If you’ve ever looked at someone trapped in abuse and wondered, “Why don’t they just leave?”—I get it. I used to ask the same question. I grew up watching my mother suffer under my father’s abuse. Not in one form, but in every way that counts: emotionally, financially, physically. There were moments no one could ignore—like the day he injured her eye. It wasn’t hidden. It wasn’t subtle. It was plain for all to see.
So why stay? For years, I carried anger toward her. I believed staying meant she was choosing it. I thought her silence meant she was allowing it. I promised myself I would never be that person. I told myself that if I ever faced abuse, I would walk away 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, and 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.
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.
You withdraw not because you want to, but because it feels easier than facing conflict. Before you realise it, you find yourself isolated. The person who is hurting you has become the one you rely on the most. That’s how coercive control operates: not through force, but by subtly limiting your freedom so that you don’t even notice it happening in real time.
At some point, you begin to ask yourself difficult questions. Is this love, or am I just accustomed to it? When someone hurts you and then becomes the source of your comfort, it creates a bond known as a trauma bond. You become attached, not despite the pain, but because of it. The lines become blurred. You’re left wondering whether you stay because you love them, or because you’ve been conditioned to do so.
This is where everything I believed growing up began to unravel. I see now what I couldn’t see before: leaving isn’t just about walking away from a person. It’s about untangling the lies they’ve woven into your sense of self. It’s about relearning how to trust your instincts after they’ve been doubted again and again. It’s about choosing yourself, even when you’ve been taught that doing so 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 grasp the weight of what it’s asking. Because I’ve stood on both sides of it—I’ve been the outsider, convinced it was easy, and I’ve been inside, realising it isn’t.
If you recognise yourself in any part of this, I want you to know: what you’re feeling is not random. It is not a weakness. And it is not your fault. There is a pattern. There is a psychology behind it. And the moment you begin to see it—even quietly, even painfully—that is where change begins.
By: Christiana Nketia Opoku
Law Student, Pentecost University
