The Inheritance of Violence

“When Love Hurts: The Lie That Keeps Us Silent”

Nothing says lovin’ like a knock upside the head.

That was a phrase a friend of mine used to say whenever we talked about someone we knew who was in an abusive relationship. We’d chuckle, shake our heads, and move on. But truth be told, there ain’t a damn thing funny about abuse—and it sure as hell has nothing to do with love.

Domestic Violence.

That’s the technical term. Violence between people who live together, people who claim to love each other. Maybe my friend and I could joke about something so serious because we’d been desensitized to it. We’d both seen it. We’d both felt it. When you’ve had a front-row seat to violence—whether emotional, physical, or verbal—it can become so deeply embedded in your reality that it starts to feel normal.

If you grow up in an environment where anger leads to shouting, shouting leads to cussing, cussing leads to things getting thrown, and fists start flying—that becomes your script for how conflict gets handled. That becomes your version of “home.”

Violence is not new—not to this country, not to this world. Especially not to Black and brown people.

We come from a history where brutality wasn’t hidden behind closed doors; it was a public spectacle. Babies, mothers, and fathers had their brains beat in. Private parts were mutilated. Flesh was burned. Screams echoed across cotton fields like sorrowful hymns. Our people watched as sisters, brothers, uncles, and grandmothers were stripped, raped, and sent back into the fields like nothing happened. Black women had their breasts pulled, tugged, passed around to satisfy “Master’s guests,” and then used those same breasts to nurse the children of their abusers.

Wasn’t that domestic violence?

It happened in what they called “home.” It happened in the place they were forced to survive.

This legacy of violence didn’t disappear—it evolved.

Now it shows up as Black-on-Black crime, police brutality, and domestic abuse behind closed doors. These aren’t just isolated events—they’re inherited patterns. Generational cycles. Learned behaviors.

Those of us who were raised under “spare the rod, spoil the child” understand that. Slaves were beaten and tortured as a form of control. Then they disciplined their children the same way—out of fear, out of habit, out of survival. Slaves were threatened to never speak of the abuse they endured. “What happens in this house stays in this house” didn’t come from nowhere. It was taught. Passed down like a dark family heirloom.

It doesn’t make it right, but it does make it real.

People don’t go looking for toxic relationships. Most don’t even realize what they’re in until it’s too late. That’s why I hate when people say things like, “Why doesn’t she just leave?” or “I would never let someone treat me like that.”

You don’t know what you’d do if you were broken. If the only love you’ve ever known came with pain.

It always starts out beautiful. Charming. Gentle. They drown you in attention and affection. It feels refreshing, almost healing. And then—bit by bit—the shift begins.

They start suggesting you spend more time together. Then they question your friends. “They’re not good for you.” “They party too much.” “They’re jealous of us.” Next, they offer fashion advice. “I just love you better in this.” “That’s not really your color.” Suddenly, they’re dictating your look, your schedule, your relationships. All under the disguise of love.

And you—wanting to be loved, to be chosen—mistake control for care.

Then comes the picking apart. The criticism. “Why would you say that?” “You sound stupid.” “You’re so dramatic.” Then the name-calling. First it stings. Then you start to believe it. “Maybe I am stupid.” “Maybe I am annoying.”

Then one day, the name-calling turns into threats. The threats become violence. A slap. A shove. A punch. And then—you’re on the floor, bleeding, shaken, and confused.

Then comes the honeymoon phase. Apologies. Tears. Promises. “I didn’t mean it.” “It’ll never happen again.” You want so badly to believe it’s a one-time thing. That they’re really sorry.

Until it happens again.

And again.

Soon the apologies stop sounding like remorse. “You made me do it.” “If you hadn’t provoked me.” You start blaming yourself. You start trying harder to be perfect. And still, the violence continues.

You stay silent—because you’re ashamed. Because you think no one will believe you. Because in public, they’re charming. You look like the perfect couple. And behind closed doors, you’re trapped. Especially once children come. You don’t want to break up your family—just like yours was once broken.

This is how the cycle spins—until one day, it breaks you.

Or worse.

There are many buried in the ground who tried to leave and didn’t make it out. Because for some abusers, control is everything—and they’d rather kill than lose it.

Abuse isn’t just physical.

It can be financial—when someone controls the money, holds it over your head like a leash. “What would you do without me?” “You’re useless.”

It can be emotional. Mental. Psychological. And we excuse it with lines like, “Well, at least they don’t hit me.”

But words can cut deeper than fists. They leave invisible bruises that never seem to heal.

You never really know what someone is going through. Many victims show up in public with bright smiles and polished appearances. They excel at work, raise their children, lead organizations. Meanwhile, at home, they’re suffering. Silently. Terrified.

That’s why we have to lead with grace.

No judgment. Just love.

Because we might be the only safe harbor they have. We might be the one voice that reminds them: You are not alone. You are worthy. You are seen.

And when they’re finally ready, they’ll need a lifeline. A raft to carry them out of the storm.

Just like God does for us—again and again.