Finding Freedom: The Power to Turn Away from Vengeance to Heal
- MikeyRN
- Sep 29
- 4 min read
Updated: Sep 30
I used to live for revenge. Not the Hollywood kind, where justice comes in explosions and perfect one-liners, but the quiet kind. The kind that kept me up at night, replaying scenarios where I finally had the power to make the person who hurt me pay.
For most of my early life, I was abused, bullied, and deliberately set up for failure by the one person who should have been my protector—my parent. When you grow up in an environment like that, survival is all you know. Rage becomes fuel. Revenge becomes the only fantasy that makes sense.
But here’s the truth I learned the hard way: revenge doesn’t heal. It doesn’t give back the years, the dignity, or the childhood you lost. It just keeps you chained to the pain.
And one day, I realized I didn’t want to be a reflection of the person who broke me. So I made the hardest choice of my life: I walked away. I went no contact. Not because it stopped hurting, but because I wanted a future.
This battle between vengeance and healing is also at the heart of the first story I wrote for my vigilante character, Belza.
Belza’s Choice
Valencia’s life collapses when her husband and daughter are murdered. When La Reina — the crime lord behind it — tries to extort her, rage nearly consumes her.
Valencia puts on the mask and becomes Belza, her ruthless alter ego who stands strong. She hunts La Reina, determined to make her feel the same pain, and in the climactic moment, Belza has the chance to kill her enemy. The easy chance.
But she doesn’t.
Because if she kills La Reina, she becomes La Reina. She becomes the same kind of monster that destroyed her family. So she spares La Reina's life.
And La Reina repays that mercy by shooting Belza in the back. Belza falls, broken, into the dark.
That moment is more than a twist ending. It’s a symbol. Walking away doesn’t mean your abuser stops hurting you. Sparing them doesn’t magically close your wounds. Even after you leave, sometimes they’ll still find ways to remind you of the pain.
But Belza’s fall isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of survival — the messy, imperfect kind.
My Own La Reina
I didn’t grow up fighting crime lords. My “La Reina” was my parent.
Life in that home felt like living under a cult. Control was everything. Individuality was punished. Any chance to succeed was sabotaged before it began. I wasn’t raised to live my own life — I was conditioned to play a role in theirs.
Like Belza, I carried rage so heavy it felt like it was all I had left. Rage that whispered: One day, you’ll hurt them back. One day, you’ll make them feel what you feel.
But that day never came. Because I realized that revenge doesn’t give back what was stolen. It doesn’t rebuild the self-worth stripped away in childhood. It doesn’t heal the constant fear of never being enough.
What it does is bind you to your abuser forever.
So I made the choice Belza made. I refused to become them. I cut ties completely. I walked away.
Walking Away Isn’t a Happy Ending
People sometimes think going no contact equals freedom. Like the moment you close the door, peace arrives.
I wish it worked that way.
The reality is, walking away is a beginning — not an ending. The voices don’t disappear overnight. Sometimes I still hear the criticism, the belittling, the constant reminders of failure echoing in my head. The trauma fires its “last shots” long after the person is gone.
But here’s what does change: me.
Walking away gave me space to build an identity outside of survival. I no longer need to prove my worth to someone invested in my failure. I no longer shape my choices around someone else’s control.
That’s not freedom in the storybook sense — but it’s the soil where freedom can grow.
For Those Raised in “Cult-Like” Homes
If you grew up in a household like mine — where abuse and control were normalized — this is what I want you to know:
You’re not crazy. If it felt like you were being set up to fail, you probably were, but you can fix it.
You’re not weak. If the pain still lingers, even years later, that doesn’t make you broken.
You’re not doomed. Cycles can end with you.
Your rage is valid. Your grief is real. But your future doesn’t have to be a monument to revenge. Walking away is terrifying, but it opens the possibility of becoming someone your abuser never imagined you could be: free, whole, and your own.
Why I Write Stories Like Belza
Belza’s story isn’t just a vigilante tale. It’s me working through my own.
Her decision to spare La Reina mirrors mine: the refusal to let pain define who we become. Her fall after that choice mirrors the reality that trauma doesn’t vanish just because we walk away.
But she survives. And survival is enough to keep going.
I write these stories because I believe survivors need mirrors — not of what we’ve endured, but of what we can become. Heroes who are scarred, messy, complicated, but still choosing a different future.
Choosing the Hard Path
Revenge feels powerful. It feels like control. But it’s just a leash that keeps you tied to your abuser forever.
Walking away is harder. It feels like falling. Like losing. Like giving up the fight. But in truth, it’s the opposite. Walking away is the start of writing a life that belongs only to you.
Like Belza, I didn’t get the neat victory. I didn’t get the justice that tied everything together. What I got was the chance to live without being defined by rage.
And maybe, for now, that’s enough.
Read Belza "To Confront A Giant" here:
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