The Car Was the Only Place I Could Cry – Until I Found the Strength to Leave | by Sonia Gupta | Inspiring Story #218

Fourteen years ago, I looked like a woman who had it all.

I was married. I had two beautiful sons. Our photos looked like happiness. We smiled in public, attended family events, celebrated festivals. I made everything look perfect. Because perfection was expected of me.

But behind closed doors, I was crumbling.

And my car - the quiet, cramped front seat of a silver hatchback, was the only place I could fall apart.

Silent Tears Behind the Wheel

I used to park it at the end of the road after dropping the kids to school, then grip the steering wheel as tears soaked my face. My hands would tremble. I’d cry in silence, because I didn’t know how to scream. My sobs had to be controlled. I had places to be. Roles to play. Masks to wear.

No one could know how bad it had become.

Because I wasn’t just a woman. I was a South Asian mother. And that came with its own rulebook:

Don’t complain. Don’t shame the family. Don’t give up. Don’t leave.

The Cost of Staying in a Toxic Marriage

I stayed in a marriage that drained me. I stayed because I was told to be strong for the children, for the family, for my husband. I stayed because my community would call me a disgrace if I left. Because “what will people say?” echoed louder than my own heartbeat.

But every day I stayed, I was dying. Quietly. Slowly.

I tried to speak up. I begged my family to see what I was going through. Instead, they told me to keep going. To stop being dramatic. To sacrifice, like all “good wives” do.

I wasn’t asking for perfection. I just wanted peace. But my pain didn’t matter. What mattered was that I played my part. As long as the image remained intact, everything was fine.

Except, it wasn’t.

Because what my children needed wasn’t a mother who suffered in silence.

They needed a mother who could breathe.

And the truth that hit me hardest was this: Staying was hurting them, too. They could feel the tension, the fear in my body, the absence behind my eyes. I wasn’t present. I wasn’t living. I was performing motherhood on autopilot, and they were watching me vanish.

When I Finally Chose to Leave

That was when I made the hardest decision of my life.

I left.

Not in a dramatic escape. There were no suitcases at midnight, no thunderclap moments. It was slow. Painful. It took seven years to make people see. Seven years of being blamed, doubted, dismissed.

It was only when they saw him for who he truly was that the narrative began to shift.

But that was just the start. The real war was ahead. Three years of legal battles, five court hearings, two trials, and the nightmare of sharing a home with the man I was divorcing. Imagine waking up every day beside the person you're trying to escape.

I did that for 1,095 days.

And still, I didn’t give up.

Because I knew I wasn’t just fighting for my freedom. I was fighting for my sons’ future. I didn’t want them growing up thinking love meant suffering. That a mother’s job was to be quiet, small, invisible.

I wanted them to know that love should never cost you yourself.

And I wanted to remember who I was before the silence swallowed me.

Reclaiming My Life After Divorce

When I finally signed the divorce papers, I didn’t feel broken.

I felt reborn.

In September 2021, I did the unthinkable. I threw myself a divorce party.

People talked. The media caught wind of it. “An Indian woman celebrating divorce?” Yes. Because I was celebrating my survival. My return to life.

And now, every time I sit behind the wheel of my car, I no longer cry. I drive forward, knowing I chose myself, and I chose my children, in the most honest way I could.