“The Explosion”
when the tension that has been building finally erupts into a clear act of abuse. This can include physical violence, emotional attacks, verbal outbursts, sexual assault, or coercive control—any behavior meant to intimidate, harm, or dominate the victim.
There’s a moment in every abusive cycle when the silence gives way to something louder—something sharper. It’s the moment when the fear that’s been slowly building finally breaks through, and everything you’ve worked so hard to hold together comes crashing down.
Maybe it happens through raised voices. Maybe it’s a slammed door. Or maybe it’s just a look that makes your body freeze in place. Whatever form it takes, the result is the same: your breath catches, your heart pounds, and suddenly you know—this is the moment you were afraid of.
This is what we call the incident stage of abuse. But that phrase doesn’t capture the full weight of what it feels like. Because it’s not just a “stage.” It’s the moments when your world tilts sideways. And even if no one else sees it, your body and your spirit never forget.
The Passenger Seat Prison
He used to say, “Let’s go for a drive,” and my stomach would drop. Every time.
By the time we reached his car, I was already bracing for impact. I could feel the tension before he even turned the key in the ignition. I would try to mentally retrace my steps—What did I say? What didn’t I say? Did I disrespect him? How?
Then it would start.
The criticism, the accusations, the emotional punishment.
His voice didn’t always have to be loud to be cruel. Sometimes it was calm—terrifyingly calm. Measured. Like he’d practiced each line to cut deeper than the last.
“You don’t ever listen to me. You make me look like a fool. You don’t really love me, do you?”
On this particular day his outburst had really upset me. In other instances I could give some kind of excuse, provide some kind of explanation to his moodiness or blame it on my own short comings. But this time I couldn’t explain it away, and I started feeling frustrated and hurt. I sat still, twisting my promise ring between my fingers, doing what I always did—trying to outlast the storm. I knew better than to speak. But that day, something in me cracked open.
“Please stop! Why are you doing this to me?” I screamed. I began frantically gasping for air, tears streaming down my face.
And the moment it left my mouth, fear came rushing in.
What did I just do? What will he do now?
From there there was no stopping the beast, he hurled insults at me, one after the other. Explaining that he was doing this “for my own good.”
It’s hard to explain the kind of terror that fills you in a moment like that—the panic of breaking a rule you were never allowed to name, the fear of standing up for yourself when you’ve been trained not to.
But that’s the thing about abuse: the explosion might look like yelling or threats on the outside—but on the inside, it feels like drowning in fear.
The Damage Abuse Leaves Behind
People often expect abuse to always come with visible scars. But most of the wounds a survivor carries even after leaving, no one can see.
No matter the type of “explosion” it will always leave confusion. Silence. Shame.
My abuser’s outbursts often left me questioning my memory—Was it really that bad? Maybe I misunderstood. Maybe I was too sensitive.
They left me apologizing for things I didn’t do—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll be better next time.
They left me bargaining—If I can just figure out the right way to act, maybe this won’t happen again.
That’s what abuse does. It doesn’t just damage your body. It reshapes your mind.
Even years later, I’d find myself reacting to completely safe moments. A raised voice, a sudden noise, a mass of incoming text messages—and suddenly, I was back there. Bracing. Shrinking.
For a long time, I mistook those reactions as weakness. But now I know: they were survival instincts. My body remembered what my mind tried to forget.
And that memory isn’t a flaw. It’s proof I lived through something real. Something I didn’t deserve. Something I didn’t cause.
God’s Presence in the Unending Cycle
There were so many moments when I asked, Where were You, God?
Why didn’t You stop it? Why didn’t You pull me out sooner? Why did I stay so long?
But healing has taught me this: God doesn’t always prevent the storm. But He is never absent in the middle of it.
He was there—when I couldn’t breathe, when my voice trembled, when I begged for the abuse to stop and feared what would follow.
God was there—when I felt small and ashamed and stuck.
He didn’t shout to drown out the pain. He sat with me in it. He stayed.
“The Lord is a refuge for the oppressed,
a stronghold in times of trouble.” – Psalm 9:9
God doesn’t dismiss your trauma. He doesn’t ask you to pretend it wasn’t that bad.
He sees exactly how bad it was—and He calls it what it is.
And then, gently, He begins to heal you.
Letting Go, Without Letting Them Off the Hook
There are two common approaches to forgiveness. Some people rush toward it as if it’s the ultimate goal. But if you’ve endured deep pain, you know that forgiveness isn’t a moment—it’s a long, sacred process. Others resist forgiveness, believing it lets their abuser off the hook.
Both perspectives can create the illusion that forgiveness means saying what happened was okay. But that’s not what forgiveness is, period.
Forgiveness is about finally putting the weight down.
It’s saying: This no longer gets to define me. I am not what happened to me. I am what survived it.
For me, forgiveness looked like honoring my pain rather than minimizing it.
It looked like setting boundaries. Speaking truth. Reclaiming the parts of myself that had been silenced.
And yes—it also looked like grace.
But not the cheap kind.
Not the kind that rushes to reconciliation without repentance.
Meaning: real grace doesn’t mean pretending everything is okay or restoring a relationship when the person who caused harm hasn’t taken responsibility or shown genuine remorse.
This was holy grace—the kind that heals, restores, and sets you free.
I now see my abuser as a human being with a disorder (NPD), whose only way to cope with the chaos in his mind was to try to control and dominate me. I feel sympathy for him and accept that I cannot change what happened—but I no longer excuse his behavior. I no longer comfort myself with the idea that, in time, Jesus will heal him too. Only God knows if he will be saved. Either way, he will have to answer for what he’s done—if not in this life, then in the next.
More on what genuine repentance from an abuser looks like—and what it means for moving forward—in my next post.
Let’s Talk
The moment when the abuse explodes can feel overwhelming and isolating. If you feel safe sharing, what helped you find strength or hope in the aftermath? What gave you the courage to keep moving forward, even when it felt impossible?
You’re invited to share your story, your reflections, or simply your presence in the comments or in Community Voices—our private, faith-centered space for survivors and supporters.
If this story echoes your own—if you’ve lived through the explosion and wondered how to keep going afterward—I want you to know: you are not alone. This post is part of the Domestic Violence Awareness Month series at Taylored Grace, where we’re discussing honestly about each stage of the abuse cycle—and holding space for healing that is gentle, sacred, and real.
With grace,
Madison Taylore
Founder, Taylored Grace