What Domestic Violence Taught Me About Strength

How I Lost Myself—And Slowly Found My Way Back

05/07/2026

I've chosen to tell my story without bitterness. Not because what happened didn't matter, but because I'd rather be remembered for how I rebuilt than for what tried to break me.

There are chapters of my life that I can talk about with ease.

Starting a business.

Losing Mum.

Dreaming about Unbroken Athletica.

Those chapters are painful in their own way, but over time, I've learned how to tell those stories.

This one is different.

For a long time, I wasn't sure if I would ever write about domestic violence.

Not because I was ashamed.

But because I didn't want that chapter to become the thing people remembered me for.

I didn't want to be introduced by the worst thing that had ever happened to me.

I wanted to be known for what I built afterwards.

For the woman I became.

For the life I fought so hard to rebuild.

But the truth is, if I leave this chapter out, I'm leaving out one of the biggest reasons Unbroken Athletica exists.

Not because this brand is about domestic violence.

It isn't.

It's about what comes after.

It's about rebuilding.

And before I could rebuild my life...

I first had to realise that I had slowly lost it.

I didn't lose myself in a single moment.

There wasn't one day where everything suddenly changed.

Looking back, it happened so gradually that I barely noticed.

A little less confidence.

A little more self-doubt.

A little less laughter.

A little more silence.

Dreams became smaller.

My voice became quieter.

I started apologising for things that weren't my fault.

I questioned my own decisions.

I second-guessed my instincts.

I worried about saying the wrong thing.

I worried about doing the wrong thing.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting myself.

That's the part people don't often talk about.

Domestic violence doesn't always take everything from you overnight.

Sometimes it slowly convinces you to hand pieces of yourself over until one day you wake up and realise you no longer recognise the person staring back at you.

When I look back now, that's what hurts the most.

Not one particular day.

Not one particular conversation.

But realising that somewhere along the way.

I disappeared.

The woman who once believed she could do anything.

The woman who laughed without thinking.

The woman who dreamed big.

The woman who knew her own worth.

She hadn't gone.

She had simply become buried beneath fear, uncertainty, and survival.

For a long time, I thought surviving was enough.

If I could just make it through another day.

That was enough.

But surviving and living are two very different things.

Surviving keeps you breathing.

Living gives you purpose.

And I had forgotten what purpose felt like.

There were days I felt completely alone.

Even when I wasn't.

Loneliness isn't always about being by yourself.

Sometimes it's carrying a weight that nobody else can see.

Sometimes it's smiling while your world quietly falls apart.

Sometimes it's convincing everyone around you that you're okay because explaining how you really feel seems impossible.

I became very good at saying,

"I'm fine."

When I wasn't.

Through all of it, there was one constant.

My children.

They became my reason to keep getting up every morning.

Even on the days when I didn't believe in myself, I believed in being there for them.

They gave me purpose when I felt like I'd lost mine.

They gave me strength when I thought I had none left.

They reminded me that no matter how difficult life became.

Giving up was never an option.

I don't know if they'll ever fully understand what they gave me.

Perhaps one day they will.

Perhaps one day they'll read these words.

If they do, I hope they know this.

You saved me in more ways than you'll ever realise.

Every decision I've made since then has been made with you in mind.

Every late night building Unbroken Athletica.

Every risk.

Every sacrifice.

Every setback.

Every small victory.

It's all been driven by the hope that you'll see what's possible when you refuse to let your circumstances define your future.

I want you to know that life will test you.

It will break your heart.

It will disappoint you.

It will ask more of you than you ever imagined you could give.

But I also want you to know that you are capable of rebuilding.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Healing didn't happen all at once.

There wasn't one morning where I woke up and suddenly felt strong again.

Healing was quiet.

It was messy.

Some days it looked like making a difficult phone call.

Some days it looked like saying "no" without feeling guilty.

Some days it looked like asking for help.

Some days it looked like getting out of bed.

There were days I felt like I was moving backwards.

Days I questioned whether I was making any progress at all.

But healing isn't measured in giant leaps.

It's measured in small decisions.

One boundary.

One conversation.

One act of courage.

One day at a time.

Looking back now, I realise strength isn't something I found at the end of my journey.

It was there all along.

I just couldn't see it yet.

Then life tested me again.

I lost my mum.

Suddenly.

Unexpectedly.

The woman who had always been my strength was gone.

At a time when I needed her more than ever.

I never imagined I wouldn't get the chance to see her again.

There were moments when I wondered how much more one heart could carry.

It felt like just as I was learning how to stand again, life knocked me back down.

But something had changed inside me.

The woman I was trying to rebuild wasn't gone anymore.

She was still there.

Wounded.

Grieving.

Heartbroken.

But still standing.

Months later, when I sat with a notebook and wrote the word UNBROKEN, something finally made sense.

That word wasn't about pretending I'd never been broken.

It wasn't about pretending life hadn't changed me.

It was about making a promise.

A promise that I would never again allow my hardest chapter to become my entire story.

A promise that I would keep moving forward.

A promise that I would rebuild.

That promise became Unbroken Athletica.

Not because I wanted to create activewear.

But because I wanted to create a reminder.

A reminder that strength doesn't always look loud.

Sometimes strength is choosing yourself.

Sometimes strength is asking for help.

Sometimes strength is starting over.

Sometimes strength is simply believing that tomorrow can be better than today.

That's why the first collection is called RECLAIM.

Because rebuilding isn't about becoming someone new.

It's about reclaiming the woman you were before life convinced you that you weren't enough.

The confidence.

The peace.

The courage.

The voice.

What was always yours.

If you've found yourself reading these words and you're walking a similar road, I want to leave you with this.

You are not weak.

You are not defined by what has happened to you.

You are not the names you've been called.

You are not the fear you've carried.

You are not the hardest chapter of your life.

You are still becoming.

There will come a day when you'll laugh again without forcing it.

A day when you'll make a decision without doubting yourself.

A day when you'll look in the mirror and recognise the woman looking back.

Not because life became perfect.

But because you found your way back to yourself.

I know that day exists.

Because I lived it.

And if it's possible for me...

I believe it's possible for you too.

Strength isn't about never breaking.

Strength is finding the courage to rebuild.

And rebuilding begins with one simple decision.

To believe that your story isn't over.

Mine certainly wasn't.

And perhaps...

Neither is yours.

One of the greatest lessons I learned is that strength isn't about carrying everything on your own. It's about knowing when to reach out. Counselling became an important part of my healing, and I want every woman reading this to know that asking for help isn't weakness. It's one of the bravest things you can do.

Kate L
Founder, Unbroken Athletica

Stories of rebuilding, resilience, and becoming.