The life of a domestic violence survivor, especially when a child is involved, is nothing short of tumultuous. Try as we might—and I can tell you my efforts to maintain peace have been monumental—the contentious situations keep coming.

I’ll answer the “why” before anyone in the comments feels the need to ask: It is simply because, as trauma-informed therapists have noted for decades, an abuser will show up as a co-parent the exact same way they showed up as a partner. If they manufactured circular conflict to maintain dominance in the relationship, they will manufacture circular conflict in the parenting grid. In my case, my ex used chaos as a primary lever of control. Expecting him to suddenly operate with empathy or consistency now would be foolish.

Music became my sanctuary in every stage of this journey. Some tracks appear across almost every playlist I’ve made; others live on only one or two. Today, I want to launch a series sharing some of the songs that built a bridge for me when I couldn’t see the other side.

We’re starting with the track that pushed me to start building specialized playlists for these struggles in the first place: “You Should Be Sad” by Halsey.

The First Cold Air

The first time I heard this song, it felt like being struck by a sudden blast of freezing air. I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I hit replay immediately. Then again. And again.

The opening verses felt like the exact internal monologue I had been carrying in my head for years:

I wanna start this out and say > I gotta get it off my chest

Got no anger, got no malice

Just a little bit of regret

Know nobody else will tell you

So there’s some things I gotta say

Gonna jot it down and then get it out

And then I’ll be on my way…

No, you’re not half the man you think that you are

And you can’t fill the hole inside of you with money, drugs and cars

I’m so glad I never ever had a baby with you

‘Cause you can’t love nothin’ unless there’s somethin’ in it for you

When that line about having a baby hit my speakers, my heart stopped. Because unlike the song, I do have a child. I have Addie.

And while Halsey’s diagnostic truth about a controller’s capacity for love—that they can’t love nothing unless there’s something in it for them—was painfully accurate regarding his view of utility, I will never, ever regret my daughter. She is my light. But hearing those lines laid out so plainly brought on a wave of somatic flashbacks to how many times my life had mirrored those exact lyrics.

Alligator Tears and the Rescue Trap

When I first heard the song, I wasn’t at a point in my healing where I could feel pity for him. I was simply trying to stay afloat. But as the track progressed, these lines caught me:

I’m just glad I made it out without breakin’ down

And then ran so fuckin’ far

That you would never ever touch me again

Won’t see your alligator tears

‘Cause, no, I’ve had enough of them

Let me start this off by sayin’

I really meant well from the start

Take a broken man right in my hands

And then put back all his parts

I knew those words because I had lived them line by line.

I remembered the performative, fake tears Brandon would deploy whenever I tried to address an issue—twisting the moment until I ended up comforting him for hurting me. The tears would morph into a quiet smugness when I surrendered just to stop the fighting. I didn’t want a war; I just wanted us to work through a problem together.

I remembered how he presented himself as so profoundly broken by his past. As an empathetic person, my immediate, instinctual response was to offer compassion, safety, and healing. I tried so hard to fix those broken parts. And I remembered the intense, punitive rage I faced when I finally realized his issues required professional psychological help beyond what a loving partner could provide. How dare I suggest he needed help? Clearly, I was the broken one.

And the running? I’m still running. I’m holding my line and securing our absolute freedom every single day.

You Are Not Alone

Another song, another day. But my hope in sharing this is that these lyrics might resonate with someone who needs a lifeline tonight, the exact same way they offered one to me.

This specific track was the catalyst that pushed me to seek out my support group. It was the moment the fog cleared enough for me to realize: I am not crazy, and I am not alone.

Music is medicine. Let it in.