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I carry a weapon every day. Not because I want to — but because I learned I might need to. That learning didn’t come from a headline or a statistic. It came from the day my ex-partner ambushed me — and then sexually assaulted me. I had my testimony. I had thirteen texts and emails from the month prior, repeatedly declining his requests to see me in person. I had proof that he asked me to go to the house — and told me he wasn’t there, when he was. I had video of me yelling “Stop!” again and again as I left, clearly distressed — him following behind me, saying, “Nice to feel you… I mean, see you.” But — “he said, she said.” My evidence and testimony weren’t enough. A judge agreed that the incident might qualify for a protective order. But one incident isn't enough to request court protection. There must be multiple incidents before the court intervenes. Let that land for a moment. One incident — even one that involved documented deception, coercion, and visible distress — was not enough to meet the legal threshold for protection. Not because it didn’t happen. But because it wasn’t enough, in the eyes of the system. Because in a system where research has repeatedly shown that women’s testimony is often discounted in court, women’s experiences are still routinely questioned, minimized, and dismissed. Even when the evidence is there. I wasn’t asking for punishment. I was simply asking to be left alone—and even that was too much. That was the day I started carrying pepper spray. That was the day my keys stopped being just keys. For the past two and a half years, my keys have been a small cluster of contingency plans: pepper spray, an alarm, and a quiet calculation running in the background — what if something happens? And I hate it. I hate the way it looks. I hate the way it feels. I hate what it represents. I hate that before I even leave the house, I am already negotiating with danger. Men leave the house with keys. Women leave the house with keys, a plan, and a nervous system that has been trained — through experience, through stories, through statistics — to assess risk without ever consciously deciding to. We scan parking lots. We notice footsteps. We text friends when we get home. We hold keys between our fingers. We carry objects designed to defend our bodies. And then we’re told we’re “too much.” There is a particular kind of exhaustion that comes from living this way. Not just fear — but vigilance. Not just vigilance — but constant, low-level calculation. Where is the exit? Who is around me? Is this safe? Should I leave? It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. It’s not even always conscious. But it is always there. And over time, it becomes a kind of invisible labor — one that is rarely acknowledged, and almost never understood by the people who don’t have to carry it. Here’s the paradox: We are told to be careful. We are told to protect ourselves. To carry the spray. To hold the alarm. To be aware. To be smart. And we are. But no one talks about what it costs to live that way every day. Because the tools themselves — the ones meant to keep us safe — can become anchors. Every time I see them, I remember why I carry them. Not because I am unsafe in this exact moment. But because at some point, I was. Because someone made a choice. Because a system didn’t protect me. So then the question becomes: What does safety actually look like? Is it carrying the tools? Or is it feeling like yourself again? I’ve thought about getting rid of them more times than I can count. Replacing them with something softer. Something beautiful. Something that reflects who I actually am — not what I’ve had to prepare for. A rose quartz heart instead of a weapon. A symbol of grounding instead of a reminder of harm. And immediately, the counter-thought arrives: What if you need it? What if something happens? How stupid would you feel then? This is the double bind women are asked to live inside. Be safe. But don’t live in fear. Be prepared. But don’t let it change you. Carry protection. But stay soft. The truth is, this isn’t just about a keychain. It’s about what it means to live in a body that has learned — through experience or proximity — that harm is possible. It’s about what it means to move through a world where that possibility is unevenly distributed. And it’s about the quiet, daily negotiation between protection and peace. Because I don’t want to organize my life around fear. I want to organize it around freedom. I want to walk out the door and feel like myself — not like someone preparing for a worst-case scenario. I want beauty. I want ease. I want to reclaim the parts of me that don’t belong to what happened. So maybe the answer isn’t all-or-nothing. Maybe it’s not about abandoning safety, or surrendering to it completely. Maybe it’s about integration. About choosing what is visible. About choosing what leads. About choosing what defines the energy of your life. Maybe I can carry protection — quietly, intentionally — without letting it take center stage. Maybe I can also carry something that reflects who I am. Something soft. Something grounding. Something mine. Because safety matters. But so does sovereignty. And I am no longer willing to sacrifice one entirely for the other. This is why women are exhausted. Not because we are weak. But because we are constantly navigating a reality that many people don’t have to think about at all. And still — we show up. We go to work. We raise children. We build lives. We create beauty. All while carrying things no one sees. I carry a weapon every day. But I am learning—slowly, deliberately—to carry myself, too. Fully. Softly. Unafraid to take up space. Because safety matters. But so does sovereignty. And sovereignty is the most powerful thing of all. If you see yourself in this—if you’ve ever felt the weight of carrying both protection and the cost of it—there is nothing wrong with you for feeling this way. The exhaustion makes sense. The vigilance makes sense. The longing to feel like yourself again makes sense. You are not overreacting. You are responding to a reality that asks too much of you. And you are allowed to want something softer, too. ✨ Book a session ✨ Explore books & journals ✨ Explore courses & guides ✨ Explore the Rebirth Oracle Deck ✨ Follow along on Instagram → @a_divorce_doula With love and deep gratitude to walk alongside you,
💖 Natasha Divorce Doula • Certified High-Conflict Divorce Coach • Certified Mediator Educator • Survivor • Advocate • Author • Artist There is a moment in life that doesn’t get named often enough. It doesn’t happen in a courtroom. It doesn’t come with paperwork. No one signs off on it. But it is a turning point all the same. It’s the moment you realize: You are allowed to take full ownership of your own story. Not the softened version. Not the version that makes other people more comfortable. Not the version that leaves out the parts that are hard to explain, or harder to hear. The whole story. For a long time, I didn’t live there. I lived in translation. In editing. In careful, strategic storytelling designed to be accepted and understood. I learned how to shape my words so they wouldn’t be dismissed. How to present my experiences in ways that felt “reasonable.” How to leave out the pieces that might make someone uncomfortable. And in doing that—slowly, subtly-- I lost something. Not all at once. But piece by piece. My clarity. My confidence. My connection to what I knew to be true. Because when you start telling your story for other people, you stop telling it for yourself. And that is its own kind of loss. At some point, something shifted. Not externally. Not the circumstances. But internally-- I stopped asking for permission. I stopped measuring my truth against other people’s comfort levels. I stopped reshaping my experiences to fit inside someone else’s understanding. And I started doing something else instead: I stood inside my own story. Fully. Without translation. Without apology. And that’s when I fully claimed this truth: No one else gets to author my story. Not the people who were there. Not the people who heard about it secondhand. Not the systems that tried to define it. Only me. Because this life—this lived experience—exists inside my body, my memory, my knowing. And that cannot be outsourced. That cannot be rewritten by consensus. That cannot be taken. Unless I hand it over. And I don’t. Yes, there are parts of life where decisions are made for you. There are moments where outcomes are determined outside your control. But there is one place where your authority is absolute: The meaning you make of your life. The story you tell about it. The voice you use to speak it. That belongs to you. Solely. And when you come back to that-- when you stop negotiating with your own knowing-- something settles. Something steadies. Because you are no longer trying to be understood. You are simply telling the truth. And from that place, everything changes. So if there is one thing I have claimed—fully, finally—it is this: I got sole custody. Not through a judge. Not through a ruling. Through a decision. I have sole custody of my soul. And from here, I tell my story. And at some point, this became something more. Not just something I wrote. Not just something I lived. Something I claimed. I got soul custody. And I realized-- this wasn’t just my story. It was a truth I wanted people to hold onto. To come back to. To remember in the moments they start to lose themselves again. So I put it somewhere you could see it. On a shirt. On a tote. On the things you carry with you every day. Not as a slogan. As a reminder. That your voice is yours. Your story is yours. Your self is yours. Fully. And no one gets custody of that but you. The “I Got Soul Custody” collection is available on Amazon. You can explore it here. If you’re learning to reclaim your own story… This is the work I’ve devoted my life to-- not just in my own journey, but in how I walk alongside others in theirs. I’ve created a collection of tools for this exact process of reclamation-- for finding your voice again, for making meaning of your experience, for coming back to yourself. My books, journals, oracle deck, guides and courses are designed to support you as you step back into authorship of your own life. Because this isn’t just something we survive. It’s something we reclaim. ✨ Book a session ✨ Explore books & journals ✨ Explore courses & guides ✨ Explore the Rebirth Oracle Deck ✨ Follow along on Instagram → @a_divorce_doula With love and deep gratitude to walk alongside you,
💖 Natasha Divorce Doula • Certified High-Conflict Divorce Coach • Certified Mediator Educator • Survivor • Advocate • Author • Artist |
Natasha Bacca is a Divorce Doula and certified high-conflict divorce coach. Archives
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