'The night before my hens party, a chat with my best friend made me call off the wedding.'

The heavy thud of my suitcase hitting the floor echoed through the tiny apartment. I dropped onto the couch, and finally let the tears fall. It had been a whirlwind of a day, but I wasn't on my way to the hens weekend I'd spent months planning — it was the day I escaped a nightmare I hadn't even realised I was living.

I was just 23, bright-eyed and full of hope when I met *Adam. He was charming, attentive, and always seemed to know just what to say. We met at a mutual friend's BBQ, and within six months, he'd moved into my small, cozy apartment. It was fast, but that was love, right?

My family and friends fell in love with him straight away too. He showered everyone with attention, not just me, and fast became part of the family.

When he proposed, I was overwhelmed by the perfect moment he'd crafted: a beach, a sunset, a ring sparkling like it held every one of my dreams. I said yes without hesitation, blinded by the fantasy.

But the fairy tale unravelled slowly, bit by bit. I didn't see the red flags because they were disguised as concern, masked by affection. At first, Adam just wanted to spend more time with me — he'd say things like, "You know, I don't get why you need a girl's night out when we can have a movie night in." It felt sweet. Who wouldn't want to be loved so much that someone wanted all their time? It wasn't until he started guilt-tripping me for spending time with my friends and criticising me for wearing "revealing" clothes that the cracks started to show. But by then, the wedding was in full swing, and I was caught in the tide of invitations, fittings, and family expectations.

The weeks leading up to the wedding were a haze of final touches and last-minute adjustments. My parents, who had paid for the whole affair, were buzzing with excitement.

"You're going to be the most beautiful bride," my mother said, smoothing the skirt of my dress. I forced a smile, but inside, I was screaming. The doubts, which had once been whispers, were now deafening roars. But what could I do? I'd already sent out the invites, ordered the flowers, and bought the dress. I thought I had to follow through.

Watch: This is coercive control. Post continues after video.

One evening, while sitting alone on the couch, I scrolled through my phone, mindlessly checking my messages. Adam had been more intense than usual, questioning my every move. I felt suffocated, like my lungs were wrapped in barbed wire.

As I opened my social media, an old friend popped up in my feed, a girl I hadn't spoken to since high school. The photo was of her smiling, carefree, standing on a mountaintop somewhere far away. The caption read: "Life's too short to spend it pleasing everyone else."

Something clicked inside me. My life was too short, too precious to be spent like this. I'd been trying to please everyone — my parents, Adam, even my friends who were excited for the wedding. But what about me? What about what I wanted? I realised that I hadn't truly smiled in months, hadn't felt free in even longer. The thought of standing at the altar, of promising to love and obey, sent a cold shiver down my spine. I knew, deep down, that I wasn't running towards a happy ever after — I was running into a cage.

The night before the hens weekend, my best friend, *Kara was staying with me. Adam was already away with his friends for his bucks celebration and I felt free of his control for the first time in a long time.

I told Kara about how I'd been feeling and I was so grateful that she didn't just put it down to wedding jitters. She gave me the space to unload, listening as I explained how being with Adam made me feel and nodding through my fears of going through with the wedding.

"We have time," she said. "You don't need to make a decision tonight. Let's sleep on it and if you feel up to going away tomorrow we'll meet everyone at the airport and go from there. But you can call this off at any time, it's your life."

I found myself packing a suitcase, and even got as far as the airport. Every movement fueled by the quiet determination that had been buried for so long. It was at the boarding lounge that the dam burst.

Trembling, I explained to everyone that the wedding was off and urged them to get on the plane anyway. They should enjoy the trip that we had planned, but I was going to stay behind and sort out the mess I had made.

Kara herded everyone onto the plane, letting me know that she had it under control and I made my way home.

When my parents found out, all hell broke loose. They called, texted, left frantic voicemails. Adam's messages were a mix of pleading, anger, and threats. "You'll regret this," he said, his voice tight with fury. And for a long time, I did.

For years, I carried the shame of that decision My parents were horrified. They'd spent so much money, invited so many people. They couldn't understand why I would throw it all away. I became a pariah in my own family, and whispers followed me wherever I went.

Every time I met someone new, I wondered if they knew. Was I "that girl" who left her groom just shy of the altar? Adam's friends branded me as unstable, a runaway bride who didn't know what she wanted.

But what I'd run from was a relationship that had been slowly erasing me, one little piece at a time. Adam's love was conditional, his affection a tool to control. Even after the breakup, he found ways to reach me — through fake social media profiles, through friends. I blocked him every time, but the fear lingered. I'd see his name pop up on a new account, and my heart would race, the panic washing over me like a cold wave.

It wasn't until years later, after countless therapy sessions and long conversations with friends who had stood by me, that I started to see the situation for what it was. I had been in a relationship of coercive control, manipulated into thinking that love was something that hurt, something that required me to sacrifice myself. But love wasn't supposed to feel like drowning.

Now, with over a decade of distance, I can finally look back and understand. I hadn't been a coward. I'd been brave. It took guts to break free, to walk away from everything everyone else expected and choose myself instead. I wasn't running from Adam; I was running towards myself, reclaiming the life I'd almost lost.

People love a good runaway bride story — there's always a bit of drama, a little scandal. But no one talks about what comes after, the endless untangling of guilt and fear. I've spent years rebuilding myself from the ground up, learning to trust my own voice again. And now, I can finally see that the moment I walked away wasn't one of shame; it was my first step toward freedom.

Today, my life looks nothing like I imagined it would at 23. I have a small circle of friends, a fulfilling career, and a quiet peace I never thought possible. Every now and then, I still get a message from someone who knows Adam, asking me if I regret what I did. I don't. I might take a moment, think back to that young girl, sitting on a couch with her suitcase, terrified but resolute, and I smile.

Feature Image: Getty.