I am a survivor of non-fatal strangulation. I am one of many. In fact, the number is staggering. Nearly 68% of women who experience intimate partner violence report being strangled by their partner. That doesn’t account for women like me—whose abuser wasn’t a partner, but still found a way to weaponize power, control, and silence.
My injuries are complex and largely invisible to the average observer. But I feel them every single day. My neck still hurts. My spine is misaligned from the 360-degree whiplash I endured. My head still buzzes and burns under fluorescent lights. There are gaps in my cognitive processing that weren’t there before. And perhaps most damaging is the way the system and people around me dismissed what happened. That dismissal is its own trauma. Because calling it a misdemeanor is a tragedy for so many.
This is not just my story—it’s a reckoning. It’s a mirror held up to a system that allows this to happen and to survivors like me, who are left to piece our lives back together with little more than our own resilience and hope.
Strangulation is Attempted Murder
Let’s be very clear: strangulation is not a “moment of anger.” It is a lethal act. It is intentional. It is methodical. It takes only 11 pounds of pressure and four minutes to cause brain death. In many states, strangulation is still a legal “wobbler,” meaning it can be charged as a misdemeanor or a felony.
In my case, it wobbled down.
This was female-on-female violent act. I wasn’t protected under California law as a step-parent. And because it didn’t fit the typical male-perpetrator mold, it wasn’t taken seriously by the court. Despite having photographs, partial witensses and medical records, the woman who strangled me got a sentence that amounted to nothing more than a slap on the wrist. Community service. No felony record.
The impact on my life? Lifelong.
What Happens After Strangulation
I sought medical attention immediately. But here’s the truth: doctors don’t always know what to look for. Most of them haven’t been trained to recognize the signs of strangulation injuries unless there’s bruising or visible trauma.
My biggest mistake was being honest. I told my doctor exactly what happened. I shared too much, too fast, with a provider who didn’t know me or believe me. I should have said I was in a car crash, because that’s what it feels like—a high-speed, full-body impact that affects your nervous system, your brain, your digestion, your hormones, your sleep.
I lost control of my bladder during the attack—a known sign that you’re near death. But I didn’t mention that detail for years. I was too ashamed of being too scared to fight back.
Healing Is a Long Road
It took five months before I could form clear thoughts again. Five months before my sentences made sense. Five months before the buzzing in my brain gave way to occasional moments of peace.
I purged my journal recently—entries from that time. What I found were fragments of a woman still in shock.
There were entries about court dates, and how surreal it felt to have to sit in the same room as the woman who attacked me. About my daughter holding my hand and kissing it. About the therapist who told me I needed to turn this into something inspiring. I wasn’t there yet. But I wrote anyway.
I wrote about guilt—about trying to keep things “normal” for my stepdaughter, who had been abused in her own way, too. I wrote about my husband’s son trying to reconcile the unthinkable. I wrote about the headaches, the nausea, the white hair, and the deep loneliness that followed me into every doctor’s office.
When the System Fails
There is no justice when it comes to strangulation.
The woman who nearly killed me was allowed to pet cats as part of her sentencing. She still owes us thousands from family court. She weaponized her community, spread lies, and played the part of a victim convincingly enough to get people to believe her.
Strangulation cases are some of the hardest to prosecute. Survivors often can’t remember the full details because the trauma literally rewires your brain. And if you’re like me—not sleeping with your abuser, not able to play the part of the broken but silent victim—then you’re considered unstable, hysterical, maybe even a liar.
And yet, I told the truth.
Support and Silver Linings
One of the people who helped me the most was our chiropractor. He treated my injuries without question. He saw our children for free. He gave my family a sense of structure during a time of total collapse.
He also told me something I’ll never forget: “Write a book about this. But make it inspiring.”
That has stayed with me. Not because I want to inspire through pain—but because I believe that turning toward truth, toward healing, is its own kind of activism. I want my story to be a flashlight in the dark for the next woman wondering if she should say something.
What I’ve Learned
Healing from non-fatal strangulation is not just about the physical injuries. It’s about repairing your nervous system, your sense of safety, your relationship with your own intuition.
It’s about allowing yourself to get angry—then moving that anger through your body with breathwork, movement, and time.
It’s about acknowledging that yes, people will fail you—even the courts, even your own doctors. But you can still heal.
It’s about no longer minimizing what happened to keep the peace for others.
It’s about writing. Speaking. Sharing.
It’s about reclaiming your power.
What Needs to Change
Strangulation should always be charged as a felony. Step-parents should be protected parties under domestic violence laws in every state, including California. Female-on-female violence must be recognized and taken seriously. Medical professionals need to be trained in the signs of non-fatal strangulation.
And society as a whole must stop asking survivors to prove their trauma before offering compassion.
To the Woman Reading This
If you’ve been strangled, you are not overreacting. You are not weak. You are not crazy.
You are wounded. And you need care. That care should be automatic, but in our current system, you often have to fight for it.
Please don’t suffer in silence. Get the help. Tell your story. Let the people who see you, love you, and support your healing hold space while you rebuild.
You are not alone.
You are the proof that survival is possible.
And one day, you may be someone else’s reason for hope.
Clearing the clutter. Calling in the light.
—Superhuman MAMA
Strangled In La Jolla 