How self-deception kept me in an abusive relationship—and what finally set me free.
It’s hard to face the truth that the relationship we’re in may be abusive.
Harder still to admit that the partner we care so deeply for might be the one causing harm.
Women from around the world often send me heartfelt messages saying that something I wrote helped them finally name what they were going through. That they were able to see it for what it was: abuse.
This recognition doesn’t come easy. Our brains fight it. Our bodies protest. Our souls hesitate.
That was me, too.
I was raised in a volatile home with a domineering father. But I didn’t see it as unusual. It was just life. Familiar.
So when I found myself in a marriage where control, dismissal, and emotional harm were constant companions, I excused it. I minimized it. I justified it. I loved him. I clung to the hope that he could change.
If only I made one more sacrifice.
If only I loved him better.
If only.
Even therapy didn’t crack my denial.
One day, a couples therapist asked him to leave the room. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “What are you doing?”
I didn’t know how to answer. My body went numb. My heart raced. I looked down, hiding my face in my hands, silently begging for her to say something different. Something easier.
A small part of me knew she was right. But the rest of me—terrified, fragmented—was not ready.
I reached again for my old shield:
“I can fix this. He’ll change. I just need to try harder.”
And just like that, I retreated. I wasn’t ready to look at it.
It felt easier to focus on the good times.
Easier to cling to hope.
Easier to pretend we just had “issues.”
Easier to stay in the familiar dance of self-blame and accommodation.
I told myself that maybe harmony and deep compatibility were fairytales. That maybe love was supposed to be this hard.
I had endless tools for avoidance:
- A box of chocolate
- A packed social calendar
- Endless hours at work
- Obsessive workouts
- Wine masked as “self-care”
I was a master of self-deception.
Until one day, he pushed me too far.
Six months after that therapy session, I found myself again with my face in my hands—only this time it was at a domestic violence agency.
I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t feel.
But I was finally ready to see.
I cracked.
And through that crack, the light came pouring in. It was the beginning of my freedom.
So, my love, if you’re reading this and it feels too close for comfort, I want you to know you are not alone.
It wasn’t until the 1970s that women even had a name for the terror behind closed doors. Before that, it was “just life.” “Private.” “Domestic.”
But now we do have the language. And we have each other.
So take a breath. Place a hand over your heart. And ask yourself:
- What truth about your relationship have you been avoiding?
- What strategies—conscious or unconscious—have helped you stay numb?
- What has that avoidance cost you? In your body? Your peace? Your sense of self?
- What might become possible if you faced it?
And the question that finally broke me open:
If nothing ever changed—if this is what the next 50 years would look like—what would you choose to do today?
And please, remember:
If it hurts, it’s not love.
With you, always—
In truth, tenderness, and liberation.
