It’s easy for people to assume that once a relationship ends, the trauma ends with it. But for those who’ve lived through ongoing harassment, manipulation, and emotional abuse, the truth is far more complex—and far more exhausting.

For over three decades now, I’ve seen the same pattern repeat itself like clockwork. Not just random acts of cruelty, but calculated, strategic, well-timed disruptions. Vandalism at the padel courts. Damage at the beach. Intrusions into my peace around significant dates—holidays, birthdays, personal milestones. Especially those that should bring joy, reflection, or celebration. My mother’s birthday. Anniversaries. Moments that should feel sacred instead become targets.

Because when someone can’t control you anymore, they often try to control how others see you. And when that doesn’t work, they go back to trying to disrupt your joy, your rhythm, your freedom.

This isn’t about one-off incidents. This is about a 32-year pattern.

32 years of subtle sabotage. Of spiritual warfare. Of someone living their life, while actively trying to destroy yours. And somehow managing to hide behind a facade of normalcy, while leaving a trail of chaos in your path.

You learn not to be shocked anymore. You learn to brace yourself before every birthday, every summer, every new chapter. Because you know something’s coming. You just don’t know what form it’ll take this time.

This is what post-relationship harassment really looks like.

It’s not always loud. Sometimes, it’s a scratch on your car. Sometimes it’s something off in your home. Sometimes it’s the sinking feeling of knowing someone is watching, waiting, plotting. Sometimes it’s the silence after you’ve reported it—again—and been met with tired eyes and a shrug.

But behind the scenes, you know the truth: this is someone trying to send a message. “You don’t get to move on.” “You don’t get to feel safe.” “You don’t get to be free.”

But here’s the thing: I am free.

I may have to deal with the residue, the nonsense, the cowardice—but I am no longer emotionally imprisoned by it. I refuse to let fear rule my choices. I refuse to shrink back into survival mode every time I reclaim a little joy. I will keep reporting. I will keep documenting. And I will keep dancing, keep living, keep celebrating every ounce of life I have left in me.

Because control only works if you give it meaning. And harassment only wins if you stop showing up for your life.

Still, I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt. It’s painful to watch someone pour so much of their energy into bitterness instead of healing. To see someone waste their health and humanity trying to rob another person of peace. At some point, it stops being about anger and starts becoming a kind of grief. A sadness that someone can live so long and still choose destruction over growth.

So I’ll pray for him. I’ll pray because his soul must be heavy, his health must be suffering, his mind must be tormented to still be clinging onto control like this after all these years.

But I’ll also pray for me. That I stay protected. That the law does its job. That justice—eventually—arrives. And above all, that I keep rising above it.

Because joy is my rebellion. Peace is my revolution. And living well—freely—is the most sacred revenge of all.