Love Doesn’t Mean Staying
I used to think love meant staying.
Staying quiet. Staying loyal. Staying stuck.
Because that’s what I was taught.
When I was a child and the violence was all we knew…
I was scared. Always hoping someone would call the police. Surely they could hear what was happening in our house—it was never silent. It was messy. It leaked out into the street. But even the neighbours feared my dad. No one dared stand in his way.
I was taught that calling the police was betrayal.
I was afraid if I did, I’d be punished.
But even then, I knew this wasn’t right.
I used to hide, disappearing into books to escape the world I actually lived in. Family was all we had—sticking together and ignoring the outside world was bred into me. Calling the police made you a snitch. And “snitches got stitches.”
It was us against the world… but it was always dark.
I know now what I only sensed back then:
I was being gaslit by my own family.
Into thinking this was normal.
That every family had issues.
But even then, I knew—I didn’t want this life.
Not the drama. Not the silence. Not the violence disguised as love.
I Tried to Keep the Peace, Until Silence Wasn’t Enough
I silenced myself a lot.
I kept my distance from the fights, kept out the way, found peace in my books.
While everything broke apart around me, I stayed quiet. I cried, wished I was anywhere else, wished I could make it all stop.
But then… silence stopped working.
I remember the day it changed.
My dad had thrown the bed with my mum on it into the air. Her arm might’ve been broken. She was just… broken. A crying, shaking mess in the centre of it all. I was about 15. Something in me snapped.
I walked out of my room. I didn’t say a word.
And as he came out of the bedroom, mid-rage, I slapped him. Hard.
I told him to leave.
And in that moment… he did.
He didn’t hit back. He didn’t scream.
His eyes changed. The red mist that used to take over—gone.
He looked at me and became my dad again.
He left the house that night.
Came back the next morning apologetic, as always.
And of course—my mum forgave him again.
But something in me had shifted.
Love or Conditioning?
That day stirred something I couldn’t unsee.
Maybe I could stop this. Maybe I could be the one who made it end.
I tried again. And again. Different tactics. Different pleas.
But the shock of that first slap wore off.
He became immune to me.
I begged my mum to leave. To run.
She wanted to. I saw it in her eyes.
But she was terrified. He’d always find us.
And even after everything he put us through…
I still loved him.
He was my dad.
And you only get one, right?
Or maybe that feeling was just something conditioned into me.
A belief I inherited before I could ever question it.
He’s gone now.
And I feel guilty. Guilty for stepping away from the chaos.
Guilty for choosing my peace. Guilty for protecting my children from what I’d already survived.
Even now… I feel bad for him. I make excuses for him.
Because I still love him.
He just wasn’t a nice person.
This Is What Love Really Means
I thought love meant staying.
But now I know—
Sometimes love means walking away.
Even if you still care.
Even if you still cry.
Even if it still hurts.
I didn’t stop loving him.
I just stopped letting him hurt me.
And that…
That was the most loving thing I could have done for myself—and for the generations after me.
Want to Share Something?
If any of this hit something in you—
If you’ve had to walk away from someone you loved just to find yourself again…
You’re not alone.
I’d love to hear your story, or simply hold space if you need it.
Drop a comment below if you feel called.
Whispers of the Forest 
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