What Didn't Kill Me

What Didn’t Kill Me

By Hannah Njoroge

It all started when I went on vacation. We had been living together, and things seemed to be going well—or so I thought. I traveled, leaving him behind, trusting that love and loyalty would hold everything in place. While away, we still talked when we could, exchanged sweet messages, and I felt like maybe, just maybe, things were finally changing for the better.

But then came the moment that shattered everything.

One morning, as I was about to send him a sweet “good day” message, I opened my phone and froze. My screen was filled with photos—him and another woman, holding hands, kissing, lying in bed half-naked. As if that wasn’t enough, the woman called me directly. She laughed and told me my “man” was busy and couldn’t talk to me. Her tone was mocking, victorious, as if she’d won a prize.

I was crushed.

When I returned from vacation, he pretended like nothing had happened. He even offered to pick me up from the airport. I refused. I had already arranged for a friend to collect me. I just couldn’t face him yet. He texted me instead, asking where to leave the house key.

That morning, as I was getting ready for work, the phone rang. He was still asleep, drunk from the night before, completely unaware. I answered it, not expecting anything good.

The voice on the other end was hers—the same woman who had sent me those cruel photos weeks ago. Her laugh was cold and triumphant, as if she was enjoying every second of my pain. She said his name softly, like a secret she owned. It was the same voice that had shattered my trust.

I left him asleep and walked out. As I descended the stairs, tears spilled freely. Every piece of my heart felt broken. I always believed I was strong, but that morning, I was just a girl trying to breathe through the weight of betrayal. The taxi driver saw me crying and gently asked if I was okay. I couldn’t answer. I just sank deeper into silence.

At work, I wore a fake smile. My colleagues kept asking if I was okay. I said I was. But every chance I got, I escaped to the washroom and broke down. This time, I wasn’t just hurt—I was blaming myself. For going back to him. For believing his lies. For hoping. I felt ashamed to even tell anyone. I blamed everyone who encouraged me to give him another chance. The day felt endless, and in my mind, I was reliving it all over again.

Then my phone rang again. It was him.

“Hey, wife?” he said, so casually.

I pretended to be fine—just to see where this would lead. I knew no one was coming to save me—I had to carry this pain alone. And that’s something I love about myself: no matter how broken I am, I always get up.

That evening, he offered to pick me up from work and take me out for dinner. I laughed at myself, imagining how I’d remain quiet until he realized I wasn’t okay. Everything went well with the pretense. While we were eating, he began to open up about how some women kept bothering him—even after he claimed to have blocked them.

To be honest, he was this handsome, quiet guy, and many believed his lies easily. But I sat there bleeding inside, knowing full well he was lying to my face. What shocked me most was his audacity—lying so confidently, so shamelessly, like I couldn’t see through him.

I didn’t utter a word. I knew if I started, I wouldn’t stop. So I just nodded and said “yes” or “okay.” We went home after dinner and slept, with all the resentment brewing inside me. But before falling asleep, he told me, “Beb, there’s something I want you to know—but later.”

Then came the worst part.

About a week later, I got very sick and had to move into my work accommodation to rest. He came by daily, after work, checking on me like everything was normal. One afternoon, while I was resting, something kept pushing me to go to his place. Maybe it was concern. Maybe I thought the house was a mess. Or maybe… God was about to reveal everything. Maybe He saw my silent suffering.

When I got there, I was hit with the cruelest surprise I never saw coming.

All my things were packed up and pushed aside. And hers—her clothes, her scent, her presence—had completely replaced mine. It was like I had never been there. Like I was just a placeholder.

And then the worst part: I found out I had been infected with STDs. In just those few days I was away, while I was sick and vulnerable, he had replaced me, betrayed me, and destroyed what little trust was left.

I remembered when he said he had something to tell me. Maybe this was it.

But still, I didn’t cry.

Instead, I thanked God—for the revelation. For showing me the truth when I was too blind to see it. For removing me from what was slowly killing my soul. For the pain that taught me what love should never feel like.

I picked up every piece of me that day—not to hand them back to him, but to rebuild myself. Stronger. Wiser. And more sure of who I was.

Because now I know: what doesn’t kill you doesn’t just make you stronger—it wakes you up.

Yes, he tried to reach out afterward. But what was left to say? What was left to save?

I admitted I was heartbroken. I knew healing would take time. But even in my brokenness, I was grateful.

Grateful to God. Grateful for the betrayal that exposed the truth. Grateful for the lesson that taught me I deserve far better.

And I walked away. Not just from him. But from the version of myself that stayed too long. That believed lies. That hoped love alone was enough.

This is not just the end of a love story.

This is the beginning of me.

Author's Note

To anyone reading this who has ever stayed in a place where your heart was slowly breaking—know this: you are allowed to walk away. You are allowed to start over. And you are worthy of a love that doesn’t hurt.

I told my story not for pity, but for power.

If even one person finds healing through these words, then the pain was not in vain.

— H.N