If There's Smoke...There Is Fire:

If There's Smoke...There Is Fire: When We Suspect Abuse and Do Nothing ~

She wore long sleeves in summer. He flinched when people raised their voices. She stopped showing up to social events. He made excuses for the bruises. She changed—became quieter, smaller, more careful. He seemed anxious all the time, walking on eggshells around his partner.

We noticed. Of course we noticed.

But we said nothing.

We told ourselves we might be wrong, that it wasn't our business, that they seemed fine most of the time, that we didn't want to make things awkward, that surely if it were really serious they'd ask for help. We convinced ourselves that our suspicions were probably overblown, that we were reading too much into things, that there must be some reasonable explanation.

We saw the smoke. We just chose not to look for the fire.

This is a difficult truth about abuse: it rarely happens in complete isolation. Friends see signs. Family members notice changes. Coworkers observe concerning dynamics. Neighbors hear troubling sounds. The abuse isn't as hidden as we pretend it is—we're just very good at looking away.

The Signs We Pretend Not to See

Looking back, the signs are always obvious. Survivors will tell you this—once they're out, once they've gained perspective, they can catalog the red flags that were visible to anyone paying attention. The progressive isolation. The controlling behavior disguised as concern. The explosive reactions to minor issues. The way their partner monitored their phone, their schedule, their friendships. The gradual dimming of their personality, like someone slowly turning down a light.

But in the moment, when we're the ones witnessing these signs, we have remarkable capacity for rationalization:

"They're just really close—he wants to spend all his time with her." (Isolation dressed as devotion)

"She's just particular about things." (Control framed as preferences)

"He's got a temper, but he'd never actually hurt anyone." (Until he does)

"She's always checking on him because she cares so much." (Surveillance presented as love)

"They're going through a rough patch—all couples do." (Abuse normalized as relationship difficulty)

We accept these explanations because the alternative is uncomfortable. The alternative requires us to act, to get involved, to potentially be wrong, to risk the relationship, to make things awkward. So we choose the comfortable lie over the uncomfortable truth.

We choose to believe the smoke is nothing, even as the smell of burning grows stronger.

The Cost of Our Silence

Here's what we don't see when we choose silence: the survivor's increasing desperation as they realize no one is going to intervene. The way they interpret our silence as confirmation that what's happening is normal, or that they deserve it, or that no one would believe them anyway. The moment they stop reaching out because they've learned that reaching out changes nothing.

Our silence isn't neutral. It's a message.

It tells the survivor: You're on your own. What's happening to you isn't important enough for us to risk discomfort. We see you struggling, but we're going to look away because it's easier for us.

It tells the abuser: No one is watching. No one will intervene. You can continue without consequences.

Every time someone sees signs of abuse and does nothing, the isolation deepens. The survivor becomes more entrenched in the abuser's reality, where their perceptions can't be trusted, where they're told they're crazy or oversensitive or the problem. When the outside world confirms this by staying silent, the abuser's narrative is reinforced.

Our silence is complicity.

What We Tell Ourselves

The rationalizations are endless:

"It's not my place to interfere in someone's relationship."

But is it your place to witness harm and do nothing? Is respecting privacy more important than someone's safety? We wouldn't say "it's not my place" if we saw someone being assaulted by a stranger. Why does being in a relationship with the abuser somehow make the violence more acceptable, more private, more off-limits?

"I don't want to make things worse."

This is the most insidious rationalization because it has a grain of truth—sometimes direct confrontation can escalate danger. But "I don't want to make things worse" too often becomes an excuse for total inaction. There are ways to help that don't increase risk: private conversations, resource sharing, establishing that you're a safe person to talk to, offering support without demanding the survivor leave immediately.

"They'd leave if it were really that bad."

This reveals fundamental misunderstanding of abuse dynamics. Survivors stay for dozens of valid reasons: financial dependence, children, lack of safe places to go, fear of escalation (leaving is statistically the most dangerous time), trauma bonding, hope that things will improve, systematic erosion of confidence and independence. Staying doesn't mean it's not "that bad"—it means leaving is complicated and dangerous.

"I'm probably wrong."

Maybe. But what's the cost of being wrong versus the cost of being right and doing nothing? If you're wrong and you express gentle concern, you've had an awkward conversation. If you're right and you stay silent, someone continues to suffer harm that you could have helped interrupt.

"They haven't asked for help."

Survivors often can't ask. They're embarrassed, afraid, unsure if what's happening qualifies as abuse, worried they won't be believed, threatened into silence by their abuser, or so worn down they've lost the capacity to reach out. Waiting for an explicit request for help often means waiting until crisis—or tragedy.

What We Should Have Done

The question haunts so many of us after the fact: What should I have done?

Here's what we should have done:

Named what we saw, gently and directly. Not accusations, not ultimatums, just honest observation: "I've noticed you seem different lately. You seem anxious. Is everything okay?" "I'm concerned about how your partner speaks to you. Are you safe?" "I've seen some things that worry me. I'm here if you ever want to talk."

Simple naming breaks through isolation. It plants a seed that someone sees them, believes them, is available.

Educated ourselves about abuse dynamics. We should have learned why people stay, what resources exist, how to help without endangering, what professional support is available. Our ignorance isn't an excuse—information is readily available for those who care enough to seek it.

Stayed connected despite the isolation. When someone is being isolated by an abusive partner, they need connection more than ever. We should have kept reaching out, kept inviting them to things, kept showing up even when they couldn't or wouldn't respond. Persistent, gentle connection creates lifelines.

Been explicitly available. "If you ever need anything—a place to stay, someone to talk to, help leaving, whatever—I'm here. No judgment. Just support." Making this offer explicitly removes the burden of asking and establishes safety.

Believed them if they disclosed. The most powerful thing we can do when someone shares their experience is believe them completely, immediately, without question or qualification. Not "Are you sure?" Not "But he seems so nice." Just "I believe you. I'm so sorry this is happening. How can I help?"

Offered concrete resources. Phone numbers for domestic violence hotlines. Information about shelters. Names of trauma-informed therapists. Legal resources. Financial assistance programs. Job opportunities. Housing leads. Concrete help, not just sympathy.

Respected their timeline while maintaining connection. Survivors need to make their own decisions about when and how to leave. Pressure and ultimatums often backfire. But we could have maintained connection and support regardless of their choices, making it clear that help would be there whenever they were ready.

Intervened when it was safe to do so. In some situations, direct intervention is appropriate and necessary—calling 911 if we witness violence, offering a ride away from danger, providing immediate shelter. Safety takes precedence over privacy.

Examined our own complicity. Did we enable the abuse by accepting the abuser's excuses? Did we maintain social relationships with the abuser that normalized their behavior? Did we pressure the survivor to stay because divorce is uncomfortable or because we liked the abuser? Did we center our own discomfort over the survivor's safety?

For Next Time

Because there will be a next time. Abuse is endemic—one in four women and one in nine men experience severe intimate partner violence. The statistics are even higher for certain populations. This means we will encounter abuse again, whether we recognize it or not.

Next time, let's do better.

Let's choose discomfort over complicity. Let's choose action over avoidance. Let's choose the survivor's safety over our social comfort.

Let's trust our instincts when something feels wrong. Let's ask direct questions. Let's offer concrete help. Let's educate ourselves. Let's believe survivors. Let's stay connected. Let's create cultures—in our families, workplaces, communities, faith spaces—where abuse isn't tolerated, where survivors are supported, where silence isn't the norm.

Let's remember that when we see smoke, there is fire. And when there's fire, doing nothing means watching someone burn.

A Final Note

If you're reading this and recognizing yourself in the survivor's story—if you're the one showing the signs, making the excuses, feeling increasingly isolated—please know this: The people who should have helped but didn't? Their failure wasn't your fault. Their silence wasn't confirmation that you deserve what's happening. Their inaction was about them, not you.

You deserve help. You deserve safety. You deserve to be believed.

And help is available. The National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-7233) is available 24/7. You can also text START to 88788. You don't have to have everything figured out. You don't have to be ready to leave. You can just call to talk, to get information, to hear from someone who believes you.

There is smoke because there is fire. And you deserve people who will help put out the fire, not just notice the smoke and look away.

If you suspect someone you know is being abused, resources are available for supporters too. Educate yourself. Reach out. Be the person who doesn't look away. It might save a life.