Pieces of Her: Death to Life Chapter 1. "The Moment He Tried to Kill the Light"

The Moment He Tried to Kill the Light

I was two years into the relationship, living in his home, when I became pregnant with my first child. It was everything I had prayed for. I thought it would make him love me. I didn’t love myself enough to even know what love was supposed to be.

I remember taking the test, and for the first time in a long time, I felt joy. I felt like I finally had a reason to live.

When he came home that day, I told him I was pregnant. I don’t remember the exact place we were standing, only the shift in his eyes. That glint of pure rage. It came fast. A blur. One moment I was speaking—the next, we were on the floor.

His knee pressed into my belly. Not once. Repeatedly. I could feel his weight bearing down. I could feel my body fighting for two lives now—mine and the tiny one inside me.

He said, “I cannot have another child.” And with that, he tried to destroy both of us.

I went numb. Everything drained from my face. My limbs. I curled, instinctively, into the smallest shape I could manage—arms locked around my womb, whispering to God, please don't take my baby, please don't take my baby.

I heard laughter.

Then a mocking voice: “Quit being dramatic. I was just playing.”

But I had felt his intent. My soul had tasted death. And so had my child’s.

What saved us wasn’t mercy. It was resistance. The strength of my legs locked together, knees protecting knees, shielding my soft belly from his full weight. God held that space with me. And we survived.

This is just one of many moments that left a crack in my soul. But I tell it now, not for vengeance— but so another woman can recognize what she’s living through. So she doesn’t minimize it. So she doesn’t explain it away.

Because the danger wasn’t a moment—it was a pattern. A sickness that called itself love.

And now, I write it raw. For her. For me. For the daughter I carried. So that if I’m ever silenced, this truth will still speak:

He tried to kill the light. But the light lived.

And I will leave it on—for those still trying to find the door out.

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 Author’s Insight 

There are no words soft enough to describe what it feels like to be attacked while carrying life.

To be told with violence that your joy, your baby, your body—are disposable.

I still question how I survived it.
How we survived it.

I remember the pressure. The panic. The sound of my own heartbeat trying to drown out his voice.
I remember curling my body like a shield, instinctively locking my legs together, not even sure it would work—but it did.
And I remember the laughter after. The mockery. The confusion. The moment where I wondered if maybe I imagined it all.

That’s what abuse does.

It breaks your body and then breaks your belief in yourself.
It makes you doubt what you just lived through.

But I don’t doubt anymore.
Because my body remembers.
And now—so do I.

This chapter is not just a memory—it’s a reckoning.
For every woman who carried life while being harmed.
For every mother who prayed over a womb while hiding bruises no one could see.
For every soul who tried to make herself smaller just to survive.

You are not weak for surviving.
You are sacred.
You are strong.
You are still here—and that matters more than you know.

I wrote this with trembling hands. But I wrote it.
Because he didn’t get to erase it.
And because you deserve to know:

The light was not destroyed. It lived. And it will keep living. Through me. Through you.

And no matter how dark it feels—I will leave the light on.

Prayer:

Dear God,
Let my breath remind me of the life still flowing through me.
Let this heartbeat remind me: I survived.
Though the pain was real, and the memories sharp,
I am not in that place anymore.

Help me speak gently to my body when it trembles.
Let me wrap it in kindness, not shame.
Let me hold it like the brave home it has always been.

I release what no longer belongs in me.
The fear. The silence. The shame.
I reclaim what is mine:
My peace. My light. My right to feel whole again.

I am safe now.
I am free now.
I am coming home—to myself.

Amen.