What I Wish I Could Tell Every Mom Walking Into Family Court

I wrote my very first court declaration from the windowsill of my local women's shelter, desperately angling my laptop to connect with a neighboring Wi-Fi signal. I had $178 to my name. I was terrified and I believed that telling the truth would be enough.

When I walked into my first hearing, I thought family court was where justice lived. I thought everyone there was working to protect children. I thought if I just explained what was happening in my home, someone would step in and make it stop.

Instead, I got a gut punch.

The judge looked at both of us and said, "If this is how the two of you are going to start your divorce off, you are both crazy."

That moment changed everything.

I didn't understand that family court is not built to recognize abuse that doesn't leave a visible bruise (sometimes, that doesn't even seem to matter). I didn't know that coercive control, manipulation, and emotional abuse are often invisible to the system. I didn't know that strategy would matter more than truth. I didn't yet understand that I was walking into a long game that would require more grit, clarity, and restraint than I ever thought I had.

I wish I could sit beside every mom walking into court for the first time and gently prepare her for the road ahead. I wouldn't sugarcoat it. I wouldn’t tell her it will be fair.

I would tell her she is stronger than she knows.

What helped me survive wasn't legal representation. I couldn’t afford an attorney. At the time, that felt like the greatest disadvantage imaginable. But now, I am grateful because it forced me to study the system, to learn its language, and to become my own advocate. If I had placed blind hope in someone else to save me, I may never have found my voice.

I learned that you can’t co-parent with an abuser…but you also don’t have a choice. The court expects you to try so I began to show up as the healthy co-parent the court wanted to see—not because my ex deserved cooperation, but because I knew my kids deserved stability. I documented everything. I chose my battles. I learned not to react when provoked. I kept my side of the street clean.

People often say to me, "You can't co-parent with an abuser." And I tell them, you're right but the system expects you to.

We stop waiting for fairness. We stop hoping that someone else will fix it. We ask ourselves, "What is in my control right now?" Our thoughts. Our words. Our tone. Our documentation. Our ability to pause before responding. That is where our power lives.

One of the most important shifts in my journey came when I stopped asking, "Why is this happening?" and started asking, "Now what?" That shift is called radical acceptance. It is not about giving up or pretending the abuse didn't happen. It's about acknowledging that the system is broken, the situation is unjust, and waiting for fairness will only keep you stuck. Radical acceptance gives us the clarity to move from emotional reactivity into strategic thinking.

I’ve seen parents with resources get swallowed by the system. They become targets for costly evaluations, reunification programs, and professionals who profit off the chaos. The more money you have, the more at risk you are of being dragged into the pipeline - it's a multilevel marketing scheme that turns children into revenue streams. Ironically, entering the system without money protected me in ways I couldn't see at the time. I was left to fight alone. That loneliness forged something fierce in me.

The court sees snapshots. It makes life-altering decisions based on fragments. That's why we document. That's why we prepare. That’s why we learn to tell our story in their language. Not because it’s fair but because our children are dependent on us to operate from a place of strategy.

No matter what the court decides, I remind survivors of this truth: you have already won. You have the capacity to love deeply. You can form real, authentic bonds with your children and others. The narcissist can’t. They will never experience what it means to be truly known, truly loved, or truly connected. Their victories are hollow. Yours are built on something real.

If I could tell every mom one thing, it would be this: You are not failing. You are navigating an impossible system while holding your children close, staying grounded in truth, and doing your best with the hand you’ve been dealt. That is strength. That is courage. That is motherhood in the trenches.

You are not alone.