Signs of coercive control in relationships

The changes rarely begin with an argument. Often, they start with silence.

Your daughter used to be the one who never missed a birthday. She’d call after work, laugh at the same old family jokes, sit in the kitchen long after dinner just to talk. But something shifted. At first, it was distance—understandable, maybe. A new home, a busy schedule. Then came the missed holidays. The unanswered messages. The odd feeling that you were being edited out of her life, one event at a time.

It’s painful to watch a child you raised grow quieter, smaller, less sure of herself. Especially when that child once filled a room with ease. But in many families, this quiet withdrawal isn't just about personal change or adulthood—it can be the early, invisible trace of something more dangerous: coercive control.

Unlike more visible forms of abuse, coercive control hides behind routines. It hides behind polite dinners and “he’s just protective” refrains. But for those on the outside—those who knew this person before the relationship—it becomes impossible to ignore how the energy has changed. The light goes out in their eyes. The choice to choose disappears. What was once preference becomes permission-seeking. And every conversation seems somehow… monitored.

When your daughter no longer feels free to visit, when every plan is weighed against the mood or approval of her partner, and when her thoughts about you are fed to her by someone else—that is not partnership. That is control.

You’re not imagining it. And you’re not overreacting. What you’re seeing may be a textbook case of coercive control: a form of emotional and psychological abuse where one person systematically strips the other of autonomy, connection, and trust in their own perceptions.

The signs are often mistaken for common relationship dynamics. A partner who always wants to be involved in decisions. Who “just wants to keep her safe.” Who “doesn’t really like her talking about other guys,” even if it’s her brother or cousin. These don’t raise alarms right away. In fact, they can masquerade as affection. But gradually, the dynamic morphs into something more sinister: a world where she doesn’t own her voice, and where family becomes framed as threat.

When a partner turns a woman against the people who love her, it doesn’t happen in one conversation. It happens through subtle, persistent erosion. He plants doubts about your intentions. Rewrites stories from her childhood. Paints himself as the only person who truly understands her. And each time she tries to bring up the confusion, he dismisses it as evidence that you don’t respect their relationship. It’s a trap: one designed not with violence, but with emotional dependency.

Many women in such relationships stop making even the smallest decisions for themselves. What to eat. Where to go. Whether to answer the phone. Over time, this loss of agency becomes internalized. She believes she’s choosing, when in fact she’s complying. Because the cost of resistance is disapproval, tension, or emotional withdrawal—the kind that feels like punishment but can’t be named.

This is where outsiders like you face the greatest challenge. You love her. You see the patterns. But every instinct to speak up feels like a risk. What if it pushes her away further? What if it confirms the narrative he’s spinning about you being “controlling” or “manipulative”?

But silence isn’t neutral. It can become the very thing that reinforces her isolation.

That’s why psychotherapist Erene Hadjiioannou urges families to focus not on the specifics of the abusive behavior, but on the emotional impact it’s having. Instead of confronting the partner or naming the abuse directly, reflect back what you’re seeing in your daughter’s experience. If she says she feels tired, say, “I can see you’re carrying a lot. What do you need?” If she’s sad, respond with care: “You don’t seem like yourself lately. Do you want to talk about it?”

These small statements are more than comfort. They are counterweights to the erasure she may be experiencing every day. When her choices, feelings, or needs are being sidelined at home, your acknowledgment becomes a mirror—one that shows her she still exists as a full person outside the relationship.

What makes coercive control so cruel is that it often damages a person’s ability to trust their own perceptions. Victims begin to doubt their instincts. They feel silly, selfish, or unstable for wanting independence or connection with others. Abusers exploit this self-doubt to deepen their control. And family members are framed as enemies simply for asking questions.

But you are not the enemy. You are the lifeline.

Your role now is not to pull her out—it’s to remain tethered.

That means being available without condition. It means reminding her gently and consistently of who she is outside of this relationship. Tell her what you admire about her. Revisit memories of when she made bold decisions, when she took care of others, when she lit up in ways that felt deeply her. These reminders are not nostalgia. They are proof. Proof that she existed before this man. Proof that she can still exist without him.

Even if she rejects your help right now, she’s still listening. Even if she defends him, she still hears your concern. Even if she keeps her distance, she remembers that you haven’t turned away.

This is the long work of loving someone in an abusive relationship. It’s not about rescuing. It’s about preserving the possibility of return.

If and when she decides to leave, that moment will be the most dangerous. Statistically, women are most at risk of violence when they try to exit a coercive relationship. That’s why preparation matters. Organizations like Refuge in the UK offer resources not just for victims, but for families navigating this terrain. They can help you understand safety planning, documentation, and how to support her without increasing her risk.

But right now, she isn’t leaving.

Right now, she’s in it.

So you stay close. You listen more than you speak. You resist the temptation to label the behavior, even as you feel it mirror your own past experiences. You let her feel seen, not judged. Because one day—maybe after another year, maybe after a single unexpected moment—she will see clearly. And when she does, she will need someone who never stopped believing in the part of her that was hidden, but never gone.

There is no perfect line to say. No exact formula to follow. Each situation is shaped by unique rhythms of fear, hope, love, and loss. But if there is a guiding principle, it’s this: where coercive control thrives on isolation, your presence becomes an act of quiet defiance.

By staying connected—by making it emotionally safe for her to return—you are doing one of the hardest and most loving things a parent can do. You are offering sanctuary, not solution. And that matters more than you’ll ever know.

Sometimes, the most radical form of care is not confrontation. It’s being the one person in her life who doesn’t ask her to choose. Who doesn’t pit him against you. Who simply says, “I’m here. When you’re ready. However long it takes.”

Because when coercive control makes a person believe they have nowhere to go, knowing there is one open door can make all the difference. And that door? That’s you. Let it stay open. Let it stay gentle. Let it stay home.

And when she returns—whether in one piece or broken—you’ll be ready with what no one else could give her. Not blame. Not rescue. Just love. And a light left on.