My first abuser will never wear that label — because their label is mentally ill.
And somehow, that makes it feel wrong for me to call them what they were: an abuser.
My first abuser never had to lay a hand on me.
Schizophrenia can twist a person’s mind into something manipulative, unpredictable, and cruel.
But long before the abuse reached me, I watched it consume my mother.
The First Lesson
I’ve been doing “the work” for a while now, but recently, during what I like to call a Shower Revelation (because that’s where my thoughts tend to hit hardest), I uncovered one of my earliest memories.
I was under five.
My mom was trying to leave.
And to me, it felt like a game.
“Quietly pack a bag for Grandma’s house while Daddy takes a nap!”
But there’s no such thing as quiet when you’re four and trying to pack toys.
That day didn’t end in freedom. It ended in chaos — and cop cars.
And even at that young age, a message embedded itself so deeply in me that I didn’t realize it was still there until decades later, while redoing my DISC profile.
Be invisible.
The Pattern
That wasn’t a one-time lesson — it became my entire childhood on repeat.
As a teenager, the abuse became psychological warfare.
My abuser’s favorite weapon? Words.
“You’re worthless.”
“Your mother should’ve aborted you.”
“Stupid bitch.”
He never laid a hand on me — but he made sure others did.
“Show him a little skin; maybe he’ll bring the good stuff.”
“Your dad said it’s fine, I can do what I want.”
“You’re so worthless. All you had to do was make him happy.”
That last one broke me differently.
Because in my young, twisted survival logic — if I could control the manipulation, maybe I could control the pain.
Meanwhile, everyone around me thought I had the “cool dad.”
The party house. The fun house. The place to go when you wanted to score or escape.
But when I moved out and was no longer useful, every single one of those people disappeared.
They made me invisible.
The Fallout
I’ve struggled with my mental health my entire life.
My 20s were chaos.
My 30s were about rediscovering myself.
And then one day — I broke.
Deep in depression, heavy with suicidal thoughts, I couldn’t even put one foot in front of the other.
From the outside, no one would’ve known.
Because I had mastered the art of masking.
The art of being invisible.
And here’s the painful irony: I resented people who made me feel invisible — yet I was doing it to myself, every single day.
The Awakening
Recently, while reviewing my DISC profile, I had an “oh wow” moment.
I’ve always gravitated toward roles where I could shine without being seen — event coordinator, personal trainer.
Both are industries where success often means invisibility.
You don’t know the trainer behind the champion — just the champion.
And there it was again:
Hailey — you’re still being invisible.
Then came real estate.
It’s organized, data-driven, and strategic (the perfect fit for my Capricorn brain).
But the front-facing part of it? That demands visibility.
There are a million Realtors out there.
If I stay invisible, I become irrelevant.
It’s not easy for me. It’s uncomfortable. But I’m learning to stand in the spotlight I once ran from.
The Healing
I am no longer hiding.
I am not small.
I am not broken.
I am not invisible.
I am thriving, not just surviving.
I am worthy of love and success.
I have people who love me and rely on me.
My boys will never wonder if they are loved.
And my granddaughter will never be invisible.
With me, they will always have a safe space to simply exist.
October: Domestic Violence Awareness Month
Every story matters — even the quiet ones.
Even the ones that don’t make headlines.
Even the ones like mine.
I used to think my story didn’t deserve to be told because others had it worse.
But silence isn’t strength. Silence is survival.
And I’m done surviving.Because the opposite of invisible…
is confident.
And that’s where I choose to stand now —
on solid concrete.
Concrete & Confident 
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