actions are consistent with the behaviors that led to my final departure.

What validated me even more was my oldest daughter telling me she values the mutual respect I give her. She said, in her own intelligent teenage way, that she appreciates the stability I provide. In so many words, she told me I am her safety.

That warmed my heart because it proves I am giving her the comfort and safety I didn’t always have at her age. That was always my goal as a mother.

Growth is a journey, not a destination. I’ve been healing for a long time. And somehow, I’ve been passing those tools to my kids without even realizing it. I hear it when they say, “I feel ___ when ___ happens,” or, “I’m sorry I said that, Mommy. That wasn’t fair. I’ve been holding onto emotions I didn’t know how to deal with.”

That—coupled with my love for solitude and my new baseline—tells me I’m on the way up.

I still have joy even when things don’t go my way because I know the downtime isn’t permanent. I know how to recharge my own battery now. I don’t need his validation. His power is still untangling from my spirit, but the dissipation is imminent.

I am winning now. I am no longer deflated or defeated.

And it’s not because he became a better co-parent.

It’s because I am becoming whole after hurt.