“You Should Never Have Been Born” — The Hidden Harm of Domestic Abuse on Children

Survivor Sophie tells her story below:

When people talk about domestic abuse, they often picture broken bones or black eyes. But for many children, the damage goes far deeper and lasts far longer than anyone realises — and there are no visible bruises.

I was well into adulthood before I began to understand what had happened to me. As a child, I just assumed it was my fault. That I was difficult. That I made things worse. That I had to try harder.

My mother could be wonderful — witty, fiercely intelligent, deeply passionate about social justice. She was also unpredictable, explosive, and cruel when she drank. Her rage could appear without warning. One day, she was laughing at my jokes; the next, I was being told I was selfish, thoughtless, or ungrateful.

I remember the first time I was truly afraid of her. I was off school, sick in bed. I’d gotten up to find some cheese while she was out. When she came home, found that I had got out of bed, she screamed at me — said I must have been pretending to be ill, said I was a liar. That day, she told me I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. That I should never have been born.

That phrase clung to me like a shadow.

Her moods shifted quickly. She would explode at small things — something I said, something I forgot. Her eyes would go cold, her voice quiet, and the fear in me would rise so fast I could barely think. After an outburst, she’d often forget what she had said. If I brought it up, she’d accuse me of being too sensitive or trying to make her feel bad. “You pushed me to it,” she’d say.

That was the pattern. Calm, then chaos. Love, then blame. Apology, then denial. And I was left holding it all — the fear, the shame, the confusion.

It’s a pattern we now know well in the domestic abuse sector. Emotional abuse and coercive control don’t always leave marks on the skin, but they leave deep impressions on the mind and body. Children raised in homes like mine learn to scan for danger constantly. We become experts in reading tone, watching body language, anticipating the next eruption.

Sadly, we are often not believed. I wasn’t. I tried to speak up more than once, but adults around me explained it away. “All parents lose their temper,” they said. “Your mum means well.” My tears were blamed on my condition. My fear was treated as exaggeration. The real problem, I was told, was me.

It’s easier to dismiss a child’s fear than to confront an uncomfortable truth.
As an adult, I’ve worked with domestic violence charities and met many others with stories like mine. The details differ, but the emotional blueprint is the same: love weaponised, fear normalised, and pain hidden behind closed doors.

The long-term effects of growing up with abuse are profound. They shape our sense of self, our relationships, our physical and mental health. Some of us grow up to be anxious, isolated, high-achieving perfectionists. Others shut down completely. We all carry it with us.

And yet — we are so often left out of the conversation.

We must talk more about the impact of domestic abuse on children. Not just as witnesses, but as people directly harmed. Abuse doesn’t always look like what people expect. It isn’t always between partners. It isn’t always violent. But its legacy can be lifelong.

If a child tells you they are scared at home — listen. Don’t brush it off. Don’t assume they’re exaggerating. They are not too young to know fear. They may not have the right words for it, but they know when something is wrong.

And if you’re a parent, struggling with your own trauma or pain — please seek help. Love is not enough when it comes wrapped in volatility. Children remember not just what you say, but how you made them feel.

I chose not to have children. Partly because I didn’t want to risk passing on the pain I had lived through. I’ve been told that means I don’t understand parenting. But I do understand fear. I do understand silence. And I know how hard it is to ask for help and not be believed.

That’s why I’m writing this now. For the child I was, and for all the children still living in homes where love and harm are painfully intertwined.

Let’s believe children when they say they’re scared. Let’s listen. Let’s act.