Not Just the Hurt, But the Undoing—
This part is hard to talk about.
Not just because of what “Aaron” did — but because of what I let happen.
What I accepted.
What I excused.
What I even defended.
There were days — weeks — when he didn’t touch me, didn’t speak unless it was with sharpness. Especially after one of his outbursts — and the supposed cool down that followed, filled with promises of a better tomorrow — I was desperate, hoping that maybe if I did what he wanted, he’d come back to himself… to me.
And then, after his coldness had numbed me and his words broke me down to tears… he would reach for me again.
Not in apology.
Not in tenderness.
Not in love.
But in hunger. Control. Power.
And I let him.
And here’s the part that still knots my stomach: I craved it. Not because it was good or loving, but because I was desperate for affection and connection — for proof that I mattered.
I needed something to resolve the problems he convinced me were always my fault.
I needed to believe that he still saw me — even if it was only as a body, not a person.
I needed to believe I hadn’t imagined the warmth that used to be there.
So I gave in. Again and again.
Using my body like a peace offering he never earned.
And in my confusion and need, I accepted it.
Because at least he was touching me.
Because at least he wasn’t angry anymore.
Because I was desperate to feel seen, wanted, or loved — even in the wrong way.
But deep down, it didn’t feel like love.
It felt like giving in to his control.
I used to carry deep shame for that —
for saying yes when I felt unseen,
for calling it intimacy when it was just a pause in the punishment,
for letting his touch convince me I was safe.
And afterwards, I told myself:
“Maybe we’re getting back to normal.”
“This is what love is — hard. Complicated. Worth fighting for.”
But what I was really doing… was mistaking surrender for safety.
Why Didn’t I Just Leave?
People don’t need to ask in quiet, polite tones. Even in silence, I can feel their judgment.
Sometimes the loudest person asking it… is me.
Why didn’t I leave sooner?
I used to answer that question with explanations — trauma bonding, fear, hope, loyalty.
But the truth?
Because a part of me needed the lie to be true.
Because if I admitted it wasn’t love, that he wasn’t going to change, then I’d have to face the wreckage — all the years I gave, all the self-worth I lost, all the moments I thought were real that were just… performance.
And that felt unbearable.
So I stayed. I gave him what he wanted, thinking maybe he’d give me back what I needed.
But it cost me something I’m still trying to get back: myself.
The God Who Sees the Whole Story
There’s a story in Scripture that has always stayed with me — the woman who had been bleeding for twelve years (Mark 5:25–34). Her suffering wasn’t just physical. She had been considered unclean, forced to hide, isolated, and shamed simply for existing. For years, no one truly saw her, and her pain was both private and public.
Desperate for relief, she reached out to Jesus, touching His garment in faith. She didn’t need to explain herself or justify her suffering. She simply acted to survive and find hope. And in that moment, Jesus felt that power had gone out from Him. He stopped, looked at her, and said, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”
Even when survival requires hiding, enduring isolation, or doing what we can to protect ourselves, God sees us fully, honors our courage, and restores our dignity. He notices the fear, the shame, the compromise, and the longing.
Not just the strong you, the survivor you, or the version of you that finally got away. He sees the you who stayed. The you who hoped against hope. The you who traded yourself for scraps of affection because you didn’t yet know your worth.
God doesn’t just rescue us from those who hurt us. He rescues us from the shame of surviving them. Even when I wasn’t protecting myself, He was still holding on to me. Slowly, I’m learning that self-forgiveness is sacred work, that reclaiming my body is holy, and that choosing gentleness with my younger, hurting self isn’t weakness — it’s worship.
If You’ve Ever Felt Ashamed for Staying
I want you to hear this clearly:
You are not to blame for someone else’s cruelty.
You are not defined by what you accepted in the past.
You are not dirty, or broken, or beyond redemption.
You are healing.
And healing means looking at your story with compassion, not condemnation.
Abusers want to trap us in silence — because shame thrives where truth is buried.
But Jesus didn’t come to condemn us. He came to set captives free (Luke 4:18).
And that includes those of us who feel chained by our own choices.
Here’s the truth:
God can redeem what shame tries to bury.
He doesn’t just forgive us — He restores us.
He doesn’t just release us from others’ abuse — He rescues us from self-blame, too.
You are not weak because you loved.
You are not foolish because you believed someone could change.
You are not unworthy because you tolerated behavior even if you didn’t yet recognize it as abuse.
You were surviving.
You were doing your best with what you had, who you were, and what you knew at the time.
And now you know better.
Grace doesn’t erase what happened — it redeems the parts of you that believed you had to earn love to deserve peace.
If You’re There Right Now
I used to wonder how long I’d live with the echo of my abuser’s hands — not because of violence, but because they touched me when I was desperate for peace and called it love.
If you’re there right now and you feel the weight of your own complicity, if you’re struggling with the guilt of what you allowed, hear me:
You were doing what you had to do to survive.
And survival is never shameful.
You were starved of healthy, genuine affection — and humans aren’t meant to live without love.
So you made do with what you had.
That doesn’t make you weak — it makes you human.
And you are worthy of real love.
You are being remade, day by day — not by force, but by grace.
Let’s Talk
This week, I’m not asking an easy question.
But if you’re willing, I invite you to reflect honestly:
If you ever had to abandon yourself to feel “safe,” what would it look like to forgive that version of you — not to excuse, but to understand?
You’re welcome to share your experience in Community Voices, our private, faith-centered space for survivors and supporters.
This post is part of our Domestic Violence Awareness Month series at Taylored Grace, where we’re telling the whole truth — the kind that holds room for grief, anger, healing, and hope.
With tenderness,
Madison Taylore
Founder, Taylored Grace