Survivor Speaks Truth

Tag: Victim Blaming

  • 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.

  • Abuse is Never a Victim’s Fault

    One of the most harmful misconceptions about abuse is the idea that victims somehow cause or deserve it. This belief, whether spoken outright or implied through questions and judgment, adds another layer of harm to people already suffering. Abuse is never the victim’s fault, and understanding why is essential if we want to create safer and more supportive communities.

    Abuse is not simply a reaction to anger, hardship, or stress. It is not an accident that “just happens” in the heat of the moment. Abuse is a deliberate choice. An abuser decides to use control, intimidation, manipulation, or violence to dominate another person. Whether the abuse takes the form of emotional cruelty, financial control, physical harm, or psychological tactics, the common thread is intentionality. The responsibility for that decision always rests with the abuser, never with the victim.

    Despite this, many survivors carry guilt and self-blame. This is partly because abusers are skilled at creating confusion. They convince their victims that they are the problem, that if they behaved differently, the abuse would stop. Over time, this message sinks in, leaving victims feeling as though they are at fault. Society often reinforces these lies by asking harmful questions: “Why didn’t you just leave?” “What did you do to set him off?” “Are you sure you’re not overreacting?” These kinds of responses fail to hold abusers accountable while placing an unfair burden on survivors. They overlook the reality that leaving an abusive relationship is statistically the most dangerous time for a victim, and they fail to recognize how deeply effective manipulation can be—so insidious and persuasive that it can entangle even the strongest, most intelligent, and most discerning individuals.

    The reality is that victims are often incredibly resilient people. They may stay because they believe the abuser will change, because they want to protect their children, or because they have been isolated from resources and support systems. Sometimes they stay simply because they are doing their best to survive in an unsafe situation. None of these realities makes the abuse their responsibility. Abuse is something done to them, not something they caused.

    When blame is placed on victims, abusers are protected. The cycle continues, survivors are silenced, and healing becomes harder. But when we speak the truth—that abuse is never the victim’s fault—we begin to break this cycle. We release survivors from the weight of shame that was never theirs to carry, and we shine a light on the only place responsibility belongs: with the abuser.

    Advocacy starts with shifting the conversation. Instead of asking victims why they stayed, we must ask why abusers choose to harm. Instead of doubting survivors, we must believe them and support them. And instead of shaming people who have lived through abuse, we must create environments where they feel empowered, safe, and validated. Abuse thrives in denial and silence, but it loses its power when we confront it with accountability, compassion, and truth.

    The message is simple but vital: abuse is never the victim’s fault. Survivors deserve to be heard without judgment, supported without conditions, and believed without hesitation. Real change will come when society refuses to shift responsibility onto those who have already suffered and instead demands accountability from those who choose to abuse.

  • It Could Happen to Anyone: The Truth About Abuse and Who It Affects

    She’s educated, faithful, independent, kind, strong, and successful. She posts pictures of her children and quotes from her morning devotions. She helps her friends, shows up for her community, and seems to have it all together.

    And she’s being abused.

    We have to talk about this.

    There’s a persistent myth—spoken or unspoken—that women who end up in abusive relationships are somehow different. That they’re needy, uneducated, unintelligent, and weak. That they didn’t see the red flags. That they should’ve known better. That they came from dysfunction and chose the same thing again. That they’re the type of woman who attracts drama.

    But those assumptions are not only wrong—they’re dangerous.

    Abuse doesn’t target a personality type. It’s not reserved for the broken or the insecure. I’ve seen abuse happen to some of the strongest, most capable, most spiritually grounded women I know. Women who lead ministries. Women who mentor others. Women who are deeply self-aware and incredibly accomplished. Women who were told growing up that they’d be safe if they prayed enough, were kind enough, and followed all the proper steps.

    And yet it still happened.

    It happened to them, and it happened to me.

    Abuse doesn’t knock on your door wearing a warning label. It often shows up dressed as love. It looks like charm, generosity, and promises that feel too good to be true, because they are. It builds slowly. Subtly. It starts with little compromises, small apologies, moments you explain away. Until suddenly, you’re second-guessing everything. You’re isolated, confused, exhausted, and wondering how someone who once made you feel special now makes you feel so small.

    By the time most women realize they’re in something dangerous, they’re already deep in it—emotionally, financially, sometimes legally. They’re trauma-bonded. They’re terrified. They’re hopeful it will change. They’re trying to keep their children safe. And most of all, they’re trying to survive while being judged for not leaving fast enough.

    I’ve heard it all.”She must not have much self-esteem.”She probably came from abuse herself.”I’d never let someone treat me that way.”She must’ve seen the signs and chose to stay anyway.”

    But here’s the truth: abuse doesn’t just happen to “those women.” It happens to women who once believed it never would. Women who thought they were too bright, stable, strong, and successful. Women like you.

    The only thing all survivors have in common is that someone chose to abuse them. That’s it.

    It’s not about weakness—it’s about manipulation. It’s not about intelligence—it’s about how well abusers hide who they are until they’ve gained control. It’s not about poor choices—how deeply someone can be gaslit, isolated, and broken down over time.

    If we keep clinging to these stereotypes about who ends up in abusive relationships, we’re harming ourselves. We’re making it harder for victims to come forward. We’re reinforcing shame. We’re keeping people silent.

    The truth is, anyone can find themselves in an abusive relationship. And no one—no one—deserves it.

    When we stop judging and start listening, when we stop asking, “Why didn’t she leave?” and start asking, “What made her feel she couldn’t?”—we begin to shift the narrative.

    We create space for healing, offer dignity, and create a safer world for survivors to step into when they finally say, “I need help.”

    I write this not just as an advocate, but as a survivor. I believed I was too grounded, faith-filled, and discerning for something like this to happen to me. But it did. And the most healing truth I discovered was this: it wasn’t my fault.

    And if it happened to you, it wasn’t your fault either.

    Let’s stop believing the myths. Let’s start believing the people who lived them.

  • “She’s Just Difficult” — The Misconception About Abused Women

    One of the most damaging lies ever told about women who have survived abuse is that they are too much. Too emotional. Too guarded. Too hard to love. Too sensitive.

    It’s a narrative that doesn’t just misunderstand trauma—it weaponizes it.

    Women who have been abused aren’t difficult. They are cautious. They are layered. They are learning to navigate a world that has, more than once, proven unsafe.

    When someone has experienced betrayal from someone who once said, “I love you,” trust doesn’t come easily. That’s not dysfunction—that’s self-preservation.

    When someone has been blamed, degraded, gaslighted, and manipulated, they may flinch at raised voices, silence in the middle of an argument or changes in tone. That’s not drama; it’s a nervous system trying to protect itself.

    When someone has been repeatedly told they are the problem, they may need more clarity, reassurance, and space to process. That’s not insecurity; it’s unlearning years of emotional warfare.

    Yet society often looks at these survivors and says, “She’s damaged.”“She’s just too broken.” “She’s hard to love.”

    But what if the truth is the opposite?

    What if she’s not hard to love—what if she needs to be loved right? With consistency, gentleness, patience, and truth.

    What if the real issue isn’t that she’s difficult but that most people have no idea how to love someone who’s had to survive what she has?

    It takes strength to open up again after betrayal, courage to choose vulnerability after being shamed for your feelings, and immense faith to love again when love was the very thing that hurt you most.

    The women who have walked through abuse and still show up with open hearts, hopeful spirits, and a willingness to heal—those women are not difficult.

    They are remarkable.

    They are resilient.

    And they deserve to be seen not as burdens but as humans. As survivors. As daughters of God doing the hard work of healing.

    If you’re one of those women, hear this:

    You are not hard to love. You are learning how to trust. You are allowed to have boundaries, emotions, and needs. And you are worthy—not despite your story, but because of it.

    It’s time to bury the lie that trauma makes someone unlovable. The truth? It reveals the depth of a soul that has survived hell and is still choosing to hope.

    That kind of woman isn’t too much. She’s extraordinary.

  • The Wrong Question: Why Are We Blaming the Victim Instead of the Abuser?

    For far too long, the conversation around domestic abuse has centred on the wrong question.

    “Why did you stay?”

    It’s a question survivors hear far too often—sometimes from well-meaning people, sometimes from those looking to blame. It’s a question that implies weakness, complicity, or even guilt on the part of the one who was harmed. It places the burden of explanation on the victim, as though their endurance or entrapment is the real issue we must solve.

    But that question is a distraction.

    The real question is this:

    Why did the abuser abuse?

    Why did someone feel entitled to dominate, manipulate, control, and harm another human being? Why did they weaponize love, faith, or trust to break down the person they claimed to care for? Why did they believe they could act with impunity—behind closed doors while smiling in public?

    Asking, “Why did you stay?” ignores the power dynamics, fear, manipulation, isolation, financial dependence, trauma bonding, and very real danger victims face. It fails to acknowledge that abuse is designed to entrap and erode a person’s ability to leave. Victims often stay because they’re trying to survive. Because they love their children. Because they’ve been threatened. Because they’ve been brainwashed. Because they have nowhere else to go.

    Abuse is not a relationship issue. It’s a choice. A repeated, intentional pattern of behaviour meant to control another person. And the responsibility lies solely on the one who chooses to abuse—not the one who tries to survive it.

    When we ask why the victim stayed, we reinforce silence and shame. But when we ask why the abuser abused, we shine light on the behavior that needs to be confronted. We hold the right person accountable. We begin to change the system, the culture, and the narrative.

    So, let’s start asking better questions.

    Let’s ask:

    • Why do abusers manipulate and gaslight instead of taking accountability?
    • Why do they maintain a double life—charming in public, cruel in private?
    • Why are survivors disbelieved while abusers are defended?
    • Why is image more important than integrity in so many communities?
    • Why do churches, courts, and families often protect the perpetrator over the victim?

    If we want to stop abuse, we have to stop normalizing it. We have to stop explaining it away, minimizing it, or dressing it up in religious language. We have to stop placing the burden of proof on the one already carrying the weight of trauma.

    It’s time we stop asking, “Why didn’t you leave sooner?”

    And start demanding answers to: “Why did they think abuse was acceptable in the first place?”

    Because that’s where the healing begins; that’s where justice lives. And that’s how we rewrite the story—not with shame, but with truth.