Unlearning Violence, Learning Love

As Domestic Violence Awareness Month comes to an end, I feel now is the right time to share this.

Before I begin, I want to say this will be triggering for a lot of people. In true Joe fashion, I’m not going to sugar-coat anything.

I also need to mention that I have changed the names of the people in my story.

Most of you already know I grew up in a home where love wasn’t taught properly. From some of my earliest memories, love meant the woman did as she was told—and if she didn’t, violence followed.

In fact, my first ever memory is my mum’s boyfriend breaking into our home and bashing her. Even after that, she went back to him.

As I got older, that violent version of “love” kept being shown to me. If I wasn’t hit, yelled at, or belittled every few days, I’d start to think something was wrong in the house.

Sounds backwards, right? No violence = something must be wrong.

But that was normal to me. That was all I knew.

I didn’t really see anything close to a “healthy” relationship until I was around 14. By then, I thought the damage was already done.

My first proper relationship was at 13. She was in her 20s and had a child. We’ll call her Jenny.

Jenny and I lived together in my mum’s backyard—in a caravan. Yeah… that was the person I lost my virginity to.

There were moments where I knew something wasn’t right, but I was getting some kind of attention, some kind of “love,” and that’s all 13-year-old me wanted.

That relationship lasted about a year and ended when I was locked in the caravan and not allowed to leave—even to go to school.

My next relationship was with someone closer to my age. This is the one I consider my first real relationship. I was 16 and thought I’d found “the one”—like most of us do at that age. We’ll call her Jackie.

This relationship was one of the hardest times of my life, because it’s where I realised something I didn’t want to face…

I was the abuser.

Just like the men I grew up watching.

There were moments I felt so ashamed of my behaviour that I tried to end my life. Even writing this now, it hurts to think about the way I showed “love” back then.

We were together for about three years and even talked about getting married. I told her everything—“I’m trying,” “I’m getting help,” “I’ll change.”

And I was trying. I worked my arse off to learn what love actually meant.

But the truth is, when behaviours are wired into you from childhood, they don’t change overnight. No amount of therapy or medication magically fixes it straight away.

During that time, I was diagnosed with C-PTSD and rapid attachment disorder.

Jackie and I eventually split—badly, as you can imagine.

After that, I went through what I called my “hoe era.” I was too scared to enter another serious relationship, so sleeping around felt easier. There were flings, but nothing meaningful.

Now, if we fast forward to today—I’m not a perfect man. I still mess up.

But I’ve learned what love actually is.

It’s been a hard journey. Chloe and I have had our challenges—like any relationship—but one thing I can say is this:

Violence is no longer part of how I live or love.

I haven’t physically hurt anyone in over 15 years—partner or otherwise.

That violent version of “love” doesn’t control me anymore.

And this blog isn’t me making excuses—for myself or anyone else.

Because at the end of the day, behaviour is a choice.

Sometimes it feels like it isn’t—especially when it’s all you’ve ever known—but it is.

I’ve been lucky.

I had two couples in my life that I looked up to. The men in those relationships showed me, in real life, what love was supposed to look like. They called me out when I was wrong and supported me when I was trying to do better.

They’re still there for me today.

Seeing that kind of example is what stopped me from becoming a violent partner for the rest of my life.

Now, not everyone gets that.

But every man has access to something—mates, family, or professional help.

And that’s where responsibility comes in.

We, as men, need to stand up against domestic violence.

We are the only ones who can truly change it.

We need to set the example for the next generation, call our mates out on their behaviour, and actually seek help when it’s needed.

Even if you don’t think you need help—listen to the people around you.

If your partner, your friends, or your family are telling you something isn’t right… go get help.

That’s the choice I’m talking about.

Your actions are your choices.

We don’t get to choose how we were raised—but we do get to choose how we treat people, and what we pass on to the next generation.

So stand up against domestic violence.

Talk to someone.

And if someone tells you, “You need help”… listen.

If you struggle with your anger, or you know you have an angry way of loving—use me as proof that it can get better.

But it doesn’t just happen.

You have to make the right choices, over and over again. It’s bloody hard. There’s no shortcut. No quick fix. But it can be done if you’re willing to put the work in and actually hold yourself accountable.

And I want to be very clear about something for anyone reading this who might be in an abusive relationship—

Do not read my story and think, “Maybe one day they’ll wake up and change.”

They won’t.

Not unless they choose to, and not unless they put in the years of work it actually takes.

And you do not have to sit there and wear the hurt while they figure it out.

You deserve to feel safe. You deserve to feel loved without violence. You deserve consistency, respect, and peace—every day, not just on someone else's “good days.”

So please don’t take this as a story that says, “It will get better eventually.”

Because it only gets better when someone makes the decision to change—and then proves it through their actions, over time.

For me, that took years. Years of effort, mistakes, accountability, and a lot of pain.

To every ex-partner I’ve had who may have been mistreated—I’m sorry. You deserved better, and I’m sorry I didn’t see that sooner.

And to my amazing wife and best friend of nearly 9 years—thank you for walking this journey with me. We’re still growing together, and you’ve been an incredible support, even at my lowest. I love you.