If you’ve ever looked at someone in an abusive situation and thought, “why don’t they just leave?,” I understand you. I used to think the same way.
I grew up watching my mother being abused by my father. Not just in one way, but in every way that mattered. Emotionally. Financially. And physically. There were moments you couldn’t ignore, like the time he injured her eye. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t hidden.
So to me, it always felt obvious. She could see it. I could see it. Everyone could see it. So why stay?
I was angry at her for a long time. I thought staying meant she was choosing it. I thought silence meant she was allowing it. I told myself I would never be that person. I believed that if I was ever faced with something like that, I would leave immediately. No hesitation. No excuses.
I thought strength was simple. But abuse is not always obvious. And it is almost never simple. Sometimes it doesn’t come as shouting or hitting. Sometimes it comes quietly, dressed as care, concern, or even love. It starts with closeness. You feel seen. You feel chosen. You feel safe. And then, slowly, something shifts.
You don’t notice it all at once. You just start changing. You start thinking twice before you speak. You start adjusting yourself so you don’t upset them. You begin to measure your words, your tone, even your reactions.
You tell yourself it’s nothing serious. You tell yourself you’re just being considerate. But then it keeps going.
They start making you feel like you’re the problem. Like you’re too much, or not enough, depending on the day. You find yourself apologising for things you didn’t even realise were wrong. And when you try to explain how you feel, somehow the conversation turns and you end up feeling guilty instead.
That is not confusion. That is gaslighting. It’s when someone makes you question your own reality until you no longer trust yourself.
And still, even with that, you might think, “okay, but I would still leave.” That’s what I thought too. Until I found myself in it.
Not with bruises. Not with anything you could point to and say, “this is clearly abuse.” But with something quieter. Something harder to explain. Because it wasn’t constant.
There were moments when they would break down, cry, become vulnerable in a way that made me feel needed. In those moments, leaving felt wrong. It felt cruel. It felt like I was abandoning someone who needed me.
So I stayed. Even when I knew something wasn’t right, I stayed. That push and pull, that cycle of hurt followed by vulnerability, is not accidental. It’s what psychology calls intermittent reinforcement. The inconsistency is what keeps you attached. You hold on to the good moments, hoping they will become the norm.
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Then, slowly, your world starts getting smaller. You stop talking to people the way you used to. You hesitate to open up to others because it becomes a problem if you do. It’s framed as disloyalty. As abandonment, as something you’re doing wrong.
So you withdraw, not because you want to, but because it feels easier than the conflict. Before you realise it, you’re isolated. And now, the person hurting you is also the person you rely on the most.
That is how coercive control works. Not by force, but by limiting your freedom so quietly that you don’t even see it happening in real time.
At some point, you start asking yourself difficult questions. Is this love? Or am I just used to it?
Because when someone hurts you and then becomes the one who comforts you, it creates something called a trauma bond. You become attached, not in spite of the pain, but through it. The lines blur. You don’t know if you’re staying because you love them or because you’ve been conditioned to.
And this is where everything I believed growing up started to fall apart. Because now I understand something I didn’t understand before. Leaving is not just about walking away from a person. It’s about untangling everything they’ve made you believe about yourself.
It’s about relearning your instincts after they’ve been questioned over and over again. It’s about choosing yourself when you’ve been made to feel like doing that is selfish.
So when people ask, “why didn’t they leave?,” I no longer hear a simple question. I hear a question that doesn’t yet understand the weight of what it’s asking.
Because I’ve been on both sides of that question. I’ve been the person watching from the outside, thinking it was easy and I’ve been the person inside it, realizing it isn’t.
If you’re reading this and you see yourself in any part of it, I want you to understand something clearly; what you’re feeling is not random. It’s not weakness. And it’s not your fault.
There is a pattern to it. There is a psychology behind it and recognizing it, even quietly, even painfully, is where things begin to change.
