Why Did You Stay? The Neurobiology Behind Abuse and Attachment

This entry is deeply personal to me. It centers around a question I’ve wrestled with for the past two years: Why did I stay?

For those who don’t know, I was the victim of a crime that proceeded to trial this year. The defendant ultimately pled guilty, he received his sentence and I was granted a restraining order—along with the promise that I shouldn’t hear from him.

I’ve always considered myself “tough” and “resilient,” the kind of person who believed that things like this didn’t happen to people like me. But as much as my naïve 22-year-old self wanted to ignore it, there were warning signs—many of them. I stayed silent for nearly a year, partly because I adored his family and couldn’t bear the thought of hurting them. Until one day, I simply couldn’t anymore.

For months, I was at war with myself—bouncing between “what if” scenarios and waves of anger over how poorly I had been treated. But the question remained: Why did I stay?

As a Neurobiology major once on a pre-med track, I understood the neuroscience of abuse: the addiction-like reward cycles, the altered brain pathways formed under chronic stress, the way fight-or-flight becomes a default mode. I had seen women come into the hospital with bruises and broken bones, denying what had happened to them—physical symptoms that were merely shadows of deeper psychological trauma. I never thought I’d be one of them. But I was.

Soon, I found myself justifying the unjustifiable—explaining away the incessant calls, the possessiveness, the isolation. Control disguised itself as care, and I convinced myself it was love. It couldn’t happen to me. Until it did.

Romantic attachment and addiction share a strikingly similar neurochemical foundation. When we experience affection, physical intimacy, or even reconciliation after conflict, the brain releases a surge of dopamine, the neurotransmitter responsible for pleasure and reward. Paired with oxytocin, the so-called “bonding hormone”, these chemicals reinforce emotional closeness and trust. In a healthy relationship, this fosters love and security. But in an abusive one, it can create a dangerous addiction loop. 

Each cycle of abuse—tension, explosion, remorse, and reconciliation—acts like a reward schedule, intermittently releasing dopamine after periods of fear or deprivation. This unpredictability strengthens the attachment rather than weakening it, much like a slot machine payout reinforces gambling behavior. Over time, the brain learns to associate both relief and danger with the same person, confusing fear with love and withdrawal with longing.

This neurochemical entanglement is known as trauma bonding—a psychological and physiological trap that binds victims to their abusers through cycles of stress and reward. Even after escape, the brain may continue to crave the chemical “high” of intermittent affection, producing cravings, intrusive memories, and compulsive thoughts akin to substance withdrawal.

The brain is a remarkably plastic organ, able to change its physicality and function in response to lived experience. But under the weight of chronic trauma, the body’s chemical responses become maladaptive. Brain structure and function is disrupted, endocrine and immune system regulation is suppressed, and overall dysregulation of both central and autonomic nervous system activity ensues. The hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis, responsible for restoring physiological balance during stress, is particularly affected. 

Catecholamines such as adrenaline and dopamine remain chronically elevated, impairing memory and rational thought, heightening hypervigilance, and distorting threat perception. Simultaneously, endogenous opioid levels increase, producing emotional numbing, while corticosteroid levels decline, weakening immune function. Without even realizing, systematic exposure to a single stimulus reshapes your brain- completely altering your lived reality. 

Over time, this state of chronic physiological arousal reshapes both the body and mind. Victims often experience insomnia, gastrointestinal problems, chronic fatigue, and autoimmune issues, alongside heightened anxiety, emotional numbing, and cognitive fog. Neurologically, pathways governing fear, reward, and attachment—particularly in the amygdala, hippocampus, and prefrontal cortex—become dysregulated, making it harder to distinguish safety from danger, or love from control.

I experienced many of these symptoms firsthand—my nervous system felt completely, for lack of a better word, fried. For months, I battled relentless insomnia and a crushing emotional numbness, unable to recall even recent memories or imagine any kind of future. I could barely leave the house or connect with anyone outside of my immediate family, clinging desperately to small routines—the only sense of control I had left. It felt as though my mind had shut down in self-protection, unable to process the magnitude of what had happened. And just as healing began to feel possible, I was forced to face him and his family repeatedly; each court date and hearing tore open wounds that were only beginning to close.

When it came time to give a victim witness statement, I chose not to. Despite how deeply I was hurting, I couldn’t bear the thought of him—or his family—hearing my pain. They had stood by him, excused him, enabled him. To hand them my words felt like giving them access to something sacred, something they would never understand or care about. Remaining silent was the only power I felt I had left: the quiet decision not to let them feed off my suffering or define the meaning of what I endured.

Thankfully, the same neuroplasticity that once wired my brain toward vigilance and fear also became the foundation for healing. Healing from trauma is not only emotional, it’s biological. Recovery began with teaching my nervous system that calm does not equate to danger. Reintroducing little routines became a form of neurological retraining, gradually shifting my body out of constant hyperarousal. Eventually, my memory returned, I began to feel again—to step outside without scanning every street corner. My body was learning that it no longer had to prepare for impact. 

The answer to “Why did I stay?” is not simple, nor is it rooted in weakness. It resides in the complex interplay of neurobiology and circumstance—where the chemistry of attachment merges with the physiology of fear. But the same biology that sustains trauma also sustains healing. Each deliberate moment of rest, connection, or stillness is the nervous system recalibrating, slowly remembering the meaning of safety.

Author’s Note: This essay reflects my personal experience and understanding of trauma and recovery. It is based on events that are a matter of public record. This article does not identify, defame, or target any individual and is not intended to serve as commentary on any ongoing or past legal proceedings.The purpose of this piece is educational and reflective, intended to raise awareness about the neurobiology of trauma and healing.