How to Talk About Abuse? And Why?
The grammar of trust.
I have been searching for a word to hold the following feelings:
The warmth of a safe space on your skin.
The look in someone’s eye when you know they know exactly what you mean. To a T!
The way your shoulders feel once you share something difficult with someone important after having thought about it at length.
The moment someone’s silent understanding reaches the pit of your stomach, and you can breathe.
When tears spell ‘thank you’ better than any words ever could.
That instant, your heart feels heard and held without judgment.
ChatGPT tells me, “A single English word really doesn’t exist for that full cocktail of feelings,” before giving me a few options that don’t resonate. I don’t blame it.
I started looking for this word when I noticed a pattern in my conversations with so many women who had survived abuse. They describe the moment they first told someone, really told someone, about what happened to them. And invariably, it sounds like a cluster of emotions. I wanted to articulate that feeling women have when they finally tell their story of abuse to someone they trust.
I don’t have the word. I have their stories.
And I have a promise: no matter how different your experience of abuse (physical, verbal, mental, emotional, or otherwise) is from the ones you find here today, the emotions will be the same if and when you speak with just one right person about it.
“Hey, I need to tell you something.”
One evening, about ten years after a guy tried to force himself on her, Ananya Barua told her girlfriends about it. She felt free.
“Even though it was years later, even though I’m not that girl anymore, it felt like a balm. I felt seen. Despite all my awareness, a part of me carried the burden of blame—maybe I led him on; maybe I should have said no sooner. Once I told my story to this group of beautiful women, I had an epiphany. I didn’t have to forgive myself for anything. I had done nothing wrong,” she laughs for the first time during our conversation about this part of her life.
~~~
The first thing Ann Thomas lost to her abusive husband was her circle of friends and loved ones who could protect her. The second was her confidence.
“People who abuse in relationships take away all the sane voices around you, anybody who can question them. Soon, you are surrounded by people who don’t realise what’s happening to you until you turn around and say, ‘I need to speak with someone.’ For me, thankfully, that someone was my classmate.”
~~~
When my friend Zoya1 asked if I would be okay with her sharing the details of her emotionally abusive marriage, I said of course. But she asked again.
It was a careful, deliberate step she took after speaking with her sister, who urged her to open up to at least one person.2 Someone with whom she could talk freely. Someone she didn’t have to protect her husband in front of. Someone who could echo her thoughts so she could hear them as they were, not as she’d been forced to reframe them. It was a way of reclaiming clarity in a life that had grown blurry with silence and self-doubt.
"I stopped talking about it. That was my only mistake"
Ananya was 19 when she first started dating a guy from her university in Kolkata. "Let's call him S," she says, talking about the initial few weeks when he claimed to be head over heels in love with her. She looks back at those days as if looking back at a fever dream. Way out of her comfort zone, she tried to change to give the relationship a chance. This meant agreeing to skip classes and meet him in the library, where he would often try to kiss or touch her despite her visible discomfort.
"I kept going because I thought I'd get to know him better with time. My body knew something was wrong every time he tried to force things. But I didn't know if I should react. I didn't want to annoy him. I was too naive and didn't have the courage to say an outright no. So instead, I'd make excuses that I was embarrassed about doing anything in the library, that I was scared someone would see us."
If this happened today, an older version of Ananya would have spotted red flags. She would say, "Shut up, stop touching me, don't do this." Maybe that's what she needed—an older version of herself to tell her there's nothing wrong with hurting a man's feelings to protect your body.
But our older selves often speak to us only in regret-filled retrospective conferences. What Ananya needed was a friend, anyone who could observe her situation as an outsider like she does now and tell her to run.
The problem was she had not found her people in college. Her circle of friends was judgmental. For them, she was either "too stuck up in her ways" as someone who sat in the front row or "too out there" when she was exploring the relationship with S. The teasing and unwelcome comments made her retreat into herself.
"They were often critical, and I wasn't comfortable opening up to them. But the bigger mistake I made was not telling anyone. I knew in my gut that something was off. Someone might have told me this wasn't okay if I had shared how S made me feel. Most of the time, my friends didn't even know where I was. I put myself in dangerous situations."
The turning point came one Saturday morning when S proposed they meet on campus, which was quieter than usual. "We were talking at first. And then there was a point when he forced himself on me again. Only this time, it wasn't kissing. He kept touching me everywhere and making me feel uncomfortable."
Ananya said 'No'. Repeatedly.
S didn't stop until a security guard noticed and came, shouting at them. "It was horrible. He kept going. S was a big man, and I struggled to push him away. Thank God for the guard who, from a distance, thought we were making out without realising that it wasn't consensual."
For Ananya, the real confusion was just beginning.
“The weight of my silence”
What followed was a confusing day and an excruciating few months. S acted as if it was all consensual. On that Saturday, Ananya told him he had violated her, refused his offer to drop her home, asked for space and left, spilling over with anger and doubts. "I said a clear no. But the way he kept talking casually, telling me I shouldn't worry—it made me question myself. Was I overreacting? Did I actually give consent?" she remembers thinking.
She couldn't talk about what happened with anybody, scared that people would judge her even more now.
Ananya's spiral of self-doubt reflects what many survivors experience. The author Sohaila Abdulali, who has written extensively about breaking the silence around sexual violence, captures this internal struggle perfectly in her book 'What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape.'3
"Why do we keep quiet? The easy answer is shame, and often that is the reason. We think it's our fault for being available or vulnerable or clueless. All over the world, we blame ourselves, quite unable to take on board that another human being committed the crime. It's easier to feel ashamed than to accept that someone violated us in the most viciously intimate way and we couldn't do anything about it."
All Ananya did for a few weeks after was politely distance herself from S, avoiding his persistent texts. That is until the day she met her best friend from school after a long time and heard herself telling him everything.
This was the first time she came to terms with the reality of what had happened. "Till then, I was telling myself that it was probably consensual because I couldn't accept that something like this could happen to me. It became real once I told someone."
This friend helped her find her footing. He helped her distance herself from S despite his flippant attitude and days of emotional blackmail. But he wasn't on campus where S was leading a smear campaign against Ananya—using morphed pictures of her, sharing them with her contacts, and telling anyone who would listen that he had slept with her.
"I remember him referring to me as 'leftover pizza."
Ananya was scared and depressed.
Four of Ananya's friends offered to help her file a complaint with the anti-harassment cell, but not without a dose of victim blaming first. They asked her to swear that she "had not done anything with this guy." They meant sexually. Ananya knew then, as she knows now, that this question was wrong. "Even if I had done anything with him then, my 'no' still stands."
It shouldn't have mattered if she was in a relationship with him. Nothing else mattered.
Ananya isn't proud of this. But sitting in a canteen surrounded by those four women who, in her eyes, were strong, brave, and politically active on campus, she lied. "I said I had never been involved in anything sexual with S. I think I wanted their solidarity. So I lied."
This conversation, however, was not about the assault itself. Because she had never told anyone on campus about it. It was about everything S did after that incident. "Once I assured them that I wasn't sexually involved, they promised to take care of things and protect me if needed. I realised this part later when no complaint was initiated," she recalls.
I wish this college harassment story was different from the others you might have come across. S had political connections. The two parties on campus came to an understanding, and he was given a slight warning. Things went back to as they were. S continued to flourish. Ananya was advised to avoid him and 'damage control' her image.
Everything, but her memories, were pushed under the rug and nobody returned for a look. She was left alone to live with what actually happened. "The weight of that lie stayed with me until recently. I kept thinking maybe these girls were right, and I was wrong. Maybe I invited that incident on myself."
Ananya's self-doubt and internalized blame are not unique to her story. Research consistently shows how victim-blaming compounds the effects of trauma.
Welsh Women's Aid, a UK-based domestic abuse charity, notes that victim-blaming is directly harmful. "When someone places the blame on a survivor, it invalidates their experiences, enhancing their feelings of isolation and self-doubt." In a 2023 overview titled "Understanding victim blaming and why it's harmful to survivors," the authors stress that blaming victims (even subtly) makes survivors feel responsible for the abuse, fueling shame, guilt, and doubt.
From then on, Ananya was haunted more by her own enervating guilt than by S or that conversation with her so-called friends.
Why Tell? And Whom to Tell?
After all this, the question naturally follows: if it's so hard to talk, why do it at all? I realise this is the opposite of all those emotions I promised earlier. So why tell? I turn again to Sohaila Abdulali's book for an answer.4
"Sometimes telling is just a huge commitment of time, energy and emotion. Telling is difficult because while you can control whom you tell, you can't control their response. You get what you get. So, when you've just been violated so comprehensively, of course it makes sense to hold your pain close where nobody can make it worse."
A few pages later, when responding to the idea that "telling makes you a weak and whining victim," she writes:
"The minute you speak, the moment you write your own narrative, the second you open your mouth, you are no longer just a victim. You are taking back some control. It is the opposite of victimhood."
~~~
Every word rings true. Talking about your abuse—on your terms, in your own time—can shift something permanently in the brain. It's almost as if you're narrating the story to yourself for the first time when you say it out loud to someone else. That was one of the big revelations for my friend Zoya while navigating an emotionally abusive marriage.
"You always have all these excuses for yourself. You try to protect the person you're with. But once you share it, you end up hearing your unfiltered thoughts, which changes your perspective."
She has three reasons why telling at least one person is critical:
Self-pity is imperative:
I know what you are thinking. But hear her out.
"Sometimes it helps to pity yourself. You tell somebody who understands; they say what you want to hear; you wallow. You tell yourself—yes, I am a victim, and I'm going to feel bad for myself right now. Unless you feel bad for yourself, you won't take action."
For Zoya, this kind of validation was the first step toward accepting that she is facing was abuse.
You are the jury. Build a case:
When we speak our story aloud, we often discover parts of it anew. Slowly, the pieces of your puzzle fall into place. This came up in several of my conversations with other women, too.
Zoya breaks it down, "When explaining your position to a friend, you try to prove a point and to be understood. You want them on your side. So you dig through memories you might have buried. And in making that case for them, you end up hearing it for yourself."
Talk to people who know you as YOU.
Advice, when sought from the person you are opening up to, can make a seminal difference. People with the best intentions can remind you of who you are. For Zoya, this is important because women usually lose so much of themselves in the process of fighting abuse. Constant doubt leads them to lose self-worth and their sense of ambition.
"Usually, this person knows a better version of you. Like you—" pointing to me "—reminded me that I am good at my job and dedicated and loyal. My sister reminded me that I have been a kind and rational person. It just helps to know that you have worth in other people's eyes. That's definitely a huge part."
These criteria matter because being chosen as someone's confidant comes with a responsibility many of us aren't often prepared for. (I explore what it means to be that person later in this article).
~~~
Then there's the question of who to tell?
"I know how tedious it is to decide whom to tell, how to tell, when to tell," Abdulali writes in her book. (Last quote from the book, I promise. Next, I'll only implore you to read it.) This is the thought Ananya began our call with. Clearly, like her, you could be speaking to the wrong set of people who push you in the wrong direction.
Zoya has a framework. It isn't one-size-fits-all, as nothing is when it comes to violence against women. But it helps.
For her, the right person is someone who:
She is sure will get her.
She can trust to be vulnerable in front of.
Has the context of where she is coming from.
She knows will empathise with her and will, hopefully, say the things she wants to hear.
Did someone come to mind as you read this? That's your person.
And it doesn't have to be your best friend. It could be anyone you trust—a neighbour, a college peer, someone in a women's collective, a local NGO worker, a counsellor, or a therapist. What matters is knowing there is someone who will listen. Without judgment.
"My mirror, my sounding board, my lifeline"
Ananya, now a 31-year-old journalist turned communications professional, eventually found her people. And she's now a firm believer in the importance of speaking up. While covering the #MeToo movement at work a few years ago, she wondered if she should write about her own experience. She couldn't, but hearing the stories of so many other women gave her the courage to tell her mother. "It was cathartic."
Her mom's reaction and support encouraged Ananya to open up to others—specifically to a mature group of women she is proud to call friends. They showed her what she had been missing all along. She doesn't get panic attacks anymore, which were common until a few years ago whenever she'd watch a movie or show where a woman was being abused. She no longer carries her guilt and shame, weights that were never hers to keep anyway.
I ask her a question usually found at the core of the regret quagmire: If she could go back now, what would she do differently? I hate this question because it's always clouded by the frustrations of hindsight. But it seems to help whenever regret keeps pulling me down.
"First, I would have chosen better friends. And I would have spoken to them. I don't think I could have changed anything else because that's the person I was. I was blindly trusting. But I feel that if I had a better support system of friends, I wouldn't have stopped myself from sharing details with them." And she wishes she had told her mom earlier as well.
Of course, Ananya is grateful for her best friend from school, who sympathized with and stood by her. But in her case, she found a distinct shift when talking about abuse with another woman. "Empathy is an understatement. A woman feels another woman's pain in her body, her veins," she says.
~~~
The one friend Ann Thomas could confide in offered her that same reassurance. Ann is an author, editor and communications professional who fought a four-year legal battle to get out of a three-year marriage in which her husband did everything to break down her spirit—from physical and verbal abuse to isolation and infidelity.
When Ann finally said, "I need help," her friend immediately stepped in.
By then, she had reached a breaking point with constant humiliation eroding her belief system, making even basic decisions feel impossible. During her most vulnerable moments, this friend helped Ann recognise and fight the codependency, which kept pulling her back toward a life that seemed easier on the surface.
"She would simply ask me not to act on my thoughts right away, giving me another day of peace. Slowly the clouds cleared and I could see the lie I was living."
Ann explains that, like many women, she was afraid to be alone–a fear that grew stronger when she couldn't find others who shared her experience. "I didn't know of a single divorced woman when I got my divorce ten years ago. Hundreds of thousands of women have been divorced, but it's such a hushed matter, at least in my Malayali Christian community."
This isolation made having that one supportive woman in her corner more important. It made it integral for her to become that person for other women facing similar struggles.
Ann now uses her experience to help those who reach out to her. She mentors and guides women who are questioning their next steps, advising them on how to approach lawyers, what questions to ask, what to prepare for, and how to navigate the complex emotional and practical challenges of leaving difficult relationships.
“Listen! Will you?”
Healing for Ann, Ananya, and Zoya didn't begin in isolation. It required one person to believe in them and stand beside them whenever they needed a hand.
This brings us to our responsibility when we are the friend, person or stranger chosen by a woman5. No matter the form of violence or abuse, and no matter your gender—there is a wrong way to react when someone tells you. Ananya helps me paint a picture of what 'wrong' looks like:
Be the listener you want in your life:
Don't rush to say you understand, can help, or have the solution. You often don't.
"I always listen. I don't question it first. I let them pour. Because most of the time, the answer is with them. Even with my friends, I don't remember anything they said but I remember being held and hugged. That was all I needed."
Switch off your auto-correct:
Every story has multiple sides. But when someone assumes they can trust you, it's their moment. Only their side matters in that moment.
"There'll always be this one person who will try to correct your sentences. Or correct what you're feeling by saying, 'You are probably taking it wrong.' Don't be that person. Don't invalidate the perception of the woman sharing her story with you. Don't try to pacify the situation."
Think before you ask:
If something makes you uncomfortable, it will make them uncomfortable.
"If I have a follow-up question, I always ask it twice in my head. How would I feel if I was asked that question? I proceed only if it sounds non-judgmental."
One goal:
Offer what's needed. That's it. That's the whole job.
"There's no formula or book. You read the room and do what's right. At the end of the day, your goal is to make them feel seen, comfortable, and like they're not alone."
If you are wondering what the right way to respond looks like, I found two resources that can help:
This New York Times guide offers practical advice on how to support someone who has experienced sexual violence.
Chapter 9 of Sohaila Abdulali's book, What We Talk About When We Talk About Rape, titled "The Abdulali Guidelines for Saving a Rape Survivor's Life," is a powerful, no-nonsense checklist of how to show up for someone with care and clarity.
I still don't have that word I was searching for. Maybe that's okay. Maybe some experiences are too profound and layered, to be contained in just one word.
But I do know this: whether you're the person carrying a story or the person chosen to receive it, you hold something powerful. The story itself becomes the bridge between isolation and connection, between shame and healing, between surviving and thriving. And sometimes, that bridge is all we need.
Name changed to protect her identity.
I wish someone had told me to find a friend, a group, a circle, or just one person who would tell me that abuse, no matter the circumstances, is wrong. But how could they? I never told anyone—not until it was too late. That's one regret I hope to help others avoid. And the only way I know how is by listening to the stories of women."
This is a paragraph from Chapter 3: ‘Shut up or die, crazy bitch’
More from Chapter 3.
I've focused on women's experiences in this article because that's what I have drawn from (my own and those of the women I interviewed). I recognise that survivors of all genders face similar struggles with silence, shame, and the search for someone who will listen. The feelings and resources described and discussed here are not exclusive to women's experiences.