I Thought It Was Okay Because He Didn't Hit Me

Understanding Emotional Abuse, Coercive Control and the Long Road to Healing.

In 2022, I wrote a raw and deeply personal account of my experience with domestic violence. At the time, I was still carrying much of the pain, anger and confusion that came with surviving it. Since then, I have walked a path of healing, forgiveness and self-discovery.

This adapted version honours that journey while remaining true to the experience. I share it in the hope that it may help someone else feel less alone in their own journey, recognise the signs of abuse, and know that healing is possible.

In 2022, reports of a high-profile celebrity separation filled my social media feed. While I had never followed their relationship closely, the allegations of emotional abuse and harassment after the separation stopped me in my tracks.

I wasn't reacting to their story.

I was reacting to my own.

For many years I struggled to call what I experienced domestic violence.

There were no black eyes.

There were no broken bones.

For the most part, there were no punches.

What there was, however, was fear.

There was control.

There was intimidation.

There was constant criticism.

There was emotional manipulation.

And there was the feeling of walking on eggshells every day, never knowing what might trigger the next outburst.

When people found out I had separated from my former husband, many told me they had never liked the way he spoke to me.

Some said they always knew something wasn't right.

Others said they had warned me.

Those comments were never intended to hurt me, but they left me feeling ashamed and foolish.

What many people don't understand is that abuse rarely begins as abuse.

It often begins with feeling seen.

Feeling special.

Feeling chosen.

I met him when I was still a teenager and he was significantly older than me. I wasn't looking for a relationship, but he made me feel heard during a time in my life when I felt vulnerable and uncertain about who I was.

Looking back, I can see the warning signs.

At the time, I couldn't.

The first physical incident happened early in the relationship. We had an argument and he slapped me across the face. I remember feeling more shocked than hurt.

He apologised immediately.

He cried.

He promised it would never happen again.

And because I loved him, I believed him.

That moment became a pattern I would come to know well.

Something would happen.

There would be an apology.

A promise to change.

A period of calm.

And then the cycle would begin again.

Over time the relationship became less about partnership and more about control.

The things I loved became things he needed to compete with.

My interests became his interests.

My confidence slowly disappeared.

Arguments became a normal part of daily life.

He would stand over me, his fist inches from mine, telling me I was pushing his buttons.

I became skilled at managing his moods.

At predicting his reactions.

At trying to keep the peace.

I told myself it wasn't that bad.

After all, he wasn't hitting me.

At least that is what I told myself.

When our son was born, everything changed.

Holding that tiny baby in my arms was the greatest love I had ever experienced.

It was also the beginning of seeing the relationship through different eyes.

Instead of feeling supported as a new mother, I felt criticised.

Second-guessed.

Watched.

Nothing I did seemed right.

Then one morning, exhausted from caring for a newborn, I asked him for help.

When I expressed my frustration, he grabbed me by the hair and dragged me down the hallway.

I still remember the terror.

Not for myself.

For my baby, who was alone on the change table.

That moment changed something inside me.

For the first time, I understood that what was happening was not normal.

It was not healthy.

And it would only get worse.

Even then I stayed.

Not because I was weak.

Not because I didn't know better.

But because leaving is rarely as simple as people think.

I believed I could help him.

I believed things could change.

I believed the man I loved was still in there somewhere.

Most of all, I believed I was somehow responsible for bringing out the worst in him.

That is one of the cruellest things emotional abuse does.

It convinces you that their behaviour is your fault.

Years later, I found myself sitting alone in a dark bedroom contemplating ending my life.

Not because I wanted to die.

Because I couldn't see another way out.

As I imagined the goodbye letters I would leave behind, I came to my son's letter.

And suddenly everything became clear.

I wasn't willing to leave him behind.

The next day I made the decision that would ultimately save both of us.

I left.

Leaving was not the end.

In many ways, it was only the beginning.

The abusive messages continued.

The phone calls continued.

The intimidation continued.

Even after separation, I still felt trapped.

What I didn't understand at the time was that coercive control doesn't always end when a relationship does.

Sometimes it simply finds new pathways.

For years I tolerated behaviour I should never have accepted because I was trying to protect my son from conflict.

What I eventually learned is that children see more than we realise.

As my son grew older, he began experiencing the same emotional manipulation and intimidation I had experienced.

Watching that unfold broke my heart.

It also forced me to confront a painful truth.

I had spent years trying to keep the peace with someone who had no interest in peace.

The day my son told me he no longer felt safe was the day I finally stopped worrying about the repercussions and started focusing solely on protecting him.

And something remarkable happened.

Without the constant stress and fear, he flourished.

He became more confident.

More social.

More relaxed.

More himself.

His transformation helped me see something I had missed for years.

We were never the problem.

Today I share this story not because I want sympathy, and not because I want revenge.

I share it because emotional abuse often hides in plain sight.

Because many survivors still question whether what they experienced was "bad enough."

Because coercive control leaves wounds that are invisible to everyone except the person living through it.

And because if even one person reads this and recognises themselves in these words, they might realise they are not alone.

You do not deserve to live in fear.

You do not deserve to be controlled.

You do not deserve to spend your life walking on eggshells.

And no matter how trapped you feel, there is a path forward.

Sometimes the bravest thing we can do is leave.

And then comes the equally courageous work of healing.

The healing isn't always linear. There may be grief, anger, guilt, shame and moments where you question yourself. But with time, support and a willingness to look inward, those wounds can begin to soften.

Today, I understand that healing isn't about forgetting what happened. It is about reclaiming the parts of yourself that were lost along the way.

The confidence.

The joy.

The peace.

The sense of self.

If sharing my story helps even one person feel less alone, then it has served its purpose.

Because on the other side of survival is healing.

And on the other side of healing is freedom.