Survivor Speaks Truth

Category: Abuse

  • October: Domestic Violence Awareness Month — What It Means to Me and My Family

    Every October, the world turns a little more purple. Awareness campaigns roll out, ribbons are tied, and survivors and advocates raise their voices a little louder. But for me and my family, October is not just a month of awareness—it is a deeply personal reminder of the realities we’ve lived through and the people we’ve lost.

    Domestic violence is not an abstract issue in our lives. It has shaped us, scarred us, and ultimately pushed us into a place of advocacy and survival. My children and I know what it means to live in the shadow of abuse, to walk on eggshells, to wonder if safety and peace will ever be more than fleeting moments. Escaping that darkness was not easy, but it was necessary. It was a fight for our lives and for the chance to heal. That is why Domestic Violence Awareness Month matters to us—it represents not only our story, but the stories of so many who are still trapped in silence.

    And yet, our connection to this issue goes beyond our own survival. In 2013, our family lost someone we loved to femicide. She was taken from us most brutally—her life cut short by the very person who was supposed to love and protect her. Her death shattered us, and it was a painful reminder that not every story of abuse ends in survival. Behind every statistic is a face, a name, and a family left with a void that can never be filled. October is a time when her memory weighs heavily on our hearts, when we honour her life and grieve the future she never got to live.

    When I see purple ribbons, I see more than symbols. I see my children’s resilience, their laughter slowly returning after years of fear. I see my journey of learning to stand again, trust again, and find my voice after it had been silenced for so long. I see the faces of those who didn’t make it out—those whose stories ended far too soon, like Rebecca in 2013. Domestic Violence Awareness Month is not about statistics for us; it is about people we loved, the pain we endured, and the hope that others will never have to walk the same road.

    This month is also a call to action. Awareness means nothing if it does not move us to stand with victims and survivors. Abuse thrives in silence, and when people remain neutral or look the other way, the cycle of violence continues. Too often, communities, churches, and even families choose silence because it feels easier than confronting the uncomfortable truth. But silence protects abusers, not victims. If October teaches us anything, our voices matter—and when we choose to speak, we become part of the solution.

    For me and my family, October is not about staying stuck in what happened to us. It’s about transforming pain into purpose. It’s about raising our voices for those who still can’t. It’s about remembering Rebecca whose life was stolen, and honouring her by making sure her story—and the countless others like hers—are not forgotten. It’s about showing my children that while evil exists, so does resilience, healing, and hope.

    So when the month of October comes and the purple ribbons appear, I see resilience, not just awareness. I see grief and remembrance. I see my children’s courage and my cousin’s memory. And I know a promise: that we will keep speaking, keep fighting, and keep standing with survivors until silence no longer has the power to protect abusers, and every victim knows they are not alone.

  • Hurt You, Blame You: The Manipulation of False Victimhood

    There are few things more disorienting than being wounded by someone you trusted, only to have them turn around and claim they are the one who has been wronged. It is not enough that they inflicted the pain — they also rewrite the story to put themselves in the center as the victim. This tactic is not how normal, healthy people respond to conflict; it is a hallmark of manipulation, and it is one of the ways abusers maintain control over those they harm.

    When you love someone, mistakes will happen. Words may come out wrong, tempers may flare, and feelings may get bruised. In healthy relationships, those moments are met with accountability. A sincere apology is offered, an effort is made to repair the damage, and both people walk away with a deeper understanding of one another. Abusers, however, do the opposite. Instead of owning the harm they cause, they deflect responsibility and recast themselves as the ones who have been unfairly treated. Suddenly, the person they hurt is left with their own wounds and the burden of defending themselves against untrue accusations.

    This reversal is deeply confusing. Survivors often replay the events in their minds, asking themselves if they are overreacting, if maybe they misunderstood, or if they somehow caused the whole thing. That cycle of self-doubt is precisely what the abuser hopes for. The more you question yourself, the quieter you become. The more you silence your instincts, the easier for them to continue controlling the narrative. Over time, you can feel invisible, as if your voice and your truth don’t matter.

    What makes this tactic so effective is the sympathy it wins from others. When an abuser positions themselves as the victim, outsiders often rush to their defence. People may rally around the one causing harm, while the actual victim is left isolated, disbelieved, and even blamed for the situation. This compounds the trauma, because not only are you living through the pain of betrayal, you’re also experiencing the loneliness of being misunderstood.

    The truth is that causing deep hurt and playing the victim is not normal conflict. It is not just a misunderstanding; it is not two people simply seeing things differently. It is deliberate manipulation to keep the focus away from accountability and leave the real victim silenced and confused. Once you can see this pattern for what it is, you begin to understand that you are not crazy, you are not overreacting, and you are not the one to blame.

    Healing from this kind of manipulation means reclaiming your story. It means naming what happened and refusing to carry guilt that does not belong to you. It means surrounding yourself with safe people who will listen and believe you and learning to trust your perspective again. You were there. You know the truth. You do not need to accept the false narrative forced on you.

    Abusers may try to steal your voice by turning themselves into the victim, but the truth has a way of cutting through lies. You don’t have to live under their distorted story forever. Your pain is real, your experience is valid, and your freedom is possible. When you step out of the fog of manipulation, you can see clearly that pretending to be the victim while causing harm is not strength, it’s not righteousness, and it’s not love — it’s abuse. And you are not bound to it anymore.

  • Abusers Don’t Abuse Everyone: The Hidden Reality Behind the Mask

    One of the most misunderstood truths about abuse is this: abusers don’t abuse everyone. Some can be incredibly charming, helpful, and even appear selfless—especially if they are covert narcissists. This is one of the biggest reasons survivors often face disbelief when speaking up. To the outside world, the abuser may seem like the nicest person you could meet. They might be active in their community, generous with neighbours, and even affectionate with certain friends or family members. But behind closed doors—when the audience is gone—the mask slips, revealing their true nature. Abuse isn’t random. It’s targeted. Many narcissistic abusers choose one or two specific people to scapegoat, harm, and control, while treating others very differently. This selective cruelty allows them to maintain a flawless image, making it nearly impossible for others to believe the victim’s account. It isolates the victim, who may even doubt their reality: “If they’re so nice to everyone else, maybe it is me.”

    Covert narcissists are exceptionally skilled at hiding their abuse. They may present themselves as humble, misunderstood, or even wounded souls needing compassion. They use this carefully crafted persona to gain sympathy from others, deflect suspicion when accusations arise, and position themselves as the real “victim.” Sometimes they even spread subtle misinformation or outright lies to paint the actual victim as difficult, unkind, or unstable. When the public persona of an abuser is drastically different from the private reality, survivors face an uphill battle for validation. People who have only seen the “good side” can’t reconcile it with the survivor’s account. This disbelief is compounded by the fact that many people don’t want to accept that such cruel and manipulative behaviour exists—especially in someone they know or admire. This leaves survivors not only dealing with the trauma of the abuse itself but also the pain of being doubted or dismissed. It’s a second wound—often deeper than the first.

    Abuse thrives in secrecy and disbelief. The public charm, the selective kindness, and the carefully curated image are all part of the abuser’s control. They know exactly how to play the role that keeps them safe from accountability. The truth is, not everyone sees the abuse. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real. If anything, it makes it more dangerous. Having one person who truly sees and believes them can make all the difference for survivors. And for the rest of us, the responsibility is clear: listen without judgment, educate ourselves about narcissistic abuse and manipulation, and never assume that someone’s public kindness is proof of their private integrity. When we understand that abusers don’t abuse everyone, we strip away one of their greatest weapons—the mask that hides their cruelty—and we take one step closer to a world where survivors can speak and be heard.

  • Why False Allegations Harm True Victims of Abuse

    The call to “believe all victims” comes from a place of compassion. For far too long, those who experienced abuse were doubted, ignored, or silenced. Their cries were dismissed while their abusers went unpunished, and the damage was multiplied by a culture that valued convenience and reputation over justice. To counter this injustice, a movement rose, urging us to listen, to take every story seriously, and to treat survivors with the dignity they deserve. At its heart, this cry is good. Survivors need to know they matter. They need to be seen and heard. They need to be believed.

    But within that call lies a tension, because not every allegation is true. While false claims are far less common than true ones, they happen. And when they do, they cause harm not only to the person falsely accused but to the very survivors the movement was meant to protect. Every fabricated story casts a shadow of doubt over the countless victims who are telling the truth. Every time a false claim surfaces, skeptics point to it as proof that people lie about abuse, fuelling suspicion and making it harder for genuine survivors to be taken seriously. For someone who has already endured unspeakable harm, the existence of false allegations becomes another barrier, another reason to fear speaking out.

    The damage doesn’t stop there. False claims empower abusers, who are already skilled at twisting narratives. They use the existence of lies to discredit their victims, pointing to those who fabricated stories as evidence that no one can be trusted. This manipulation deepens the silence of survivors and allows cycles of abuse to continue unchecked. False allegations also undermine justice itself. Time and resources that should be spent protecting those in real danger are wasted, credibility in the systems meant to uphold truth is eroded, and communities grow divided over who to believe.

    Scripture speaks strongly to this danger. Bearing false witness is not a minor offense; it is condemned as one of the Ten Commandments: “You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor” (Exodus 20:16). Proverbs warns, “A false witness will not go unpunished, and whoever pours out lies will not go free” (Proverbs 19:5). Lies are not neutral; they are destructive. They harm the innocent, they damage the vulnerable, and they distort the truth that God loves and upholds. God’s heart is for justice. He draws near to the brokenhearted, saves the crushed in spirit, and detests injustice in every form.

    To protect actual victims, we must guard the truth. This does not mean dismissing those who come forward. Every story deserves to be taken seriously, because behind every disclosure, there could be someone in desperate need of safety. But compassion must walk hand in hand with discernment. Belief cannot mean blind acceptance that abandons the pursuit of truth. Real protection requires us to listen carefully, investigate thoroughly, and respond with empathy and fairness. When someone fabricates a story, accountability must follow, not to minimize real victims but to preserve their credibility. To look the other way when falsehoods are spoken is to fail the people struggling to be believed.

    The church and the wider community must understand this delicate balance. To dismiss victims altogether is to side with oppressors, but to accept every claim without question is to risk injustice that echoes far beyond a single case. Jesus said, “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32). Freedom comes not from choosing one side or the other, but from standing firm in truth and justice. Survivors need us to listen with compassion, but they also need us to be wise enough to discern, strong enough to uphold justice, and courageous enough to hold liars accountable.

    False allegations are not just unfair to the accused; they are profoundly dangerous for actual victims of abuse. They silence those who most need to be heard, they embolden abusers, and they erode the trust needed to protect the vulnerable. If we want to honour survivors, we cannot allow false claims to go unchecked. Belief must always be tethered to truth, compassion must always be anchored in justice, and our commitment must always be to protect the innocent and defend the oppressed. Anything less risks betraying the very people we are called to protect.

  • The Church Cannot Stay Neutral on Abuse

    For too long, churches have wavered when it comes to addressing abuse. Some avoid the subject altogether, while others downplay it as a marital “conflict” or “personal struggles.” But let’s be honest—abuse is not a disagreement, and it is not a personality clash. Abuse is sin. Abuse is violence of the heart, the tongue, and often the hands. Abuse destroys families, silences voices, and leaves wounds that last a lifetime. When the Church minimizes it or chooses neutrality, it has already chosen a side—and it is not the side of the victim.

    Neutrality in the face of abuse is not compassion; it is complicity. When a victim is told to “pray harder,” “submit more,” or “forgive and move on” without accountability for the abuser, the Church has failed. Those words do not sound like the heart of Christ; they sound like echoes of the oppressor. Jesus never turned a blind eye to injustice. He confronted religious leaders who misused power, defended the vulnerable, and exposed sin that others tried to hide. He named evil for what it was and defended the oppressed.

    When churches remain silent, abusers are empowered. They learn quickly that they will be shielded if they keep up appearances, hold a position, or quote the right Scriptures. They thrive in environments where image and reputation matter more than truth and righteousness. Meanwhile, victims are often left isolated, discredited, and sometimes even pushed out of the very place that should have been their sanctuary. A church that protects its reputation instead of protecting its people is not representing Christ—it is representing cowardice.

    The Bible does not allow us to stay neutral. Proverbs 31:8 9 says, “Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” Neutrality is not biblical; it is disobedience. To refuse to call out abuse is to permit it to thrive. It is to tell the oppressed that their suffering matters less than the comfort of the congregation or the image of leadership. And God does not take lightly the mistreatment of the vulnerable.

    Look at the Old Testament prophets—Isaiah, Jeremiah, and Amos—they cried out against oppression and injustice. They didn’t whisper carefully so as not to offend powerful men; they declared the Word of the Lord with boldness. Jesus Himself overturned tables in the temple when people used religion to exploit others. He called out hypocrisy, pride, and cruelty. He stood on the side of truth, even when it cost Him His reputation, His following, and ultimately His life. The Church He founded cannot do less.

    The world is watching. Survivors are watching. Our children are watching. What message do we send when we shelter wolves in shepherd’s clothing but drive wounded sheep from the flock? What are we teaching the next generation when we are quicker to protect the image of a leader than to stand up for the hurting? Neutrality may feel safe for leadership, but it leaves the vulnerable exposed. And when that happens, we do not reflect Christ—we betray Him.

    It’s time for churches to take a harsher stance on abuse. To call it what it is: evil. To protect the vulnerable with action, not empty words. To refuse to hide behind shallow statements about grace and forgiveness while ignoring repentance, accountability, and justice. To discipline those who abuse instead of excusing them. To create environments where victims can come forward without fear of being shamed, silenced, or cast aside.

    Because the truth is this: when we remain neutral, we have already chosen the oppressor’s side. And Christ never stood on that side. He stands with the broken, the oppressed, the silenced, and the wounded. If we are His Church, then that is where we must stand.

  • When Apologies Become Empty: The Difference Between Regret and Repentance

    We’ve all heard the words, “I’m sorry.” Sometimes they bring healing. Sometimes they restore what was lost. But other times, they ring hollow—like an echo of broken promises. For those who have lived through cycles of mistreatment, manipulation, or abuse, “sorry” often becomes the most overused and meaningless word in the relationship. Understanding why some apologies don’t fix what’s broken and how to tell the difference between endless words of regret and the costly path of true repentance is essential.

    A simple apology can soothe hurt feelings after a misunderstanding, but “sorry” is no longer enough when a pattern of harm continues. An apology without change is just sentiment. It soothes the offender’s conscience but does nothing to restore safety, rebuild trust, or honour the wronged person. Endless apologies can even become a tool of manipulation—offering temporary relief to keep the cycle going while the destructive behaviour never truly ends. That’s why apologies, no matter how tearful or frequent, are not the same as repentance.

    True repentance goes far deeper than words. It means turning away from sin and moving in a new direction. In Scripture, repentance is not simply sorrow—a change of mind and heart that produces different actions. John the Baptist said, “Produce fruit in keeping with repentance” (Matthew 3:8). Repentance always bears fruit. It looks like humility, accountability, and consistency over time. It looks like an offender facing consequences instead of avoiding them. It looks like someone choosing to break harmful patterns, even when it’s uncomfortable, inconvenient, or costly.

    One way to tell the difference between endless apologies and repentance is to look for patterns. Do the words “I’m sorry” come up often, but the behaviour never changes? Do promises last only until the next moment of frustration, anger, or selfishness? That is a cycle of apology without repentance. On the other hand, is there evidence of growth? Do you see self-control where there was once volatility? Do you see humility where there was once pride? Are they willing to seek help, set safeguards, be transparent, and take responsibility even when no one is watching? That’s the fruit of repentance.

    Another difference lies in who the apology is for. An endless “sorry” is often about the offender easing their own guilt or keeping the relationship intact on their terms. True repentance is for the one who was wronged—it’s about valuing their safety, dignity, and healing enough to do the hard work of change. Apologies may want forgiveness without accountability, but repentance welcomes accountability as proof of love.

    When someone says “I’m sorry” but continues the same behaviour, what’s broken doesn’t get fixed—it gets deeper. Broken trust is not healed by words alone. It is healed by a new way of living, proven in actions over time. And until repentance is real, “sorry” is nothing more than noise.

    The good news is that God calls us to genuine repentance because He knows it’s the only path to restoration. He doesn’t settle for empty words, and He doesn’t ask us to either. He calls for transformation, for turning away from sin and walking in newness of life. And while we cannot control whether someone else chooses true repentance, we can choose to guard our hearts, set healthy boundaries, and refuse to mistake hollow apologies for lasting change.

    So if you are weary of endless apologies that never bear fruit, take heart. You are not wrong for expecting more. “Sorry” alone doesn’t fix what’s broken. Only repentance—real, costly, life-changing repentance—can do that. And when it is present, the difference is unmistakable.

  • The Danger of Ignoring Red Flags

    When we enter a new relationship, most want to believe the best in their partner. We long for connection, love, and someone who will see us fully and stay. In those early days, it feels natural to give grace, to excuse quirks, and to overlook small things that make us uneasy. After all, everyone has flaws, and no relationship is perfect. Love itself calls us to be forgiving and patient. But there is a line between showing grace and ignoring warning signs. When we begin excusing patterns that chip away at our peace, we risk walking straight into harm.

    Red flags rarely come waving boldly in our faces. More often, they arrive quietly, disguised as something harmless: a harsh tone quickly softened by a smile, a controlling comment explained as “just looking out for you,” a lie smoothed over with a charming excuse. At the time, those moments may seem insignificant compared to the affection and attention we are receiving. Yet the truth is that what we minimize in the beginning often becomes the very behaviour that wounds us most deeply later. Ignoring a red flag doesn’t make it disappear—it plants it like a seed, giving it room to grow.

    Many survivors of abuse can look back with heartbreaking clarity and identify the signs they didn’t recognize at the time. They remember the uneasy feelings they brushed aside, the times they justified what didn’t sit right, the way they silenced their intuition to keep the peace. But in the moment, it isn’t so clear. The pull of attachment, hope, and love, has a way of drowning out that still, small voice whispering, “Something is not right here.” We tell ourselves we’re being judgmental, too sensitive, or unforgiving. We remind ourselves of all the good moments, replaying them like a highlight reel, convincing ourselves that love will eventually outweigh the shadows. We believe the other person will change, mature, or soften with time. But ignoring what unsettles us doesn’t produce change—it only enables destructive patterns to take deeper root.

    The cost of overlooking red flags can be devastating. What begins as small acts of disrespect can evolve into ongoing patterns that erode our sense of worth. A dismissive laugh at our concerns can grow into systematic gaslighting that leaves us questioning our sanity. What looks like “overprotectiveness” initially may become full-blown isolation from family, friends, and support systems. A minor inconsistency in someone’s story can develop into a web of deception and lies. In too many cases, those subtle early signs become precursors to more overt forms of abuse—emotional, financial, physical, sexual, or spiritual. Each time we excuse or rationalize unhealthy behaviour, we unintentionally send the message that it is acceptable. And abusers thrive on that silence.

    Scripture warns us about this very danger. Proverbs 22:3 says, “The prudent see danger and take refuge, but the simple keep going and pay the penalty.” Discernment is a biblical command. Jesus Himself told us to watch for wolves in sheep’s clothing, explaining that they would be known by their fruit, not their words (Matthew 7:15–16). Words can be deceptive, but consistent actions reveal the truth. God does not ask us to ignore reality in the name of love. He calls us to test what we see, to guard our hearts, and to walk in wisdom.

    Recognizing red flags doesn’t mean we are judgmental or unloving. It means we value truth over illusion. It means we are willing to see people as they are, not as we wish them to be. There is a difference between showing grace and enabling harm. True grace does not ignore destructive patterns; it acknowledges them and seeks wisdom in responding. Sometimes wisdom means creating space, setting clear boundaries, or slowing down. Other times it means walking away altogether.

    If you are in a relationship and you sense red flags, don’t silence that warning. That uneasiness may be God’s way of protecting you. It is far better to pause, to seek counsel, or to step back than to spend years trying to untangle yourself from a web of abuse. Love that God-honouring, healthy, and safe, will never demand that you ignore your instincts or compromise your peace to keep it alive.

    Red flags are not meant to make you paranoid. They are intended to safeguard you. When you listen to them, you give yourself the gift of choosing health, love, and safety. Ignoring them only leads to confusion, heartache, and loss. But heeding them opens the door to freedom, peace, and relationships rooted in mutual care, respect, and trust.

    At the end of the day, red flags are not roadblocks to love—they are guideposts pointing you away from danger and toward the kind of relationship God desires for you: one marked not by control, deception, or fear, but by trust, safety, and a love that reflects His own.

  • Would More Time Have Changed the Outcome?

    One of the common questions survivors of abuse wrestle with is this: Would time have changed the outcome? If I had waited longer before committing and gotten to know them better, could I have spared myself the heartbreak? Could I have seen the red flags earlier? Could I have known?

    These questions can circle endlessly in the mind, like a continuous loop. They come from a deep desire to make sense of something that feels senseless, bring order to chaos, and find logic in something that seems unthinkable. After all, if there’s a reason, then maybe there was a way it could have been prevented. And if it could have been prevented, the pain might not feel so permanent.

    But the hard truth is that you can ask a thousand variations of those questions and never find an answer that truly satisfies. When someone is committed to hiding who they really are, time is not always the great revealer we wish it to be.

    Abusers are often skilled at deception. They know how to say and do all the right things to win trust. Some even present themselves as the ideal partner—attentive, charming, kind, spiritual—because that image is part of the grooming process. Many are patient and calculated in their deception, willing to conceal their true selves for months, years, or even decades if it means keeping control. Waiting longer, unfortunately, does not guarantee clarity when a person is determined to stay hidden.

    That is one of the painful aspects of abuse: it is built on deliberate deception. It’s not that the victim was naïve, blind, or unworthy of trust—it’s that the abuser chose to conceal, lie, and manipulate. You could have waited longer, asked more questions, sought more advice, and still not uncovered the truth until the abuser chose to reveal it—or until the mask slipped on its own.

    The “what if” questions often morph into self-blame: I should have known, been wiser, caught it sooner. But these thoughts place the weight of responsibility in the wrong place. Trusting someone is not a failure. Believing in the good you saw is not a weakness. The shame belongs to the one who betrayed that trust, not the one who gave it in good faith.

    It’s also important to remember that abusers are often very strategic in how they control the narrative. They may surround you with half-truths, isolate you from those who might see the truth, or use religious language to make themselves seem righteous. They can be so convincing that even those closest to the situation may not see what’s happening. If an entire community can be fooled, it’s not reasonable to expect that more time alone would have guaranteed that you would see through the act.

    So, would time have changed the outcome? The answer is no. Because the problem was never about how much time was given—it was about how much truth was hidden. Abusers reveal themselves when it benefits them, not when it protects you. They control what they show and for how long.

    The danger of endlessly replaying these questions is that they keep you stuck in the past, carrying blame that doesn’t belong to you. Healing begins when you release that burden and acknowledge reality: you were deceived, not because you failed, but because someone was determined to hide. That is their guilt to bear, not yours.

    While we cannot go back and change the past, the future can be different. The wisdom gained, the strength forged in pain, and the clarity born from experience can help shape the way forward. The “what if” questions may never give you the peace you’re looking for, but choosing to let go of them opens the door to a new kind of peace that comes from truth, healing, and freedom.

    You don’t need to ask if more time would have saved you. The better question is: What will I do with my time now? The answer can be this: You will live it free from self-blame, anchored in truth, and open to the life still waiting for you.

  • After the Decision: What Comes Next?

    In my last post, I wrote about the difficult tension between sticking it out and walking away. That decision is rarely straightforward and often carries layers of fear, grief, guilt, and even relief. But what happens once the decision is made? What do you do after you’ve decided to stay and rebuild—or after you’ve decided to walk away and start over?

    The truth is, the decision is only the first step. The following days, weeks, and months require courage, intentional action, and support.

    If You’ve Chosen to Stay

    Deciding to stay does not mean forgetting the pain or excusing the behaviour. It means believing there is still a foundation worth rebuilding. But staying requires more than hope. It requires accountability, commitment, and consistent change.

    1. Prioritize Safety. If the relationship involved abuse, safety must come first. That means clear boundaries, outside accountability, and resources in place should the unhealthy patterns re-emerge.
    2. Seek Professional Support. No one can restore a broken relationship alone. Trauma-informed therapy, faith-based counselling, or support groups can provide tools for healthier communication and conflict resolution.
    3. Apologies Without Repentance Mean Nothing. An apology on its own is easy. True repentance is what matters. A person can say “I’m sorry” a thousand times, but if their actions don’t align with those words, the apology is empty. Staying requires evidence of transformation, not temporary remorse.
    4. Measure by Actions, Not Words. It’s easy to say, “I’ll do better.” It’s harder to live that out day after day. Pay attention to behaviour. Is there follow-through? Is there humility? Are they taking responsibility for the harm they inflicted?

    Staying is not passive. It is active, ongoing work that demands honesty, humility, and visible change. Without genuine repentance and consistent action to repair the harm, staying simply keeps you trapped in the same destructive cycle.

    If You’ve Chosen to Leave

    Walking away, even when it’s the healthiest decision, comes with its own set of challenges. Many survivors describe the aftermath as a mix of freedom and grief. That’s normal. Leaving means separating from a person and disentangling from hopes, memories, and often a shared life.

    1. Grieve the Loss. Allow yourself to feel the anger, disappointment, and sadness. Grief is not a sign you made the wrong decision—it’s a natural response to loss.
    2. Build a Support Network. Isolation is one of the most dangerous traps for survivors. Surround yourself with people who validate your experience and encourage your healing, whether that’s trusted friends, a church community, or survivor advocacy groups.
    3. Establish Boundaries. Walking away doesn’t always mean the person is out of your life—especially if children, shared finances, or legal matters are involved. Clear, firm boundaries are essential. Communicate only as necessary, and when possible, through structured or legal channels.
    4. Focus on Reclaiming Yourself. Abuse and toxic relationships strip away identity. Use this season to rediscover who you are apart from the relationship. Pursue career goals, education, faith practices, or hobbies that remind you of your strength and individuality.
    5. Get Practical Help. Sometimes leaving means facing custody battles, financial insecurity, and housing needs. Don’t hesitate to lean on advocacy organizations, community resources, legal aid, or shelters. That’s what they’re there for.

    Leaving isn’t about failure—it’s about survival. It’s about choosing to stop pouring your energy into something destructive so you can begin investing in your future.

    Everyday Struggles After the Decision

    No matter which path you’ve chosen, struggles are common. Survivors often face:

    • Second-guessing. Did I do the right thing? These doubts are normal, especially when loneliness or fear creeps in.
    • External pressure. Friends, family, or even faith communities may pressure you to return when you’ve left, or shame you for staying when you’ve chosen to rebuild. Remember: they don’t live your life—you do.
    • Trauma responses. Emotional triggers, flashbacks, hypervigilance, or nightmares, can surface more strongly once the immediate crisis ends. Healing is not linear.

    This is why it’s so important to have a plan for healing regardless of your decision.

    Moving Forward With Intention

    The decision itself is not the end of the story. It is the turning point. What matters most is how you move forward from here.

    • Invest in your own healing. Faith practices, journaling, therapy, or trauma healing can all help regulate your nervous system and restore your sense of safety.
    • Surround yourself with truth-tellers. The right people will remind you of your worth when you’ve forgotten.
    • Anchor in hope. Whether you stay or leave, life will not always feel as heavy as it does in the immediate aftermath. Healing is possible. Joy is possible. A future you cannot yet imagine is possible.

    Final Word

    After the decision—whether to stick it out or walk away—you have a choice about what comes next. You can remain defined by the pain, or you can step into the process of healing and reclaiming your life. Neither path is easy, but both require you to remember one truth:

    You are not powerless. You are not worthless. You are not defined by the worst thing you’ve endured.

    The decision was only the beginning. The rest of your story is still waiting to be written.

  • Sticking it Out vs. Walking Away: The Difference Between Life’s Challenges and Toxic Relationships

    There is a common phrase often repeated in well-meaning circles: “Marriage takes work. Relationships take sacrifice. Every couple goes through hard times—you must stick it out.” While there is truth in that statement, it is not the whole truth. And in some cases, when applied to destructive or abusive relationships, it can be dangerously misleading. Not every relationship should be endured. Not every hardship is created equal. There is a profound difference between staying faithful through the storms of life and chaining yourself to a sinking ship that was never safe to board in the first place.

    All relationships face challenges. Finances get tight. Illness changes daily routines. Parenting demands test patience and energy. Jobs are lost, moves are made, and life throws unexpected storms that rattle even the most stable of unions. These are the “hard times” that every healthy couple will inevitably encounter. They are not indicators that your love is broken, but opportunities to strengthen your commitment. Weathering life’s challenges with an equally invested partner often draws people closer. These seasons reveal character, deepen intimacy, and cultivate resilience. They are hard, but they are not destructive. They are exhausting, but they are not soul-crushing.

    The difference is this: when two people are truly united, life’s storms become something they face together. It is “us against the problem,” not “me against you.” Even in frustration, there is an underlying respect. Even in disagreement, there is a foundation of safety. You can trust that your partner is not your enemy and that you are rowing in the same direction at the end of the day. Hard times can be endured—sometimes even embraced—because they strengthen the relationship.

    But not all hardship comes from the outside. Some storms brew within the walls of the relationship itself. These are not the growing pains of two flawed humans learning to love each other better. These are the destructive dynamics of control, manipulation, betrayal, or abuse. They are not external trials testing your bond—they are the bond itself being poisoned. And no amount of “sticking it out” will transform toxicity into health.

    Abuse—whether emotional, verbal, physical, or spiritual—is not a “rough patch.” Constant belittling is not a “challenge.” Walking on eggshells to avoid outbursts is not “working through issues.” Feeling unsafe, unloved, or consistently devalued is not the same as having financial stress or disagreements about parenting styles. Abuse is not a trial to be endured; it is a danger to be recognized.

    Too often, people conflate the two. Society tells victims to “try harder,” “pray more,” “sacrifice yourself,” or “be more forgiving.” Religious communities sometimes misuse Scripture, urging the abused to remain in toxic marriages under the guise of faithfulness. Friends and family, unfamiliar with the dynamics of abuse, may label a survivor’s decision to leave as “giving up.” But enduring abuse is not faithfulness—it is self-destruction. And God never asks His children to remain bound to what destroys them.

    The difference between hard and harmful is everything. Complex challenges come from outside pressures—money, sickness, transitions—that can be weathered when love and respect remain intact. On the other hand, harmful patterns come from within—the way you are treated, the cycles of control, the erosion of self-worth. Hard asks you to persevere because there is mutual love at the core. Harmful asks you to surrender your dignity and safety in exchange for crumbs of peace.

    One of the most significant lies victims are told is that leaving is a failure. But walking away from what is destroying you is not giving up—it is choosing life. It is choosing to believe that your worth is not measured by how much pain you can endure, but by the truth that you are created to be loved in a way that reflects kindness, safety, and mutual respect. True love uplifts. True love protects. True love does not demand you lose yourself to preserve the illusion of togetherness.

    There is courage in staying through life’s storms when both people row the boat. But there is also courage—often far greater—in stepping out of a sinking ship because one person has been drilling holes all along.

    If you ask yourself whether to stay or go, the questions that matter most are “Am I strong enough to endure this?” but rather, “Is this hardship external or is it coming from how I’m being treated? Am I safe? Am I respected? Does this relationship allow me to grow into the fullness of who I am, or does it strip away my peace and worth?”

    The answers may not be easy, but they are essential. The truth is this: You deserve to be in a relationship where the storms of life are weathered side by side—not in one where you are drowning while the other person watches from the shore.

    Love was never meant to hurt to prove its worth. Sticking it out is noble when the relationship is built on love, respect, and a shared vision of the future. Walking away is necessary when the relationship itself is causing the destruction.

    Your life is too valuable, your soul too precious, and your future too meaningful to waste it surviving in the name of “sacrifice.” Choose wisely. Choose courageously. And remember—enduring hard times makes love stronger, but escaping toxic ones may save your life.