In my thirties, I had a neighbor whose story left a deep mark on me. One day, I heard her through the wall, crying and begging her boyfriend to stop hitting her. I called the police, and they took him away. He turned out to be a dangerous man with multiple warrants.
But what stuck with me most wasn’t the violence—it was something she said to the police afterward. When they asked her why she stayed, her answer was: “I’m 30 years old. I probably can’t do better.”
That statement haunted me for years. I couldn’t understand how someone could feel so hopeless, so trapped, that they would stay in such an obviously abusive situation. I told myself I’d never let that happen to me.
And yet, I did.
My experience wasn’t physical. There were no bruises or raised voices. It was subtle, almost invisible. It wasn’t someone beating me—it was someone chipping away at me over time, so gradually that I didn’t see it happening.
It came in the form of small lies, manipulation, dismissive comments, and an ever-present sense that I wasn’t enough. The abuse didn’t leave visible scars, but it left wounds all the same—ones I didn’t even recognize until years later.
I stayed. Not because I thought I couldn’t do better, but because I told myself so many stories to justify it: “This isn’t that bad.” “Maybe I’m overreacting.” “If I just try harder, this will get better.”
And if I’m being honest, I stayed because facing the truth felt terrifying. I was afraid of being alone. I was afraid of breaking up my family. I was afraid of admitting to myself that the relationship I had invested so much of my life into wasn’t what I wanted it to be.
This is where I need to take accountability—not for the abuse, but for the role I played in staying. I ignored my intuition. I silenced the part of me that knew something wasn’t right. I kept making excuses because it felt easier than facing the truth.
I see now how much of myself I sacrificed to keep the peace, to keep the family together, to avoid the pain of leaving. And while I can’t go back and change the past, I can own my choices and learn from them.
Subtle abuse is dangerous because it’s easy to explain away. It doesn’t fit the traditional image of abuse, so you tell yourself it’s not “real” abuse. You stay because you don’t see how bad it really is until you’re so deep in it that climbing out feels impossible.
But here’s what I’ve learned: staying doesn’t mean you’re weak, and leaving doesn’t mean you’re a failure. Both take strength in their own ways.
If this resonates with you, I want you to know you’re not alone. Abuse doesn’t have to be physical to be real, and it’s okay to acknowledge the ways you’ve stayed silent or ignored your own needs.
Have you ever stayed in a situation because it didn’t seem “bad enough” to leave? What helped you recognize the truth and move forward? Let’s talk about this in the comments—I’d love to hear your story.