I don’t watch movies often, but It Ends With Us seemed timely enough: I’ve spent recent years writing a memoir about the magic of solitude on a transformative journey through abuse.

My partner joined me to see the film in theaters, after which we talked about it for days, and even my therapist mentioned that her other clients have been referencing it as well.

What strikes me about It Ends With Us is not what it says about staying but all it doesn’t say about leaving. Let me explain . . .

THE BASICS

For anyone unfamiliar with the premise, here is a summary:

IT ENDS WITH US, the first Colleen Hoover novel adapted for the big screen, tells the story of Lily Bloom, a woman who overcomes a traumatic childhood to embark on a new life in Boston and chase a lifelong dream of opening her own business. A chance meeting with charming neurosurgeon Ryle Kincaid sparks an intense connection, but as the two fall deeply in love, Lily begins to see sides of Ryle that remind her of her parents’ relationship. When Lily’s first love, Atlas Corrigan, suddenly reenters her life, her relationship with Ryle is upended, and Lily realizes she must learn to rely on her own strength to make an impossible choice for her future.

If you have experienced toxic romance, you might walk away from the movie with a long list of relatable moments like I did. Or, if you want to begin to understand what it’s like for your loved one(s) who have been in such a relationship, this movie might help.

This film is not the whole conversation, but it’s a start. And if you want to understand the psychology and complexity of leaving, then please keep something in mind . . .

THE UNREALISTIC

Without going into the details of the scene, let me summarize a key moment: when Lily ultimately tells Ryle she’s leaving the relationship, he praises her for being a good example.

Although I would hope for such a calm resolve to all domestic violence cases, the statistical reality is this: the most dangerous time for a victim of abuse is when they are trying to leave—so dangerous, often, that we leave silently and without warning, breaking off communication. (In my case, my silence is what most enraged him, but I knew it would have been worse if I had confronted him with my list of reasons as Lily did with Ryle.)

Equally dangerous is the 18 months after leaving. Even though I’d moved far enough away from my ex to end the hands-on abuse—and that distance is what gave me the courage to leave the last time (sometimes our bodies help us leave before our minds)—his emotional and verbal abuse intensified through texts, emails, voicemails, and online stalking/harassment.

Sometimes our bodies help us leave before our minds.

I’m not expecting one film to represent every story of leaving abuse, which is an impossible ask. But if the goal was to raise awareness and spark public conversations and empower people on their journey to leave, then I’ll credit the film for playing a part.

WHY TALKING ABOUT LEAVING MATTERS

Leaving might not happen all at once.
Leaving is a muscle we exercise.

I first tried leaving that abusive three-year relationship—which was my first attempt at dating—within the first few months. I tried to leave at least five times total, not far off from the statistic of the seven average attempts it takes for victims to leave their abusers for good.

I was fortunate in never establishing material ties with him: no shared house, car, bank account, marriage, child (but some were close calls).

Earlier this year, when I attended an AWP conference panel event called “Women Who Leave”—a conversation between authors Kelly McMasters, Dionne Ford, Joanna Rakoff, Maggie Smith, and Reema Zaman (with a sighting of Kelly Sundberg in the audience, whom I thanked for writing Goodbye, Sweet Girl)—I was glad to hear them addressing the role of financial freedom in leaving. But I sat there wishing this kind of event had been around years ago when I needed it most.

A LANGUAGE FOR LEAVING

If I’d had a language for leaving back then—a way to talk about it, a leaving lexicon—would I have left sooner?

My barrier to leaving was often psychological. From the ages of 19 to 21, I naively internalized this older man’s narrative that I’d be a terrible person for leaving, that his life depended on me staying, that no one out there was waiting for me, that no one would love me like he did.

For much of our final year together, I could no longer envision him in my future, but the thought of leaving became exhausting. All that planning, emotion, confrontation, escalation.

Leaving is its own landscape.

After he broke into my phone and found text messages to my mom where I expressed doubts about the relationship, that discovery upset him so badly that I gave up on seeking help. Enter: isolation and wordlessness.

When I did leave him the last time, I barely told anyone why and wouldn’t tell my family for years.

Leaving was freeing, yes, but leaving was also its own kind of lonely.

WHY LEAVING IS ONGOING

Is there ever really a last time?

In some ways, I had to keep leaving, and I keep leaving still.
We leave for days, weeks, months, years, a lifetime.

We leave throughout the relationship.

We leave for each expletive text we ignore.

We leave when deleting yet another voicemail of their promises to change.

We leave when finally blocking their phone number.

We leave whenever we see their shadow in someone else and choose to walk away.

Experiencing abuse does not make us magically immune to it for the rest of our lives. Those who have experienced it once are likely to experience it again. But we might recognize the signs and patterns and then leave sooner the next time, which has been my experience.

I leave him every week when I talk about that relationship with my therapist.

I leave him with every memory I write down.

I leave him every time I post or share about abuse.

I leave every time I refuse to let the echo of his voice drown out mine.

I left him this morning. I’ll leave him again tomorrow.