The Lie We Love—If I Love Him Enough I Can Change Him
- Jill DuBois Wyatt
- Jul 10
- 15 min read
Updated: Jul 16
We’re sold this lie in those first bedtime fairytales—if we love hard enough, endure long enough, smile through the pain, we can “save the beast” from himself. Fairytales give way to wedding vows and whispered apologies, but the lie doesn’t vanish—it ferments in our bones. I bought it. I believed love could heal his wounds.
Spoiler alert: it nearly destroyed me. Maybe you did, too.
I’m not just writing for the commenters—I’m writing for every woman who’s carried the weight of a broken man, and every woman aching to put it down. Go deep, go real, go uncomfortably honest. That’s my gift. That’s my unquiet, unbreakable revolution.
This is the lie we love: the myth that enough love can fix him—even when the real danger is emotional, psychological abuse, and manipulation. According to the CDC, nearly 61 million women in the U.S. report being subject to psychological aggression by an intimate partner at some point in their lives. Rooted in romanticizing heartbreak and trusting charm over truth, this belief traps women in traumatic cycles.
And this is how we begin learning to let that lie die.
Why “If I Love Him Enough…” Is the Lie That Nearly Cost Me Everything
It starts innocently—most of us enter relationships believing love can heal. But emotional abuse often masquerades as romance, working its poison quietly, invisibly. In fact, according to research published in the National Intimate Partner & Sexual Violence Survey (NISVS), 48.4% of women report experiencing psychological aggression by an intimate partner—nearly half of us are manipulated under the guise of love.
That myth took everything from me.
I remember the first time I blurred into invisibility, fading into the background so his bullshit delusions could shine. I became his fixer—syncing my world to his chaos, ignoring the alarms, trusting his lies disguised by love-bombing and charm: “I do this because I love you,” or “I only said that because I love you”—all while I ignored my own damn instincts. That nearly cost me my voice, my self-esteem, my self-respect, my kids’ safety, and almost stole my daughter’s life.
Emotional abuse isn't punching walls. It's gaslighting at 2 AM. It's charm you can’t question. It's trauma bonding—the back-and-forth of love and denial that keeps you tied to someone you’d sworn you’d left. It’s a slow war on your confidence, your choices, your right to simply exist.
Over time, that lie morphed into a weapon turned inward. I started believing my needs were selfish. I stopped trusting my gut. I felt compelled to rescue, to stay, to prove my love through constant sacrifice. But I wasn’t broken—I’d been groomed and conditioned.
And that’s how this lie nearly cost me everything.
See how gaslighting really works? In my next post, I'm going to really dig into the mind‑fuck tactics—his lies, his reversal, and the early bombs that hit before you knew you were a target.
The Fantasy—Why We Buy In
Fairytales aren’t innocent fluff—they condition us. From Anastasia to Beauty & the Beast, these stories sell the sweetest lie: love can transform broken men. The lost princess regains her crown, the beast becomes a prince—and we’re led to believe we hold that magic.
Think about Anastasia: no memory, no identity—yet hope and belief turn a nobody into royalty. It’s the ultimate transformation fantasy. We’re primed to think toxic partners can become princes if we love hard enough, believe long enough, endure long enough.
Research shows women who buy into fairy-tale love often report lower relationship satisfaction and diminished well-being. Storytelling analysis reveals we’re emotionally programmed: girls learn that silence and sacrifice are virtues, while men are granted power, independence, and authority—before we even learn to speak for ourselves.
The Toxic Love Myth: From Fairy-Tales to Fatal Attraction
We learn it young: real women heal broken men. Fairytales, church sermons, family dramas, Disney reruns—they all ritualize this myth. Cinderella, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty—they train us that women’s worth is measured by sacrifice, silence, loyalty, and beauty, while men get power, agency, and authority. We were taught to be emotional nurses before earning our scrubs—we swallowed the lie that emotional labor is love, and that it’s shameful when it consumes us.
Far beyond bedtime stories, these tales program us. Discourse analysis shows classic fairy tales repeatedly push female characters into caregiving roles and passive obedience, reinforcing traditional gender scripts that silence and subdue.
Beauty & the Beast Syndrome: How Fairytales Normalize Toxic Relationships
The Beast is the ultimate "loser," cursed, isolated, primitive—until love rescues him. In Villeneuve’s original 1740 novel, Beauty and the Beast was a sprawling 15-chapter adult tale—complex, dramatic, and unsettling. However, in Beaumont’s 1756 adaptation, it was shaved down to a neat kid’s story where love magically redeems abusive behavior, slapping rose petals over red flags.
That message is dangerous: “If you love him enough, he’ll change.” It places the transformation burden squarely on the woman who stayed.
But the Beast isn’t the only monster we're taught to love. Take Anastasia: a traumatized, amnesiac girl who’s forced to prove her biological worth before she’s deemed worthy of love. We romanticize her triumph, but that narrative normalizes trauma bonds—proof that erasing our past—or ourselves—is part of the deal.
Then there’s Ariel in The Little Mermaid: giving up her voice—literally her power—to earn a man’s approval. The sacrifice is praised, not questioned—even though it erases identity and autonomy.
Societal pressure doesn’t stop at stories—it demands we earn love through trauma endurance, identity erasure, and self-sacrifice. Anastasia had to prove her royal blood; we’re conditioned to prove our loyalty, unquestioning faith, and emotional labor.
The cruel irony?
While Anastasia scrambled to remember who she was, we keep forgetting ourselves—piece by piece—in the name of loving well.
Why Women Stay: How Society Glamorizes Emotional Abuse
In Sleeping Beauty and Snow White, women wait passively—protected by male intervention. Rapunzel is imprisoned, then freed by a man. Ariel’s surrender—quiet is more attractive than authentic, and your dreams (or voice) aren’t worth pursuing unless you buy into a love story that mutates your identity.
Remember how Anastasia had to lose everything—her memory, her identity, her sense of self—before she could claim her "happy ending?"
That's not romantic; it's a warning.
Yet we've been conditioned to see this total self-erasure as the price of admission for love.
These tales reinforce the notion that passivity equals virtue and salvation comes from others. Research shows girls internalizing these messages often accept emotional abuse and unequal power in relationships.
Eggshell Reality—The Cost of Belief
You’re not imagining it—it hurts. When you’re trapped in a toxic relationship, you wake up walking on eggshells. Every word, every glance is a silent tension, thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break. You’re constantly scanning for emotional cracks in the glass—praying nothing shatters.
At first, it wasn’t screaming or slammed doors—it was the quiet negotiations, the little deaths by accommodation.
What do I cook?
Where do we go out?
Which laundry detergent won’t get me an eye-roll, or worse, that heavy sigh?
I convinced myself this was “normal” marriage compromise, but it wasn’t—it was the first crack in my voice.
After a while, it changed. I started to feel like a burden for having needs, for simply being. My presence, my questions, even my tone, could flip the whole night upside down. It was a slow-drip erosion: first, I avoided topics.
Then, I stopped asking questions altogether—god forbid I asked the wrong thing at the wrong time, then suddenly his shitty mood was all my fault.
I was shrinking. I started apologizing for things I hadn’t done, for feelings I wasn’t allowed to have. I was sacrificing myself, one boundary at a time, trying to keep the peace in a house that was never peaceful.
Before long, I wasn’t just walking on eggshells—I was the eggshells.
The worst part? It changed how the outside world saw me. To others, I looked cold, stuck up, and maybe even rude. In reality, my nerves were on overdrive and about to burn out. I was just so emotionally drained and hypervigilant, I couldn’t risk being “real” anywhere.
This isn’t hypothetical—it’s real. Like this comment on my first blog post, "Unquiet. Unbreakable. This Is Your Testimony," from a reader named,
Wandag8154 (comment excerpt):
“What about the women who thought that we could change our men… Usually this failed. I guess in the long run, I was one of the lucky one's because he died in an accident… I felt the weight leave my shoulders…I found my voice again…”
Guest comment (excerpt):
“Your writing is electric! I felt every word… I’d love to see you write about the women who walked on eggshells, thinking our love could change him… That truth needs your voice.”
Her words became the spark behind everything you’re about to read…
My Story—The Cage of Fear
I remember those evenings like a taut wire in my gut. After work, I’d drive straight to my parents’—any excuse to slow my pounding heart. My kids were already there after school, safe from the tension that was waiting for us at home.
At their table, I’d pick at my plate, prolonging every bite, stretching out my time away before I had to go home.
I’d wait—sometimes an hour past bedtime—before sneaking back. Rush in, bathe my youngest son, tuck him in tight, and shut the door before it could creak louder than my courage. That quiet in our bedroom? It was the only sanctuary before facing the night.
Because when he was drinking, everything changed.
Those nights, I never knew what mood awaited me. The house felt like a dangerous, chaotic mess—every step could set it off. I’d pace the hall with phone in hand—ready to call my parents or the police if I had to.
Every tiny sound felt explosive. A dropped spoon. A muted TV.
These weren't signs of life—they were sparks waiting to ignite his anger.
TW The Breaking Point That Sparked My Liberation
And then came the night he almost took our daughter’s life. You want to know about the night he tried to take her life? I'll tell you.
He pinned her down, crushing the air from her lungs, his hands around her throat. Our youngest daughter saw the light dim in her eyes, a flicker like a dying candle. I was in my bedroom with our two boys when I heard the struggle.
Our youngest daughter, she became a fucking force. She grabbed my son's Incredible Hulk toy – a symbol of rage– and she bit back with primal survival. She swung that toy, over and over, shattering it against his skull. That's when I felt something in me detonate.
He looked up, dazed, bleeding, and for the first time, I saw it: pure, unfiltered fear in his eyes. He wasn't the god of that twisted little war anymore.
I was.
My girls, they're just like me, unquiet. unbreakable.
And me? I'd been his prisoner too many times to crumble.
The baddass bitch in me was back. There was no mercy that day. No forgiveness. Just the steady pulse of primal vengeance thrumming in my veins.
He ran out the front door as I grabbed my phone to call the police. He made it to the gas station down the street, but they caught him and dragged him away, while he was still struggling to comprehend the devastation he'd caused.
When I finally closed that door behind me, I felt something break—both solid and sacred—in my chest. I didn't feel small. I felt vast. Divine, even.
I spoke my truth, even if it trembled.
And in that trembling, I found something I’d lost.
My voice. Unquiet. Unbreakable. It's still here, louder now, stronger now, and won’t ever be quiet again.
That’s the night I realized: for too long, my fear had been survival. But it would take almost losing our daughter’s life for me to recognize that I wasn’t protecting her—I’d been delaying harm.
That truth snapped something open.
Living like this is a slow drain.
You adjust your behavior constantly—what you say, how you look, even how you think—all to keep the peace.
I would describe it to my patients in group therapy as emotional “hyper-vigilance,” where you’re locked into tension even when everything seems quiet. It’s controlling behavior disguised as love.
I remember pulling my body away from his rage—then forcing it to smile moments later as if nothing puked itself inside me. I couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sleep well, couldn’t stop worrying about the emotional and physical safety of my kids, couldn’t feel safe in my own skin.
Psychologists call this ‘learned helplessness’—when you’re conditioned to believe nothing you do will help, so you stop trying at all.
It’s not weakness; it’s a trauma response.
And it’s not just your nerves that suffer.
The Physical Toll of Emotional Abuse
Chronic stress from emotional abuse doesn’t just hurt your feelings—it breaks your body. You’re not imagining it:
Your cortisol stays elevated, becoming your silent acid, that fuels silent inflammation, inflaming your arteries, and weakening your immune system.
Sleep? Gone. Appetite? Shot. You might drop weight—or gain it. Heart pounding, gut clenched, mind always fogged.
Every cell in your body is screaming stress, and it doesn’t go away when the abuser does.
These aren’t isolated symptoms—it’s a slow, silent sabotage. This combination of hypervigilance and learned helplessness creates a perfect storm for both psychological and physical health impacts.
They’re your body screaming that the stress is real—and long-term.
Experts refer to it as “allostatic load,” cellular-level wear and tear caused by chronic emotional abuse.
That’s the physical reality: it messes with your biology—damage at a cellular level, your hormones—a constant thrum of tension scarring your hormones and brain chemistry, your immune system. It drains mental clarity and floods your emotions and capacity to cope, it hollows out your resilience—your immune system. It smothers you.
I left out the citations because—hell—I’ve not only studied this shit over the years while in my college psychology program & nursing school, but I've lived this in scrub-lined reality. We don’t need proof cards. This is mine and your lived biology, not a damn classroom exercise, and it's time we honor it that way. However, if you’d like to dig into the research findings—because sometimes it helps to have the proof behind what your body already knows—I’ve included the link here to the American Psychological Association.
This is an evidence-based, trauma-informed source that maps what gaslighting and chronic emotional stress do to your nervous system, immune response, and sense of self.
Not because you need permission to believe your experience. But because sometimes the science hits different when your truth’s been denied for too damn long.
Evidence-Backed Toll | |
Symptom | Impact |
Chronic cortisol elevation | Links to heart disease, inflammation, autoimmune disorders |
High blood pressure & A-fib | Stress-induced cardiovascular damage |
Poor sleep & digestive issues | Nervous system disruption, IBS, migraines |
Weakened immunity | Increased infections & slow healing |
These are not just feelings—they’re warning signs. And they’re not optional.
Context vs. Courage
Yes, some preach that hardship builds character. That drama somehow makes us stronger. But bleeding out in private? That’s not strength—it’s breakdown.
Maybe your friends say, “It’s not that bad,” or that you’re “sensitive” or “too reactive.”
But your body knows—and it’s whispering: this is poison.
For me, it wasn’t a metaphor—it was overheated skin at midnight. Chills under harsh daylight. Every time his black, empty eyes iced over and his tone sharpened, my chest constricted—as if he was strangling me again.
Your Body Isn’t Broken—Your Relationship Is
Before the fight‑for‑survival becomes your default, stop and question it. Your body didn’t betray you—it was trained by a toxic environment.
Walking on eggshells, performing peace—you weren’t fragile.
You were ever‑alert, wired for danger.
That constant fear didn’t just wear you down—it etched itself into your bones.
Every cell, every nerve. High cortisol. Hormonal havoc. A shrinking hippocampus and a weakened immune system.
These aren’t theories—they’re the real effects of extended trauma.
The truth? Your body knows the poison and refuses to let it pass.
Naming that shit is the ignition point—a defiant spark that opens the door to healing mind and body.
The Secret Forbidden Freedom—What Nobody Talks About
Nobody talks about the secret relief when the abuser—or the chaos—just leaves.
It’s taboo, but that weight lifting off your chest? That’s real.
And it carries its own grief.
The moment you realize you can breathe again—whether he's in prison, found someone new to torture, or fate took him out of the equation entirely.
We're not supposed to feel relief.
Society tells us to grieve, to mourn, to wear our trauma like a widow's veil.
But not every tale has a happy ending—sometimes the greatest gift is when they leave, no matter how they go.
The Forbidden Exhale
Sure, you're relieved—but you feel guilty admitting it.
Why isn’t relief celebrated when your world was toxic?
Because society stigmatizes it.
We’re told that if we felt good, we didn’t really suffer. You can feel both. You’re allowed. Don’t let anyone shame you for it.
It's not just relief—it's cellular-level liberation. Your body knows before your mind catches up. Your shoulders drop. Your jaw unclenches. Your gut stops churning.
Studies on post‑traumatic growth show survivors regularly experience simultaneous relief and grief—but shame around relief slows down the healing process.
One brave soul in this community, Wandag8154, named it first—my very first subscriber, my #1 fan, the one who refuses to sugarcoat a damn thing. Yeah, that’s my mom!
She didn’t whisper; she said it out loud: “I felt the weight leave my shoulders... I found my voice again.”
She’s not alone. A lot of us carry both relief and grief when an abuser is finally gone—even if nobody else wants to say it.
The taboo is real, but so are these feelings.
Why We Feel Guilty for Feeling Free
We’ve all heard the whispers:
“How could you feel good?”
“Sorry, doesn’t feel right.”
Relief gets labeled as weakness or selfishness—never survival. But relief doesn’t cancel your pain; it lives alongside it.
That’s post‑traumatic growth—science says grief and relief often come together, and shame around relief kills healing.
Society has groomed us to take on emotional nurse duty—fixing men at the cost of our own peace.
When we stop playing nurse and prioritize our own safety, we’re branded cold. Selfish. Unforgiving.
We’re conditioned to praise women who stay—who endure, who “love him through the darkness.”
But a woman who admits relief when he’s gone? She faces whispers, sideways glances, and that quiet accusation: “How could you not grieve more?”
The Truth About Breaking Free
Grief and freedom aren’t enemies—they dance together after abuse. Survivors don’t just mourn what we hoped they'd be; we simultaneously exhale with pure, unfiltered relief.
I've said it already, but I want you to know the studies show survivors experience that complex tug of grief + relief—and ignoring relief just stalls healing!
Your exhale doesn’t erase your scars.
Your relief isn’t denial—it’s proof you mattered.
Yes, you can miss who you thought they were and still be grateful they’re gone.
The Truth—You Can’t Save Him, But You Can Save Yourself
The shit nobody wants to hear and I know first hand you don't want to say because hell, thinking it when I wasn't ready was bad enough, but someone has to be unquiet—you can't save him.
You're not his Beauty and the Beast story, his rehab, or his fucking savior.
Most of us spend years wrecking ourselves on that lie—trying to fix broken men while we bleed out behind closed doors.
That's not your job. It never was.
You want treasure on the other side of grief, rage, and despair? It’s not peace. It’s not closure. It’s your own voice—raw, pissed-off, and finally too damn loud to ignore.
Mine was buried, but I dug it up. I dragged it back. And I’ll use it until my last breath.
Stop trying to love him enough that he’ll change.
Save yourself.
Get fucking loud!
Like every fairy tale gone sideways, my story began when I watched another princess get her crown knocked off—my mom.
Let me tell you how that poison apple shaped my whole damn narrative. I carried so much unresolved guilt—and a shot of pure, burning animosity—for my dad.
The emotional and physical hell he put my mom through? That shit still haunts me.
I watched him dismantle her—break her down, piece by fucking piece, and I swore on everything I had that I’d grow up single and free, running my life on my own damn terms. Unapologetic. No man would ever get the chance to drag me down unless he treated me like a fucking queen!
But you know what?
The young, dumb, and “in love” teen version of me—she bought into her own morality play. “People deserve love, no matter their past.”
“Just because someone fucked up as a kid doesn’t mean they can’t change.”
And my personal favorite:
“Who am I to deny him a chance? It’s not his fault his childhood was a nightmare.”
Yeah, I saw the red flags.
I just chose to ignore them—hell, those flags weren’t just waving, they were damn near slapping me in the face, screaming, “RUUUUNNNNNNN!”
But he checked every one of my Love Language boxes.
It felt easy.
It felt right.
It felt like fate, not force.
And yeah, I could keep spilling, but this isn’t my next memoir, that's ALL about him.
Not yet. This is just a taste—a little more ammo about my psycho ex-husband, for the vault. Trust, there’s more where that came from.
You want treasure on the other side of grief, rage, and despair?
It’s your own voice—raw, pissed-off, and finally too damn loud to ignore.
Reclaiming Your Voice
Your voice—once buried beneath the performance of perfect love, perfect patience, and perfect pain tolerance—is the real treasure.
Stop trying to turn beasts into princes. That shit’s impossible.
Save yourself, and your voice—it starts the second you decide you’re done letting the pain write your story.
Because at the end of all that pain, if you don’t let it silence you, something sacred is born. Your voice.
Not the one you used to keep the peace—the one that survived.
The one you nearly lost, now louder and more real than ever.
Ready to reclaim yours? Start here:
How to Notice the Lie in Your Own Life
Catch yourself justifying someone else’s shitty behavior? That’s the lie talking.
Shrinking yourself so you don’t “set him off,” or swallowing your truth to keep things calm? That’s living the lie.
Feel relief at the thought of leaving, but bury it under guilt? That’s your signal.
Small Acts to Reclaim Your Voice
Journaling: Spill the ugly, the angry, the raw. Write what you’re afraid to say. Write until the truth stops scaring you.
Boundary-setting: No is a full sentence. Start small, but mean it. Every boundary is a line in the sand for you—NOT for him.
Speak the Unspeakable: Say the thing you were told never to say—out loud, even if your voice shakes, even if it’s just to the mirror. Every time you do, you take your power back.
Where to Find Support
You’re not supposed to do this alone.
Find your people—whether it’s survivor networks, support groups, online spaces like Facebook groups, or right here.
Reach out.
Get loud with women who get it.
We don’t whisper our pain here—we call it what it is.
Get Loud and Unapologetic
It’s time to get loud, call out the lie, and rewrite your own damn story. No more waiting for someone else to change. No more shrinking. The world doesn’t need another woman swallowing her voice to keep the peace. It needs you—unquiet, unbreakable, and done apologizing.
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