When We Think We Know Why They Did It: How Assumptions About Domestic Violence Offenders Hold Us Back

Observing a person's behavior is a terribly inaccurate way to understand their motivation.

Revelation at the Reunion

At my ten-year high-school reunion, a classmate—emboldened by a few drinks—approached me.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” they said.

“Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“We always thought you thought you were better than us. Like you were judging us.”

I was stunned. I hadn’t realized that my quietness had been read as arrogance. In truth, I was shy—painfully so. I assumed people didn’t like me, so I avoided conversation to escape the sting of rejection I feared was coming.

What they saw was aloofness. What was really happening was fear.

Has that ever happened to you—someone misreads you completely? That gap between what’s visible and what’s true is where misunderstanding grows. And nowhere is that gap wider—or more consequential—than in how society interprets domestic violence.

The Popular Narrative: “They Know What They’re Doing”

When people see someone act violently or cruelly toward a partner, the explanation feels obvious:

They must be selfish. They must not care. They must like the control.

For decades, domestic-violence advocates have repeated this story until it hardened into dogma: the abuser is a controlling, self-absorbed bully who knows exactly what they’re doing. He (the script is nearly always male) uses violence strategically to dominate his partner because he enjoys the results—fear, compliance, control.

Certainly, such people exist. Some are narcissistic or sadistic; some take pleasure in dominance. But they are not the norm. To treat them as the norm is to misunderstand most people who have ever acted violently in a relationship.

This assumption—that the behavior is deliberate and power-driven—has done real damage. It distorts how we intervene, how we talk about change, and how we treat people who are struggling to stop hurting the ones they love.

When People Got My Story Wrong

If my classmate had asked rather than assumed, they’d have learned that my behavior came from fear, not superiority. My good grades came from a desperate need for my father’s approval after one angry lecture about a “B.” My rule-following came from fear of punishment. My avoidance of alcohol came from watching my father’s drinking wreck our family. Even my intense “watching” of others was survival instinct—I’d learned to read subtle cues to know whether home was safe.

What they saw as judgmental distance was self-protection.

That experience taught me something vital: what we think we know about another person’s motives is often miles from the truth.

The Same Mistake, Magnified

Domestic violence is rife with that same projection error. We see aggression and imagine intent.

A man yells, slams a door, or throws something. We think, He’s trying to scare her. He’s asserting power.

But what if he’s terrified of losing her love? What if he feels small, rejected, or humiliated? What if he’s drowning in panic and shame and hasn’t learned how to calm the storm inside him?

This doesn’t excuse the behavior—but it changes the path to healing. The person who lashes out because they’re emotionally overwhelmed needs different help than someone who plans and enjoys domination. Misread the motivation, and the intervention fails.

The Illusion of Knowing

Humans hate uncertainty. When we can’t make sense of another’s behavior, we fill the gap with a story that preserves our moral order. “He’s evil.” “She’s manipulative.” It feels satisfying. It gives us villains and victims. But it’s lazy psychology.

In reality, many who have used violence describe themselves as ashamed, afraid, confused, and out of control. They don’t want to hurt their partner—they just don’t know how else to stop the inner chaos.

They’re not monsters; they’re people whose emotional regulation has broken down. Their pain spills outward. That reality complicates our easy categories of “bad person” and “good person.” Complexity is harder than outrage—but it’s also closer to truth.

Why Our “Knowing” Feels So Right

We trust our interpretations because they feel moral. When someone violates our values, we feel disgust. That disgust masquerades as certainty: “They meant to do that. They like the pain they cause.”

But neuroscience tells us our minds run on inference, not evidence. We guess at others’ thoughts using a mental process called theory of mind. It’s useful for empathy, but easily distorted by bias and emotion.

We confuse impact with intent. If someone’s actions cause harm, we assume harm was the goal. Yet people hurt those they love every day out of fear, shame, or learned defensiveness—not because they crave control.

Inside the Mind of a Typical Offender

Talk to those who have caused harm in their intimate relationships, and a different picture emerges. They describe emotional floods they couldn’t manage, childhoods filled with anger or neglect, terror of abandonment, or the belief that yelling was the only way to be heard.

Their problem isn’t that they chose abuse strategically—it’s that they lacked awareness and emotional skills to choose differently. Their harm is real, but so is their confusion and pain.

Healing, then, isn’t about lecturing them on equality or telling them to “stop choosing abuse.” It’s about helping them understand what drives their explosions, helping them heal the root cause, and teaching them skills to better regulate their emotions.

The Cost of Getting It Wrong

When we cling to the stereotype of the calculating tyrant, three harms follow.

1. We drive away those who want to change.

If society insists offenders are monsters, who would dare admit to being one? Shame fuels secrecy, and secrecy sustains violence.

2. We design useless interventions.

Current models often assume conscious control—so they target “attitudes” instead of emotional dysregulation. But pushing someone to change a mindset that doesn’t exist is an exercise in futility. They need strategies for gaining self-awareness, healing shame, and regulating emotions. They need healing and tools, not a scolding.

3. We lose compassion—and with it, hope.

If we see only evil, we stop believing change is possible. Yet compassion is often the spark that allows accountability to take root. People grow when they feel seen as human, not condemned as hopeless.

Curiosity: The Better Way

Curiosity is the antidote to assumption. When we replace “He’s a jerk” with “What pain might be driving this?” we shift from judgment to understanding.

That doesn’t mean condoning harm. It means treating behavior as a signal of something broken inside. We can still say, “This must stop,” while also saying, “Help is possible.”

Curiosity opens the door for responsibility without humiliation. It invites counselors, pastors, friends—even partners—to see the full person, not just their worst moment. Research increasingly supports this view: most domestic-violence offenders aren’t sadistic manipulators but emotionally dysregulated people acting from pain and confusion.

The Humility to Admit We Don’t Know

The greatest danger of assuming we know another’s motives is that we stop listening. We shut down the very conversations that could lead to healing.

We all have a part to play in this change—even those who don’t work directly with offenders. Every time we repeat false stereotypes, we reinforce the very hopelessness that keeps violence stuck in place.

That new mindset—humble, curious, compassionate—offers a better chance at real change. Change that heals instead of hardens. Change that restores instead of condemns. Change that breaks the cycle for generations to come.