How Misunderstanding Domestic Violence Keeps the Cycle Alive

Three misconceptions. One conversation. A subject-matter expert unpacking what domestic violence really looks like.

By: Keaidy Bennett | Best-Selling Author & Publicist

You're not going to like what I have to say, but I'm used to being the one to address the elephant in the room. Just Charge it to the Game, face the facts, and let's agree to do better, because your refusal to talk about domestic violence is exactly why it keeps getting worse.

When I was going through it, the statistic everyone quoted was one in four women. Now, depending on the data set, the conversations, and the spaces you’re in, we’re hearing numbers closer to one in three, and in some cases, trending toward one in two. Problems don’t escalate like that because people are paying attention. They escalate because we’re comfortable misunderstanding them, minimizing them, or only acknowledging them when they show up in the most extreme, headline-worthy ways.

Domestic violence is not what most people think it is. It’s not just the moments that make your stomach turn. It’s not only the cases that end in police reports, courtrooms, or memorials. Domestic violence is a broad term, and until we start treating it that way, we will keep missing it, sometimes while it’s happening right in front of us, or even to us.

The easiest way I know how to explain it is like this: domestic violence is an umbrella, not a single act. If I say “defense” in sports, I’m not saying one thing. I could be talking about a blitz, man-to-man coverage, zone defense: different strategies, same category. Domestic violence works the same way. Emotional abuse. Financial abuse. Physical violence. Sexual coercion. Reproductive control. Psychological manipulation. These aren’t separate conversations because they’re different expressions of the same power dynamic. And they can exist one at a time, overlap, or escalate together.

The problem is, most people only recognize domestic violence when it feels worthy of an extreme level of shock. But by then, the nervous system has already been rewired. The mind has already adapted, and the damage has already set in as normal. That's because all forms of domestic violence are life-altering. They change how your brain functions, how your body responds to stress, how safe you feel in the world, and how you understand yourself. That's why some people leave these situations with long-term mental health impacts. Some experience complete identity loss, and sadly, some never fully recover. And it's not because they didn’t try, it's because most people don't receive the full support they need to get out of survival mode. After all, most organizations that offer hope are limited in the way they can help.

This is why we need to address this elephant. Now.

Once you understand that domestic violence isn’t a single moment in time or a single type of harm, the next question becomes why so many people still don’t recognize it, even when they’re living inside it. Sadly, that confusion doesn't exist by accident. It’s built on a set of misconceptions that have been repeated for so long they’ve started to sound like truth.

There are three of them I want to address.

My goal isn't to overwhelm you, but to give language to the part some books don't teach. Because when you don’t have language, you don’t have options. And when you don’t have options, silence becomes the default, and acceptance of the abuse is no longer optional.

And before we get into it, I want you to know that curiosity is welcome here. If you need clarity on something talked about, mention it in the comments. Just make sure to keep it cute, or you could be blocked, or find out how funny my trauma has made me.

Misconception 1: It Was Just a Bad Fight

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One of the biggest reasons domestic violence goes unrecognized is because people convince themselves it has to look extreme to count.

It doesn’t.

Domestic violence is not just a bad fight. It’s not a heated argument that went too far. It’s not two people having “relationship problems” or a moment where emotions ran high. And it’s definitely not limited to situations so horrific they feel worthy of a news segment or a viral headline. Domestic violence begins the moment one person believes they are entitled to power and control over another and is willing to assert that belief by any means necessary.

Sometimes that control shows up as physical violence. Sometimes it’s strangulation. Sometimes it’s humiliation, degradation, intimidation, or sexual coercion. Sometimes it’s controlling money, transportation, communication, or reproductive choices. And sometimes it’s all of those things rotating, overlapping, or escalating over time.

That's why I want people to start seeing domestic violence as a spectrum. Calling it “just a bad fight” makes it easier to dismiss. A fight feels mutual. It implies equal power. A fight suggests that both people simply lost control. But domestic violence is not about losing control; it’s about taking control.

And here’s the part people struggle with: the absence of physical violence does not mean the absence of domestic violence.

Power and control don’t need bruises to be effective. They rely on repetition, confusion, and erosion. They work by slowly breaking down a person’s sense of self until they start questioning their instincts, minimizing their experiences, and doubting their own reality. That’s how people end up saying things like, “It wasn’t that bad,” or “At least it wasn’t physical,” while their nervous system is stuck in constant survival mode.

Domestic violence isn’t defined by how dramatic it looks from the outside. It’s defined by an imbalance of power and the ongoing use of control, whether that control is loud or quiet, obvious or subtle, physical or psychological.

Until we stop calling abuse “just a bad fight,” we’ll keep missing it. And people will keep suffering in silence because what they’re living through doesn’t look “bad enough” to count.

Misconception 2: “If It Was Really That Bad, They Would’ve Just Left”

This is the misconception that shuts down conversations faster than any other.

Most people believe leaving is a single decision. They think it's a moment of clarity or a clean break. They imagine someone waking up one day, realizing they deserve better, packing a bag, and moving on with their life.

That’s not how it works.

What people don’t understand is that by the time domestic violence is present, the brain has already adapted to a new version of normal. Our brains are wired to search for what’s familiar, not what’s healthy. Familiar feels predictable. Predictable feels safer than the unknown, even when the familiar is harmful.

The best way I know how to explain this is like a merry-go-round.

When you first get on, it’s fun. It’s exciting. It feels romantic. You’re riding alongside someone who looks like everything you ever wanted. Over time, though, you realize the ride never changes. It’s the same patterns, the same cycles, the same promises, the same disappointments. But you keep going because you know what to expect.

Eventually, the ride becomes dangerous. And do you know what's scarier to a victim in that scenario? The idea of jumping off.

When someone is inside the cycle of abuse, it’s like wearing blinders. The world outside that cycle doesn’t feel real or reachable. Especially if that person has been isolated from friends, family, or community—intentionally or gradually. Without outside checkpoints, without someone helping you reality-check what’s happening, the cycle becomes self-contained, and the abuser becomes the judge and jury.

Most abusive relationships don’t begin with violence. They begin the same way healthy relationships do: with connection, chemistry, attention, and hope. There’s a honeymoon phase where everything feels aligned. You feel chosen. Seen. Desired. Safe enough to attach.

Then things settle. That calm phase is important because nothing feels wrong yet. You’re not fighting. You’re not scared. You’re just existing. And because nothing is obviously broken, your nervous system relaxes into it. This becomes your baseline.

Then suddenly, one day, something changes. You've entered into the tension-building phase.

Something feels off, but it’s hard to name. Tone changes. Patience shortens. Communication becomes inconsistent. You start walking on eggshells without realizing that’s what you’re doing. You notice red flags, but they don’t feel like red flags yet because you’ve seen versions of this behavior before. Maybe in your childhood, in other relationships, or in people you love.

This is where the bargaining begins.

You start explaining things away, not because you’re weak, but because you’re trying to survive inside something that no longer feels stable.

Maybe they’re stressed.

Maybe I’m asking for too much.

Maybe if I communicate differently, this won’t happen again.

Maybe I shouldn’t have brought that up.

Over time, this bargaining becomes normal. Justifying their behavior becomes the price of emotional safety, and shrinking yourself becomes a way to keep the peace. And because this erosion happens gradually, you don’t experience it as a crisis. No. You experience it as an adaptation.

Then something crosses a line.

Maybe it’s verbal. Maybe it’s physical. Maybe it’s sexual. Maybe it’s a level of degradation or intimidation you can’t unsee. But by the time that moment happens, your nervous system is already conditioned. You not only react to what happened—you react to everything that led up to it.

Now, because this is all new for you and your relationship, your brain may not immediately tell you to leave. Depending on how comfortable you are with physical violence or emotional neglect, you may not see anything wrong with what you just experienced.

Because immediately after harm, many abusers shift. Not always dramatically, but just enough. More affection. More attention. More remorse. More effort than you’ve seen in a long time. And to a brain that’s been living in tension, that relief feels like oxygen and an answer to an unanswered prayer. When in reality, you've just stepped back into the honeymoon phase. One that will last until it becomes the calm phase, the tension-building phase, and eventually again, the explosive phase.

That’s how the cycle sustains itself. Not through constant violence, but through alternating discomfort and relief, fear and hope, harm and reconciliation. Over time, your nervous system starts to associate relief with safety, even when that relief comes from the same person who caused the harm.

So when people ask, “Why didn’t you just leave?” what they’re really asking is why someone didn’t abandon the only version of stability their body knew how to regulate around.

Leaving is not a single decision. It’s not a moment of clarity. It’s the process of untangling conditioning, grieving the future you thought you were building, and learning how to trust your instincts again after they’ve been overridden for a long time. That kind of recalibration doesn’t happen on command, and it doesn’t happen in isolation. If we keep treating leaving like a choice instead of a process, we’ll keep blaming people for not escaping fast enough while ignoring what it actually takes to stay gone.

Misconception 3: “Healing Should Be Faster Than This”

This misconception is often the most damaging because it shows up after someone has already survived the hardest part.

Once someone leaves a domestic violence situation, there’s an unspoken expectation that progress should be visible. That things should improve quickly, and that safety alone should be enough to fix what was broken.

It isn’t.

Healing after domestic violence doesn’t move on a timeline that makes sense to outsiders. It moves on a timeline dictated by the nervous system, by grief, by loss of identity, and by the sheer exhaustion that comes from surviving something that required hypervigilance for far too long.

I know this, not just as a survivor of every form of domestic violence, but as someone who has spent years designing and facilitating programs for domestic violence agencies. Programs used to help parents better understand abuse dynamics, sometimes as part of a safety plan, sometimes as a requirement for reunification with their children. Programs that were built on information from a clinical and practical perspective, because information changes outcomes.

I’ve worked alongside DCF employees, law enforcement, and advocates who understand that healing isn’t just emotional: it’s logistical, psychological, and deeply tied to stability. I’ve seen firsthand how survivors are expected to “perform recovery” while still navigating housing insecurity, disrupted employment, childcare gaps, and systems that were never designed to move at the pace trauma demands.

I’ve also been invited into spaces where early intervention matters most by speaking with second-year medical students at Duke School of Medicine about what domestic violence actually looks like from a survivor's point of view. I shared my experience, and they asked the hard questions. Ones that led to conversations where I was able to remind them that the cycle of abuse directly impacts a patient’s ability to receive care. That abusers often limit access to help after explosive phases. That patterns like last-minute appointment cancellations, missed follow-ups, or sudden disengagement from treatment aren’t always signs of noncompliance, but signals of outside control, fear, or re-escalation.

Healing can’t be rushed when the body is still learning what safety feels like.

And this is where information becomes non-negotiable.

Because without understanding the cycle of abuse, the grief cycle, and nervous system dysregulation, survivors are judged instead of supported. Helpers get frustrated. Systems misinterpret behavior. And people are left feeling like they’re failing at recovery, when in reality, they’re responding exactly as a traumatized body is designed to respond.

That’s why education has always been at the center of my work.

And it’s why we’re creating a thirteen-week healing cohort grounded in The Essence of Survival, a guided journal and framework designed to help survivors make sense of what they’ve lived through, co-authored by Dr. Allanah Roberts-Hedley and me. This cohort isn’t about rushing healing. It’s about understanding it. It’s about creating a space where survivors can learn, regulate, reflect, and rebuild alongside others who don’t need convincing that this takes time.

If you’re reading this and realizing you’re tired of dating the same person in a different body, or you're fed up with repeating cycles you thought you already healed, tired of doing the work alone and still ending up back at the same crossroads, consider this your personal invitation.

Not to be fixed or rescued, but to be informed, supported, seen, and surrounded.

Cycles don’t end because we want them to. They end when we understand them well enough to interrupt them. They end when we stop confusing familiarity with compatibility. They end when we recognize that what keeps showing up in our lives isn’t bad luck, it’s just unexamined patterns begging for our attention.

For many of us, domestic violence didn’t start with us, but it can end with us.

Ending the cycle doesn’t require perfection. It requires willingness. Willingness to learn. Willingness to look at ourselves honestly. Willingness to apply wisdom instead of just collecting information. Willingness to choose something different, even when something different feels uncomfortable at first.

This community is for women who are sick and tired of being sick and tired. Women who are done surviving and ready to stabilize, heal, and disrupt generational patterns, not just for themselves, but for their children and the women who come after them.

Healing doesn’t happen in isolation, and it doesn’t happen by accident. It happens when women come together, share language, build understanding, and commit to doing the work...together.

If you’re ready to stop repeating the cycle and start rewriting it, the door is open.