Why Don’t We Just Leave?
People often ask: “If it was so bad, why didn’t you just leave?”
The truth is, coercive control doesn’t start at full volume. It starts quietly — with small things that look like care, protection, even love. You mistake possessiveness for passion, control for concern. The red flags don’t wave; they whisper. It’s a slow escalation, often over months or even years. By the time the behaviour is unmistakably abusive, you’re already deep in it — emotionally entangled, psychologically worn down, too busy surviving to clearly see what’s happening.
You’re committed to the relationship. You want to make it work. And because of the constant gaslighting, you’re made to believe their behaviour is your fault — that if you just tried harder, communicated better, fixed something in yourself, they’d stop hurting you. You believe that if you’re the problem, then you can also be the solution. That gives you a false sense of hope — and control.
They tell you their behaviour is because of stress at work, or a rough patch, or childhood trauma. You don’t want to abandon someone you love when they’re struggling — what kind of partner would that make you? So you suggest therapy, try to support them, hope they’ll change. And sometimes, they even pretend to try. But the abuse doesn’t stop — it just changes shape.
And here’s the thing: you don’t call it abuse. Not yet. Because no one taught you that abuse could look like this. That it could be so invisible to the outside world. That it could be someone withdrawing affection, monitoring your every move, punishing you with silence, twisting your words, isolating you from friends — all without raising a hand. Maybe you just think they’re “moody” or “difficult.” You think this is what normal relationships sometimes look like.
No one else sees it. He’s charming in public, thoughtful in front of others. When you try to speak up, people say things like, “But he’s such a nice guy.” So you start doubting yourself. Maybe you’re exaggerating. Maybe you are too sensitive. Maybe it really is your fault. That’s what gaslighting does — it erodes your ability to trust your own reality.
And then there’s the hope. The part of him that can still be sweet, loving, attentive. The version of him you fell in love with. You don’t realise at the time that this “good side” isn’t separate from the abuse — it’s part of it. It’s how he keeps you hooked, keeps you close. He’s not accidentally hurting you — he’s doing it deliberately, strategically, to control you. But you can’t see that yet. Because you’re not just in a relationship — you’re in survival mode.
And if you’re a good person — kind, empathetic, hopeful — it’s even harder to imagine that someone could intentionally hurt you. That’s what makes coercive control so powerful. It weaponises your compassion against you.
But we keep asking why didn’t she leave? — as if staying is the failure, as if the burden of escaping lies solely on her shoulders. But every time we ask that question, we’re pointing the finger in the wrong direction. The real question — the one we should all be asking — is why did he do it? Why did he choose to abuse, to control, to manipulate? Because staying isn’t the problem. Hurting someone is.
Leaving is Often the Hardest Part
Leaving a relationship marked by coercive control isn’t just hard — it can be one of the most dangerous, emotionally wrenching, and complex things a person ever has to do. It often takes many years and many attempts. It’s not because we don’t want to leave. It’s because the traps are carefully laid. Because when we do try, we’re pulled back in — not just by manipulation, but by false promises, fear, guilt, and hope.
They cry. They beg. They show distress and tears that look like remorse and love, but really, it’s another manipulation tactic — a performance to keep us tethered. Or they threaten us. Not always with physical harm, though that’s real too. But with psychological warfare:
– “I’ll tell everyone your secrets.”
– “I’ll take the kids.”
– “You’ll be left with nothing.”
– “No one will believe you.”
– “You’ll be alone.”
– “You’re the crazy one.”
And too often, they’re right — because the systems meant to protect us can fail us. They might accuse you of abuse, and people might believe them. Family courts, social services, even police — they’re not always trained to recognise coercive control. And too often, women’s lives are still not treated as important. You might fear what happens to your children if you leave. So you stay, thinking it’s the safest thing — for them, for you, for now.
That’s why support is essential. But not all support helps.
What survivors need isn’t judgment or pressure. It’s not a lecture, or a demand to leave now. We need support that understands how abuse works — support that is trauma-informed, patient, and empathetic. People who stand beside us without making us feel ashamed for not seeing it sooner. People who don’t abandon us when we change our minds out of fear, love, or confusion. Support that honours the strength it takes just to survive each day.
And we must be honest about this: leaving is the most dangerous time. Many women and children are harmed or killed in the aftermath of trying to leave — even if there was no previous physical violence. Abuse doesn’t end when you leave; often, it escalates. The abuse may shift to legal threats, financial sabotage, stalking, or parental alienation. You might start to think that leaving made things worse. And for a time, it might.
But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t the right choice — just that the system isn’t built to protect us the way it should be.
Leaving isn’t a switch you flip. It’s not a straight line. It’s a long, painful, exhausting marathon. It takes courage, planning, support, and sometimes even luck. But there is another side. There is life after abuse. There is light. It takes time, but the skies do clear. And when they do, you’ll breathe in peace like you never knew you were missing.
You’ll see the sun again — and this time, it will be just for you.
Why Did They Do It?
One of the most painful and important questions survivors ask is: Why?
Was it a choice?
And the answer is always: yes, it was a choice.
Not a mistake. Not a moment of lost temper. Not a trauma response that excused it.
A choice — made over and over again.
Why would someone choose to abuse another person? Because it’s convenient. Because control gives them power. Because when they train you — through punishment, fear, shame, silence — to meet their needs at all times, they get a partner who exists solely to serve them: emotionally, financially, sexually, domestically. That’s not a relationship. That’s slavery.
It’s about entitlement.
They believe they own you.
They don’t see you as an equal human being with autonomy, feelings, and rights. You are a possession. An object. Something that exists to fulfil their needs. And the way they maintain that illusion of ownership is through control. They isolate you, erode your confidence, distort your reality. It doesn’t start with violence — it starts with a joke, a side comment, a look of disapproval. A wedge between you and your friends. A “concern” about your family. A comment about how you dress, how you talk, who you talk to. It’s all calculated. It’s all purposeful.
Abuse is not a loss of control.
It is control.
And here’s what most people miss: abuse is not “just” about hurt feelings or toxic dynamics. It is a systematic attack on your most basic human rights. The right to safety. To dignity. To autonomy. To freedom of thought, expression, and movement.
We understand this when it happens to prisoners of war. When people are broken down, isolated, brainwashed — we recognise the psychological damage and the seriousness of those tactics. We understand the long-term impact. We even consider it torture.
But when the same tactics are used against women in their homes, behind closed doors — we call it “relationship problems.” We downplay it. We normalise it. We tell her she should try harder, be more understanding, be less dramatic. We tell her, “But he never hit you.” We excuse it. We even romanticise it — calling jealousy love, control protection, dominance masculinity.
And in doing so, we make space for abuse to flourish.
This double standard — where we acknowledge the suffering of war victims but dismiss the same tactics used in domestic abuse — is a clear reflection of how society continues to devalue women. To see their suffering as ordinary. To accept their subjugation as the natural order of things.
But it’s not normal. It’s not acceptable.
And it’s not love.
It’s oppression, and it’s a human rights violation.
What I’ve Learned — and What I Want You to Know
A long time ago, I met a charming young man.
He was strong, protective, funny, intelligent, gorgeous — and he made me feel at home. We were completely aligned on what we wanted for the future. I thought I’d found my person.
But not long after we started dating, I began to notice things that didn’t feel quite right. I didn’t have the words back then — I didn’t know what red flags were, or what coercive control looked like. Every time something felt wrong, he’d overwhelm me with his “good side” — the tenderness, the charm — and I’d doubt myself. So I stayed. And things escalated.
I tried to leave three times before I finally left for good on the fourth.
We were together for a decade.
I started suspecting it was abuse three years before I left.
I didn’t act on it until year nine.
It took me seven months to leave.
And the abuse didn’t stop when I walked out the door — he continued it for years afterwards.
I’ve learned so much in that time, and now I want to pass those lessons on. If it helps even one person see things more clearly or find the strength to leave, it’s worth it.
Here’s what I want you to know:
1. Learn about abuse.
Read about coercive control. Understand the signs — especially the subtle ones that don’t look like the “movie version” of abuse. Know what a healthy relationship should look like. Because you can’t protect yourself from something you can’t name.
2. Keep your financial independence.
This is critical. Keep your job, your income, your own bank account. If you’re financially dependent, leaving becomes exponentially harder — not just for food and shelter, but for legal help too. Legal aid is limited and often inadequate. Money becomes your lifeline.
3. Be very sure before you have children with someone.
I know this is hard to hear. But once you have children with an abuser, the abuse often continues for as long as the children are minors — and sometimes beyond. Shared custody can become a tool of ongoing control. If there’s one decision to take slow and with full awareness, it’s this one.
4. Understand your rights — early.
Whether you’re married or not, find out what your legal rights are and protect yourself accordingly.
If your partner says, “It doesn’t matter whose name it’s in, we’re married,” know this: it will matter later. If you separate and everything is in his name, you’ll have to fight in court for what’s rightfully yours — and that takes years, thousands in legal fees, and enormous emotional toll.
5. Don’t let anyone isolate you.
Stay close to your family and friends. Keep your support network strong, even if he tries to make you feel guilty for it. Isolation is one of the most effective tools an abuser has — it makes you easier to control, and harder to leave. Don’t give that power away.
6. Understand what a healthy relationship should look like.
This might be the most important lesson of all.
Love shouldn’t hurt.
Love should heal.
It shouldn’t make your life smaller — it should expand your world, not shrink it. A healthy relationship doesn’t isolate you or exhaust you. It doesn’t leave you afraid, unsure, or constantly compromising who you are just to keep the peace.
A healthy relationship is balanced — equal rights, equal responsibilities. A true partnership is a team effort, not a dynamic where one person constantly accommodates the other to avoid conflict or harm.
And let’s be clear:
It’s not about “protection.”
We’re adults. We don’t need someone to protect us — that’s often just a cover for control.
What we do need, and deserve, is respect.
Respect for our boundaries.
Respect for our independence.
Respect for our thoughts, our dreams, our space, our body.
That is what love should look like. And if it doesn’t — if you feel smaller, lesser, silenced, or afraid — then it’s not love. No matter what they say. No matter how good the good parts are.
And if you’re reading this and thinking, “But I’ve already done all those things. I’ve had kids with him. I don’t have money. I’m isolated.” — there is still hope.
You can get out.
You can rebuild.
You can come through to the other side.
I was lucky to have a good job and people around me. Not everyone has that. But there are organisations that understand — like Women’s Aid in the UK. Reach out to them. Use them. They get it. They won’t judge you. They know how this works, both practically and emotionally.
It won’t be easy. It might take time. You might leave and go back. You might doubt yourself every step of the way. But you’re not broken, and you’re not alone.
Keep going.
One step at a time.
You deserve peace, safety, freedom — and a love that doesn’t hurt.
💬 Join the Conversation
Whether you’re just beginning to understand what coercive control is, or you’ve walked your own path through abuse and recovery, your voice matters. Please share your thoughts or reflections in the comments below — you never know who else might be helped by what you have to say.
🎧 I also invite you to listen to an incredibly powerful episode of the Intersecting Voices podcast, featuring Natalie Collins, founder and CEO of Own My Life — the course that quite literally saved mine. In that conversation, Natalie breaks down how abuse really works, why so many of us don’t recognise it at first, and how to start reclaiming your life.
🔜 Over the next few weeks, I’ll be sharing more voices and experiences — from people who’ve survived domestic abuse in both heterosexual relationships and LGBTQ+. Because abuse doesn’t discriminate, and neither should the stories we tell about it. You can find them here:
Karen Docherty, Kim Sabate, Almudena Lacruz García.
You are not alone. And healing is absolutely possible.
The Intersectional Hub 
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