What Exactly Am I Supposed to Do Now?
Living in survival mode has been my reality for as long as I can remember. It’s a weight I carry daily, built from years of trauma, abuse, and systemic neglect. I spent 10 years trying to leave an abusive relationship—an endless cycle of fear, manipulation, and shattered hope. My upbringing didn’t teach me to expect any better. It was steeped in alcohol, drugs, gangs, and family violence, a world where survival meant normalizing the chaos and numbing the pain.
Even now, as I try to rebuild for my children and myself, I find myself asking: *What exactly am I supposed to do now?*
New Zealand has a deeply ingrained culture of family violence. It’s a quiet epidemic, hidden behind closed doors but normalized enough to feel inescapable. Alcohol flows freely at the centre of it all, fuelling arguments and escalating tensions, and now meth has entered the mix, leaving even more destruction in its wake. Women’s Refuge became a sanctuary for me and my children more than once. Yet, even within that sanctuary, I found little relief. From our bus to our car, and finally into emergency housing, the struggle followed us everywhere.
When I was finally placed into what was supposed to be a safe home, I believed I had taken a step forward. I was told my safety was the priority. But from the moment I turned the key, I’ve lived in fear.
The neighbours fight constantly. At least twice a week, violent arguments erupt. Screaming babies are a daily background noise. This past weekend, it escalated. Four of them were fighting on the curb, just outside my daughter’s bedroom window. It woke her up, terrified. I called the police, something I’ve been reluctant to do, knowing how easily these situations can turn against the caller. But the fear for my children outweighed my silence.
That was days ago. The fights have continued. My 13-year-old is shaken. I haven’t slept properly in weeks. I can’t unpack because it doesn’t feel like home. I can’t clean because my body is too exhausted. My backyard is off-limits—I’m too scared to go out there in case I become a target. Every day, I walk on eggshells, avoiding eye contact, praying they don’t notice me.
I’m trying to create a better life for my children, but the violence I’ve fled keeps following us. It’s in the homes we’re placed in, in the communities we’re meant to integrate into, and in the systems that fail to provide real solutions. I’ve fought so hard to break free, but here I am, stuck in a cycle that feels impossible to escape.
I don’t want much. I want peace. I want safety. I want to sleep without jolting awake at the sound of yelling. I want my kids to know what it’s like to feel secure. But it feels like what I want doesn’t exist.
So, what exactly am I supposed to do now?
The system tells us to leave, to start over, to build a better life. But it doesn’t provide the tools to do so. It throws us into environments where the violence and chaos are different, but not gone. It leaves us to fight battles that should never have been ours to fight alone.
I’m exhausted. I’ve done everything I was supposed to do. Yet here I am, still fighting, still surviving, still wondering: *What exactly am I supposed to do now?*
