About

Hi, Sara here.

You're not alone, even on the days it feels like that.

I live in Minnesota with two teenage boys, two mischievous pugs, and a cup of black coffee that gets the first chance to fix whatever's going on.

I was married for twenty years to a man who never loved me. He loved controlling me. Twenty years of physical abuse, verbal abuse, sexual coercion, financial abuse, reactive abuse, emotional abuse. Twenty years of learning how small I could make myself before I disappeared completely. I didn't leave because it was easy. I left because staying was going to kill me, slowly, in ways nobody could see.

When I finally said no more, I thought the hardest part was over. It wasn't. I needed my family to hold me together and instead I got anger, judgment, and people who decided I was the problem for finally telling the truth. I was drowning and the people who were supposed to throw me a rope threw stones instead.

I was told, over and over: if you love your boys, you can't leave. Like loving them meant staying and disappearing a little more every year. But I do love my boys, more than anything, and that's exactly why I had to leave. They didn't need two parents under one roof. They needed one parent who was actually still here.

I'm telling you this because if you're reading this, some part of you is living some version of it right now. Maybe nobody believes you. Maybe you're being told you're too sensitive, too much, imagining it. I believe you. I know exactly what it's like to question your own memory of your own life.

You are a survivor. Not because you're inspirational or brave in some Instagram-quote way. Because you're still here, still breathing, still trying, after something that was designed to break you. That's not small. That's everything.

You get to live your life. Not the life they decided you deserved, not the life your family thinks you should be grateful for. Your actual life. The one where you laugh again without checking if it's allowed. The one where healing looks messy and inconsistent and still counts.

For me, that looks like laughing with my boys, bowling, walks, cooking a giant meal for them. Other days it's a crockpot meal, or pizza around the table and Monopoly, a "you got this" text from a best friend, and a lot of hugs from my boys. Healing isn't one size fits all. Yours will look nothing like mine, and that's exactly how it should be.

And yes, I started dating again in my forties. I didn't come back with a rulebook. I came back with questions, stories, and more than a few moments that began with, "Wait, he said what?" That's part of this too. Dating, friendship, and the questionable decisions that sound perfectly reasonable until you tell your best friend.

So here's what I built.

The free library will always be free. Go ahead and share it. I'll keep making more.

I write the texts, emails, and letters you've been staring at for twenty minutes. The heavy ones: toxic partners, toxic families, the message you can't send without your hands shaking. And the light ones too. The funny reply, the friendly trash talk, the message that should make somebody smile. Tell me what happened, what you want to say, and what you're worried it'll sound like. We'll find words that sound like you.

I also coach men and women on dating through Muse.

Big hugs. You've got this. You are a survivor, and you get to live.

Sara, He Called It Love

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