Everyone thinks the fight ends when the judge signs the order.
But no one talks about what comes next.
No one talks about the night they walk into your home for the first time permanently — not with relief, but confusion.
Not with celebration — but with trauma.
People say, “At least they’re safe now.”
But safe doesn’t undo the damage.
Safe doesn’t erase what they survived.
Safe doesn’t magically rebuild what was never taught — and what was twisted into truth for years.
What people don’t see is how much trauma is wrapped up in their new “normal” now.
They dont see the day-to-day unlearning, re-teaching, and re-connecting.
They don’t see that my children didnt just come out of abuse – They came out of extreme indoctrination.
Getting them out was the “easy” part —
even though it nearly broke me.
And even now, it’s not some secure “forever.”
This is still a custody battle.
Still a fight for permanence.
Still a war for truth.
I knew it would be hard.
I’d lived under his control — or better yet, under his mother’s — for years.
And I submitted to it because I believed I had no way out.
No college degree. No support. Six small children. No options.
I thought escaping was the climb.
But I had no idea how high the mountain really was.
The trauma didn’t stay behind on the mountain with their abusers —
It came through the front door.
They didn’t walk in with hope.
They walked in with fear, mistrust, and shoes still on — because that’s how they were taught to sleep.
Ready to run. Just in case.
My daughter flinched when they first met my boyfriend, unsure if he was safe, or not safe.
Some of them still pull away at bedtime when I hug them or whisper, “I love you.”
Because those words were never spoken in their home.
Their father never said “I love you.” Not to me, and never to them.
Their grandmother believed love should be shown, not said —
but it rarely was shown.
And when it was, it was oddly reserved for the boys, and only on occasion.
So now, even warmth feels foreign.
Even comfort feels suspicious.
Food was another silent trauma.
Most of the kids still hoard it, hiding snacks under pillows or stashing crackers in drawers — because food wasn’t always promised.
But my oldest son? He won’t touch certain things.
Because grandma had him on a diet.
She told him gaining weight was a spiritual failure.
That obesity was sin.
Imagine growing up ashamed of hunger — or worse, taught to fear it.
The oldest boys — now 11 and 12 — are still deeply confused.
Some days, they defend their father and grandmother fiercely.
Other days, they call them monsters.
They want to love them. They also want to hate them.
They want to go back. They also never want to see them again.
One night, my oldest son crumbled into sobs and rage.
He screamed at me to make it stop.
“I don’t know who to love. I don’t know what to trust or who to trust anymore. Im so confused!”
He rocked back and forth, shouting at me to go away — too broken to be held, too full of grief to be alone.
And I knew that feeling.
I’ve lived that confusion. That betrayal.
I knew exactly what was crushing him — because I’ve faced it too.
But in that moment, as his mother, I was not enough to take it from him.
And that shatters me in a place words don’t reach.
The psychological abuse didn’t end with control.
It extended to watching us.
In the early days of visitation, I suspected we were being followed.
My boys confirmed it one day:
“Why does grandma have pictures of us?”
Not family photos.
Surveillance photos.
Pictures of us out in town. Parks. Errands. My home.
She had people from her religious cult circle following us.
And when the judge asked their father in court if it was true?
He admitted it.
Said it was “for their safety.”
Said grandma had “every right” to make sure they were okay.
Even after the judge ordered it stop immediately, it only stopped for a short while.
It was intimidation.
It was violating.
It terrified the kids.
And every answer in court and to child protection?
“Ask grandma.”
“If grandma agrees.”
“I’ll have to check with grandma.”
She wasn’t just a controlling figure.
She was their repulsive god.
Even the children’s grandfather bowed to her.
She ruled with fear, silence, and control — all veiled in “faith.”
The trauma isn’t gone.
It still lives in our home, even though we don’t invite it in.
There are panic attacks driving past open fields.
Hypervigilance when strangers are near.
Fears that someone will come and take them in the night.
They are still healing.
We didn’t go from isolation to freedom.
We went from isolation to overstimulation.
From silence to structure.
From “don’t trust anyone” to “this is your teacher, your counselor, your caseworker.”
Their world went from a closed cult on a mountain to classrooms, grocery stores, friend groups, and new rules.
From “only family matters” to “your voice matters.”
From seclusion to options.
From survival to maybe safety that they dont always understand.
I didn’t bring them home to fairy tale healing.
I brought them into war zone recovery.
But every day we stay standing…
Every step toward stability…
Every new word they say in therapy, every smile, every question —
That’s progress.
That’s hope.
That’s something sacred.
And one day, I hope they’ll look back and say:
That really was when we started to come home.
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