“I built my life around my family, believing in mutual support.

But when the truth came to light, I found myself facing inner darkness.”

My name is Feruza Rayimkulova. I work as a social worker in Totuvlik mahalla, Denau District, Surkhandarya region. I started this job in June 2024, but the path to it began much earlier — through a chapter of my life I had to carry in silence.

I was just a girl with simple dreams: to have a good family, to become someone I could be proud of, and who could support others in my community. I had completed specialized secondary education in banking, but marriage became the moment I put that path on hold, and my world became the home: my children, the household, and daily tasks, and trying to hold everything together.

Then one day, everything I thought I knew about my life collapsed. When I learned that my husband had secretly married another woman, the shock was so deep it felt like the ground disappeared beneath me. I could never have imagined that words like “trauma” or “depression” could describe what I was feeling. I thought it was simply sadness – and that I had to keep going, and act as if everything was normal. But for four or five years, I rarely left the house. I spent long stretches in isolation, often sitting in a dark room, avoiding even the simplest conversations. And when I stepped outside, I felt exposed – like people were watching, judging, talking. I felt disconnected from life, as if I no longer belonged in it.

My turning point came quietly, in the most unexpected way. Following a neighbor’s advice, I started joining psychological support groups on social media. At first, I did not say anything, I just listened, day by day, lesson by lesson. But slowly, something has shifted. After about a month, I realized that darkness was not the place I could live in. That thought gave me breath again – and with it, the courage to come back to life.

My happiest memories, of joy, confidence, and feeling like myself, come from the time when I was studying and building my future. I missed that version of me, so I made a decision to return to education. I prepared for admission together with my children, studying my native language, mathematics, and English, side by side at the kitchen table. I didn’t score enough to enter a public university, but that didn’t stop me. I enrolled in a private university to study pedagogy and psychology – and now I’m in my third year. If someone had told me back then that I would be here today, studying again, I wouldn’t have believed it. In those lectures and notes, I found something I thought I had given up on long ago: myself.

When Uzbekistan began strengthening its social protection system, something in me felt clear. I chose to become a social worker – not by chance, but because life had taught me what fear and isolation feel like. I knew that “darkness” from the inside, and I wanted to be there for women who are still living in it. 

And then, I found myself in a UNFPA training, and it changed the way I see the women who come to me. I used to believe that having a kind heart and good intentions was enough. But I learned something deeper: real support also requires skills. Safety is not a feeling that appears on its own – it is something you build, through the way you speak, listen, and create space.

During the training, I kept asking myself: what does it truly mean to support a woman who has experienced violence? And what would I have needed when I was in my own darkness? The answers were clear: confidentiality, respect, and practical safety. When a woman comes to talk, she should not sit with her back to the door. A survivor is often still on alert, her body remembers fear, even in a quiet room. She may worry someone will enter, overhear, or come up behind her. From the outside, it can look like a small detail. But for a woman who has lived through violence, it can be the difference between staying guarded and finally feeling safe enough to speak.

My office is small, and there isn’t much I can change. But right after the training, I rearranged the desk and chairs so women wouldn’t have to sit with their back to the door. I began each conversation by explaining confidentiality in simple, clear words. And I learned to slow down, to listen more and speak less, so a woman could set the pace.

The difference was immediate. Trust started to grow. Women who once shared only the surface of their stories began to speak about what they had been carrying for a long time. Because when a woman feels safe, her voice returns.

They tell me about fear, jealousy, beatings, and constant conflict at home. I remember one woman who said, “Even if I don’t leave the house, he is still jealous and hits me. Even if I talk to my mother on the phone.” In her case, we helped to avoid further harm by arranging a protection order and offering psychological support. When her husband tried to stop her from leaving the house, I contacted the prevention inspector, who spoke with him. The order was issued, and the situation in the family stabilized, at least for a time.

During the training, I also learned about the cycle of violence – how an episode of aggression can be followed by apologies, gifts, or “good behavior,” and how that calm can make a woman hope things will change, until the violence returns again. Once I understood this, I began seeing the pattern in real cases. I started explaining it gently to women, so they could name what was happening and stop blaming themselves.

Sometimes I have to be firm, even when others say to me, “There’s no need for an order – just reconcile.” Now I can say, without hesitation: “No. Safety comes first.” Because a quiet home does not always mean a peaceful home.

I try to approach every case professionally, by listening carefully, identifying risk, and connecting women to the right services. The training gave me tools to assess situations more clearly and make decisions based on safety, not pressure or tradition.

I don’t think of myself as a heroine. I am still learning, every day. But I know one thing: knowledge gives strength. Support can change a decision. And one well-guided, respectful conversation can be the first step out of darkness.

I know what it is like to live in the dark. That is why I believe that there is always a way out.