When Survival Becomes Testimony: 8 Years After Escaping Domestic Violence | by Aurea Wolf | Aug, 2025

Eight years ago tonight, I thought the hardest part was getting out.

It was just hours after my daughter’s first birthday party had ended. Pink and purple unicorn decorations still hung from the ceiling, and the last of the cleanup was done. Our three-year-old son was eating a turkey sandwich at the kitchen table, his face still sticky with slight remnants of birthday cake.

The guests had gone home. The presents were stacked in neat piles. But there was no peace in our house… there never was anymore. I had put on a video for Carter, hoping it would drown out the yelling from upstairs, hoping maybe John would just pass out and I could have a few hours without having to be ready for whatever was coming next.

I never really relaxed. I had learned to always be prepared for anything to happen. No one could have been prepared for what happened next.

That’s when my ex-husband walked into the kitchen, put a gun to his head, and changed our lives forever.

This wasn’t just domestic violence. It was calculated psychological torture.

When he put that gun to his head and described in graphic detail how the blood would splatter across the kitchen cabinets, he knew exactly what he was doing. My oldest sister had taken her own life when I was sixteen — a gunshot to the head. He knew that specific image lived in my nightmares. He knew those words would transport me back to being that devastated teenager who had suffered a shocking loss.

Making those threats in front of my children wasn’t just about terrorizing me in the moment. It was about triggering my deepest trauma while forcing my babies to witness it. Then, he turned the gun on me, saying he’d rather kill me instead. I carefully moved away. My brain raced trying to calculate how I could safely maneuver myself out of the way, while keeping both Carter and Althea safe and not ending up with both of them having the image of a parent dying a violent death burned into their minds for a lifetime.

This had stopped being a marriage long before. Months earlier, I had sobbed on the back deck during a phone call with my brother. I remember telling him I felt like I was living a prison sentence because I could barely stand to make it through every day living like this, but I knew at that point that if I tried to leave, the kids would end up with unsupervised visits with someone who was barely even human anymore.

In this moment, there was no denying it. This was someone who knew my wounds and was deliberately targeting them.

That’s when he took it even a notch higher and threw down the handgun. It slid across the tile floor and ended up just five feet from where Althea sat playing on the floor. Trying to keep the situation from full-detonation mode, I calmly walked over and picked it up.

He demanded I hand it back to him. I told him he was crazy.

Then he said, “I’ll go upstairs and get my rifle and show you what that will do to the whole family.”

As he turned and went upstairs to get the AR-15 out of the closet, I took my moment to run. Carter, with shoes in hand because there was no time to put them on tiny feet. Althea half-strapped in because there was no time to fasten both buckles. The three of us with only the diaper bag, my phone, and the clothes on our backs, because there was no time to grab anything but our freedom.

That night, with my one-year-old daughter and three-year-old son, I escaped.

Getting out was supposed to be the hardest part. At least, that’s what I told myself as I drove away from everything I’d grown to feel would never end. Not knowing if he would still be alive by the time the Police arrived at the house this time.

What I didn’t realize was that leaving was just the beginning.

The falling came first. The dismantling of a life I’d built, piece by piece. The legal battles. The financial devastation. The friends who disappeared because the truth was too uncomfortable, too complicated.

Then came the rebuilding. Learning to be a single mother to two traumatized children while trying to heal my own wounds. Creating new routines, new traditions, new definitions of safety. Building a business from scratch. Not just because I was an entrepreneur at heart, but because I also needed flexibility to be present for therapy appointments, court dates, and the thousand small crises that come with picking up the pieces.

The loneliest part was the stretch in between… carrying it all alone while trying to create not just survival, but something that looked like a life worth living. There were many times I wasn’t sure I would make it.

For years, I carried a question that felt too vulnerable to speak aloud: When will I know I’ve reached the “after”? When will this story stop feeling like therapy, and start feeling like testimony?

I knew the difference intuitively, even if I couldn’t articulate it.

Therapy is when you tell your story because you need to heal from it. The telling is for you — to process, to understand, to integrate the pain into something manageable.

Testimony is when you tell your story because someone else needs to hear it. The telling is for them — to inspire, to guide, to offer proof that survival is possible.

For seven years, every time I shared pieces of my story, it felt like therapy. Raw. Necessary. But still about my own healing.

I wondered if I’d ever reach the other side.

This week, something changed.

I started receiving messages from people telling me, through tears, that my words had inspired them to change their lives. Friends celebrated my recent successes with a joy that felt pure and uncomplicated. My partner shared my story publicly, radiating pride instead of the careful concern I’d grown accustomed to.

And then, just days ago, I opened my laptop to see my transformation journey featured in USA News.

The headline read: “From Rock Bottom to Revolutionary: How Aurea Wolf Is Redefining Business Success.”

As I read my own story reflected back to me through the lens of triumph rather than trauma, something shifted. For the first time in eight years, I didn’t feel like I was still clawing my way out of something.

I felt like I had arrived somewhere.

I had learned from the loss of my sister Christy that healing would never really mean forgetting. The memories would fade and the story would gradually lose some of its sting. In this case, healing also meant I would stop looking over my shoulder, stop holding my breath and saying a little prayer every time I opened the door to take out the trash, stop checking my rearview mirror to make sure he wasn’t following me.

I knew the past would always matter — of course it would. I just didn’t know how long it would take to stop hurting so much. It took a few years and a few moves, but one day I realized I wasn’t checking my rearview mirror anymore.

It can be hard to realize how much progress you’re making when the shift os so gradual every day. Then, just when you feel like it’s been smooth sailing for a while, something triggers you out of the blue and you can’t control the tears, or the trembling comes out of nowhere. You wake up every morning with your arms and jaw sore from being clenched all night in your sleep.

I guess it’s hard to predict what “after” will really feel like until you’re actually there.

Much like when I lost my sister, even after I processed the grief of losing what I thought my family life would be, there will always be a scar remaining. Here’s the thing… You’re never really meant to be wiped clean.

That wound is there to serve a higher purpose. You have to turn it into something that brings meaning in a way that creates more love and more healing for yourself or others. Otherwise, it’s just trauma.

“After” doesn’t mean the story stops hurting. It means the story starts helping.

“After” isn’t about forgetting where you came from. It’s about using where you came from to light the path for others.

“After” isn’t the absence of the story — it’s the presence of purpose within it.

Today, I help entrepreneurs build businesses aligned with their energy instead of working against it. I teach people to honor their capacity while growing their impact. I’ve learned to bridge strategy with soul work because I had to rebuild everything from the ground up, and I refused to recreate anything that didn’t feel sustainable.

My work exists because of my story, not in spite of it.

The gun that was meant to end our story became the catalyst for a completely different one.

Eight years ago tonight, I thought I was running away from something.

Today, I realize I was running toward everything I was meant to become.

The woman who escaped that kitchen with two babies and a heart full of terror had no idea she was also carrying the seeds of a business that would help hundreds of others rebuild their lives with intention and alignment.

She couldn’t have imagined that the darkest night of her life would eventually become the foundation for work that fills her soul.

She definitely couldn’t have pictured USA News calling her “revolutionary.”

But here’s what she did know, even in that moment of absolute terror: her children deserved better. And she was going to make sure they got it.

If you’re reading this from your own “during” — whether it’s an abusive relationship, a devastating loss, a complete life upheaval, or any circumstance that has you questioning whether you’ll ever feel whole again — I want you to know something.

Your “after” is coming.

It might not look like what you expect. It probably won’t arrive on the timeline you hope for. But it’s coming.

And when it does, you’ll understand what I understand now: the very thing that tried to break you is also the thing that will make you uniquely qualified to help others heal.

Your survival isn’t just about you. It’s about everyone who needs proof that survival — and eventual thriving — is possible.

Your story isn’t over. In fact, it’s just beginning.

This is the “after.” And it’s only the beginning.

If this story resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. And if you know someone who needs to read this today, please share it.

For more about my work helping entrepreneurs build sustainable, soul-aligned businesses, visit AureaWolf.com/links.