Leaving an abusive relationship is never simple. Survivors say understanding why—and how to stay safe—can make all the difference.
You might have seen the video: singer Cassie Ventura hustling down a hotel hallway. Music mogul Sean “Diddy” Combs gives chase in only a towel.
He catches up at the elevators, grabs, shoves her to the floor and kicks her. He drags and throws a vase at her.
In 2023, Combs settled Ventura’s $20 million lawsuit alleging years of abuse and coercion. It sparked federal scrutiny and Combs’s 2024 arrest. In July, he was convicted on two counts of transportation for prostitution, but acquitted of racketeering conspiracy and sex trafficking.
In October, which is also Domestic Violence Awareness Month, Diddy was sentenced to 50 months in federal prison, five years of supervised release and a $500,000 fine.
Throughout, the question echoed: “Why didn’t she just leave?”
“That’s the wrong question,” said Tonya King, vice president of programs at the National Network to End Domestic Violence. “We need to start asking: How can we keep a survivor safe in the first place?”
Survivors know leaving is never simple and often deadly. Understanding why and how to survive is key. I know why Ventura stayed. Because I stayed, too.
Just over 12 years ago, I was assaulted in my own bed on Father’s Day. My 3-month-old daughter lay beside me as I was strangled, slipping toward unconsciousness. Fingerprint bruises, once hidden under makeup, and nearly a decade of rage and reconciliation told the truth behind the mask the world still sees.
I didn’t know that a woman who was strangled but didn’t die is 750 percent more likely to be killed by the same perpetrator, that experts called it the ‘edge of homicide.’
It took six years to begin extricating myself. I was ambitious, educated and wanted a different life from the childhood violence I’d seen, but back then, I was also a new mother and immigrant in a new city with a new job.
Beyond physical risks, survivors stay for many reasons: resources, fear, shame, intimidation, battered self-esteem, children, a legal system that favors abusers, culture, religion—and yes, love and hope for change. Still, blame falls on survivors.
“Domestic violence knows no boundaries,” said King, who is also a survivor. “It doesn’t matter who you are, where you work, what you look like, how public or famous you are, it can impact anyone at any time.”
A Survivor’s Reality
Jennifer Birdsey met her abuser at just 16 years old. He was 21.
What started as a fairytale romance—and the teenage thrill of being snuck into clubs—quickly unraveled. He first hit her seemingly playfully with a wiffle bat. When she asked him to stop, he laughed and kept going.
They had three kids and she helped raise his daughter while the assaults escalated. Some blamed her. She believed it was her fault. By the time the relationship ended, she’d endured nearly 20 years of emotional and physical abuse.
“You really think you’re not lovable, you’re worthless, you have no purpose in this world,” said Birdsey, 56. “People think domestic violence is just getting slapped around, but it’s so much deeper.”
At the time of my assault, I was nursing and healing from a C-section, adjusting to a new job on little sleep and waiting on permanent residency. I didn’t know how I’d support us alone, how it might affect my legal status or whether I’d be believed. I was afraid of what my Catholic family would say and embarrassed about police showing up in our quiet Florida suburb.
I didn’t know that a woman who was strangled but didn’t die is 750 percent more likely to be killed by the same perpetrator, that experts called it the “edge of homicide.”
How to Leave—and Stay Safe
Even so, I had privilege: a master’s degree, a job with benefits, friends, even if I was too ashamed to tell many of them about the ongoing violence. For survivors, it’s often small, hidden strategies that open a path to freedom.
Here’s where to start:
To stay or not. Sound familiar? It’s not that bad. Maybe it’ll change. Therapy will help. It doesn’t happen all the time. It’s my fault. They’re a good parent. My kids need a family.
It is. It won’t. It won’t. It will again. It’s not. They’re not. You all deserve safety.
If they can control their anger in public, abuse in private is a choice. Dr. Jekyll doesn’t make up for Mr. Hyde. Seeing through the mask and knowing you’re not worthless is a vital hurdle.
Tell someone. Sharing the truth with someone you trust creates a lifeline: someone who can check in and help plan for safety. Look for hotlines, local shelters and organizations. Birdsey’s work friends listened without judgment and eventually helped her leave.
Have a safety plan. Leaving is one of the most dangerous times, said Crystal Justice, chief external affairs officer at the National Domestic Violence Hotline. A safety plan lowers risks by outlining steps, like securing housing and prepping a go-bag. Find an advocate through a hotline to work on your plan. Get started with The Hotline’s guide.
Stash money. If you don’t have income or it’s monitored, get cash back when you shop. Hide the cash or use prepaid cards. Ask for gift cards in lieu of gifts on special occasions.
Get ready. Pack a go-bag and hide it or give it to someone you trust. (Here’s a checklist of items from Colorado-based Crossroads Safehouse.) Create a safe word or phrase to alert kids or trusted people when it’s time.
Consider transport. Keep a spare car key hidden. Back into the driveway or parking spot so you can leave quickly. Plan a ride or map your public transit route to safety.
Be digitally safe. If you’re making plans on a shared or monitored device, clear your search history, use incognito mode and consider a prepaid phone. Be mindful of location sharing.
There’s no one-size-fits-all solution, Justice said. Survivors have complexities to consider. King agreed: Leaving is a journey—and so is healing.
“It may seem like the end of the world to leave everything, but there’s so much more on the other side,” Birdsey said.
I used to look at photos of the fingerprint bruises to remind me not to go back, but I haven’t needed them in years. I’ve built a life of peace.
The past doesn’t define her. She’s built a new life and been married nearly four years to a man who helped her and her kids heal. She has a community and a job she loves.
I used to look at photos of the fingerprint bruises to remind me not to go back, but I haven’t needed them in years. I’ve built a life of peace. My children barely remember, but healing means tending to memory and to the ways trauma lingers. I help other survivors. I tell my story. And like Birdsey, I’ve found safe love and begun to rewire my trauma with healing.
“If I’m not happy, then he wins,” Birdsey said. “He will not have another minute of my life.”
