By Nancy Duarte/Victim Advocate/Life Coach/Counselor
He yells at his wife. Not because dinner is cold. Not because the house is messy. Not because she said the wrong thing. He yells because somewhere deep inside of him, there is a wound so raw, so untouched, so ignored that the only way it knows how to speak is through rage. He puts her down because tearing her apart is the only way he knows how to feel like he is standing up. He is a man at war with himself, and she is the casualty.
Yet, she endures more than his anger. Each word he throws at her, each wound he inflicts, leaves her standing in a storm that she did not choose, gathering the pieces of herself and going on anyway. Her resilience is quiet but unwavering. She bears scars that are invisible to the world, but she survives, finding small ways to protect her spirit, even as she is forced to navigate the ruin he leaves behind.
This is the man who grew up with a father who walked out the door and never looked back. This is the man whose mother looked at him and saw a mistake. A burden. A regret. He did not ask to be born into that house, into that pain, into that silence where love was supposed to live but never did. And now he is grown, and the little boy who was never held is holding his wife by the throat of her self-esteem, squeezing the life out of her spirit the same way life was squeezed out of him.
The Father Who Left
When a father abandons his child, he does not just leave a house. He leaves a hole. A crater in the center of that child’s identity that says, “You were not worth staying for.” That message does not fade with time. It festers.
It grows roots. It wraps itself around every relationship that the child will ever attempt to build.
A boy without a father does not learn how to be a man. He guesses. He performs. He imitates what he sees on the streets, on television, in the broken men around him.
He learns that masculinity means hardness. That vulnerability is a weakness. If you show someone your soft spots, they will use them against you. So he builds walls. He builds them high and thick, and he dares anyone to try to climb over them. And when his wife tries, when she reaches for the real him behind all that armor, he punishes her for it. Because her tenderness terrifies him. It reminds him of everything he never had.
The Mother Who Regretted
And then there is the mother. The one who was supposed to be his soft place to land. The one whose arms were supposed to be the safest place on earth. But instead of warmth, she gave him resentment. Instead of affirmation, she gave him the unspoken truth that she wished he had never been born. A child feels that. Even when it is never said out loud, a child absorbs that rejection like a sponge absorbs water. It becomes part of him.
When a mother regrets her child, that child grows up believing he is fundamentally unlovable. He does not believe he deserves good things. He does not believe he deserves a woman who loves him. And when he finds one, when a good woman stands in front of him and offers him everything he has never had, he does not know what to do with it.
So he destroys it. He tears it apart piece by piece because deep down he believes it was never really his to keep. He is repeating the only story he has ever known: the story of being left, of being unwanted, of being too much and never enough at the same time.
The Man He Becomes
So now he is a husband. He is standing in a kitchen screaming at a woman who has done nothing but love him. His voice shakes the walls, just as his father’s absence shook his foundation. He calls her names the same way his mother’s silence called him worthless. He controls her because he was never in control of his own childhood.
He isolates her because he was isolated. He breaks her down because he was broken first.
He becomes the monster. He is a wounded boy living inside a man’s body, using the only tools he was ever given. And those tools are destruction. Manipulation. Rage. Silence.
Control. He does not know how to communicate because no one ever did. He does not know how to love gently because no one ever loved him gently. He is disconnected from himself because the people who were supposed to connect him to the world first disconnected from him.
But allow me to be clear, his pain is not a permission slip. Understanding where his behavior comes from does not mean excusing it. Every grown man has a choice. Every single time he raises his voice, every time he puts her down, every time he uses his hands or his words as weapons, he is making a decision.
Trauma may explain the wound, but it does not justify the wreckage.
There are men who grew up in the same darkness, with the same absent fathers and the same cold mothers, who made a different choice. They chose therapy instead of tyranny. They chose healing instead of hurting.
They chose to look at their pain honestly and say, "I will not pass this on." So while my heart breaks for the little boy he once was, I will not make excuses for the man he has become. He is not a child anymore. He has access to help, resources, counseling, and the same God who can heal every damaged thing inside him.
At some point, the boy has to grow up, and the man has to be held accountable. Because the woman standing in front of him absorbing his rage did not cause his childhood. She does not deserve to pay for it. And his children, the ones watching from the hallway with wide eyes and trembling hearts, they deserve a father who fights his demons instead of becoming one.
What Happens to the Child Who Grows Up in This
And here is where it gets even more heartbreaking. Because this man and this woman have children. And those children are watching. They are absorbing every scream, every insult, every tear, every slammed door, every silence that stretches so long it feels like suffocation. They are learning.
The little boy in that house is learning that this is what men do. That love sounds like yelling. That power means putting someone beneath you. That women are supposed to take it, absorb it, survive it. He is watching his father and filing it all away in a place he does not even know exists yet. And one day, twenty years from now, he will stand in his own kitchen, and he will open his mouth, and his father’s voice will come out.
The little girl in that house is learning what love looks like. That a man who hurts you is a man who loves you. That her job is to be quiet, to shrink, to make herself small enough that his rage has nowhere to land. She is learning to accept crumbs and call them a feast. And one day she will find a man who treats her exactly the way her father treated her mother, and it will feel familiar. And familiar will feel like home, even when home is a war zone.
Research consistently shows that children who witness domestic violence are three times more likely to repeat the cycle as adults. Boys who watch their mothers being abused are significantly more likely to become abusers themselves. Girls who grow up in violent homes are more likely to end up in abusive relationships. The cycle does not break itself. It takes intention. It takes awareness. It takes someone brave enough to say, “This stops with me.”
If you are ready to take that first step, know that you do not have to do it alone. Consider reaching out to a trusted friend or family member to share your experience. Journaling your thoughts or feelings can help you process what is happening and gain clarity.
Joining a support group, either in person or online, can connect you with others who understand what you are going through. You can also seek out professional help from a counselor or therapist who specializes in trauma or domestic violence. Every step you take, no matter how small, is an act of strength.
The Emotional Wreckage
Children who grow up in homes like this carry invisible scars that follow them everywhere. They struggle with anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress. They have difficulty trusting people. They either become people-pleasers who will do anything to avoid conflict, or they become explosive, reacting to the smallest triggers with disproportionate rage. They struggle in school. They struggle in relationships. They struggle with their own identity because the people who were supposed to mirror back to them who they are gave them a shattered reflection.
Some of these children grow up to self-medicate with drugs and alcohol. Some develop eating disorders. Some engage in self-harm. Some become hyper-independent, refusing to let anyone close because closeness has only ever meant pain. And some of them, the ones who are truly lost, take their own lives because they cannot see a way out of the darkness that was handed to them before they were old enough to understand what darkness even was.
Breaking the Chain
As a life coach, a counselor, and a survivor of domestic violence, I need you to hear this: your childhood does not have to be your destiny. The pain that was inflicted on you was not your fault, but healing from it is your responsibility. That man who stands in his kitchen screaming at his wife has a choice. He can continue to bleed on the people who did not cut him, or he can do the hard, excruciating work of healing.
Healing means sitting with the pain you have been running from your entire life. It means looking at the abandoned little boy inside you and telling him he was always worthy of love. It means grieving the father who left and the mother who could not love you the way you needed. It means getting professional help, not because you are weak, but because you are finally strong enough to face what happened to you.
And to the woman standing in that kitchen, absorbing those blows to her spirit: you cannot heal him. You cannot love him enough to fix what was broken long before you arrived. Your love is not a rehabilitation center. You deserve a partner, not a project. You are incredibly strong for surviving what you have endured, and you are worthy of love, safety, and happiness. And your children deserve to see what real love looks like, not what survival looks like.
The cycle of violence is a generational inheritance that no child should ever have to receive. But it is also a chain that can be broken. It takes courage. It takes honesty. It takes a willingness to look at the ugliest parts of your story and say, “I am more than what happened to me.” Because you are. You always were.
If you or someone you know is experiencing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233. You are not alone.