The biggest online debate right now is, of course, Taylor Frankie Paul.

I sat down at my laptop, ready to add my own thoughts to the conversation. But before I could even begin, I came across a headline- and instantly felt triggered.

“Taylor Frankie Paul Alleges She’s Suffered ‘Extensive Mental and Physical Abuse; After years of silently suffering extensive mental and physical abuse as well as threats of retaliation, Taylor is finally gaining the strength to face her accuser and taking steps to ensure that she and her children are protected from any further harm.” Spokesperson for Paul

I’m sure this situation has everyone on edge. That 2023 video is incredibly difficult to watch. And I have no doubt that for many, it brings up their own personal experiences.

For me, it took me right back to a moment I’ll never forget- the moment I found the email my ex-husband sent to his family.

“Am I an alcoholic? No.
Am I “popping pills” and drinking? No.

Do I take a daily anti-anxiety/anti-depressant? Yes.

But I’ve been on it for four years. It’s prescribed by a doctor. I use it exactly as intended. And one of the reasons I’m on it is because of the mental, verbal, emotional, and physical abuse I endured throughout my marriage.”

That email was the first of nearly a dozen allegations made against me.

I was stunned reading it.

“The hardest realization while reading this email wouldn’t be the fact that the masks we wore around his family were finally torn down. That was a blessed relief.
I hated hiding solo cups of his mixed drinks at the family reunions just to make sure we didn’t upset the balance. Or having to lie about how many counseling appointments we were going to. Or worst yet, having to smile and be affectionate with each other in front of extended family when we couldn’t stand to be in the same room.
I was glad that his family would know there were some serious and real issues going on.
I didn’t feel a single heartbreak or regret to watch that glass house, which we had been ignorantly building and residing in, be completely destroyed.
What hurt the most, what shattered me to my very core, was that he would outright lie or twist the truth in his list of what he claimed I said or did.
It wasn’t just indifference or disappointment. It was pure, unrelenting contempt.”
Chapter 14 – Burned, Blocked and Better than Ever

After professional guidance, careful documentation, and genuine intention to help my husband with his addiction, his allegations- and the disdain behind them- destroyed any possibility of real communication.

We “tried” for two more months.

But if I’m being honest, I had already lost hope.

I endured the final arguments quietly. I showed up. I did the face time. I tried.

But there are some things you simply cannot come back from.

You cannot experience abuse the way real victims do- and then watch your abuser step into the role of victim.

Which is why I had such a strong reaction reading Dakota Mortensen’s statement:

“As anyone who has seen the video will understand, this is a deeply upsetting situation. I am, unfortunately, used to these baseless claims about me and our relationship, which I categorically deny. I am focusing on our son and his safety, and hope that Taylor will do the same.”

At some point, the evidence has to speak for itself.

And because of that, the Paul/Mortensen video is incredibly hard to watch.

It begins with him saying:
“Yeah, look at you, look, look… yeah, this is called physical abuse… yeah, see Taylor, this is all you do… this is the only thing you know how to do, is to hurt me,” as she is physically assaulting him, before escalating to throwing metal chairs.

I’m not sure what frustrates me more:

The argument that we “don’t know the context,”
or the blatant double standard.

Because if the roles were reversed, there is no doubt in my mind that Dakota would still be paying a very high price for it.

I often find myself wondering how people can defend double standards when it comes to abuse.

Abuse is abuse.

Victims can be male or female.
Perpetrators can be male or female.

After my divorce, I was shocked by the number of men who quietly shared their stories with me.

Yes, some involved physical abuse like what we see in that video.

But more often, it was something less visible and just as damaging.

Emotional abuse.
Mental manipulation.
Financial control.

What struck me the most was how many of them didn’t even realize they were being abused.

I’ve had to look at more friends than I ever expected and tell them- clearly, directly- that they were in abusive situations.

They were being gaslit.
Manipulated.
Degraded.
Emasculated.

And for me, there is something almost insidious about that kind of abuse.

It builds slowly. Quietly.
Until one day, you don’t recognize yourself anymore.

The abuse I endured wasn’t always loud or physical.

Much of it was quiet. Calculated. Manipulative.

It chipped away at my self-worth piece by piece.

And now, I see far too many men walking around carrying that same quiet damage- because the women in their lives chose to tear them down instead of build them up.

It doesn’t always look like bruises. Sometimes it sounds like this:

Holding them hostage to past mistakes:
“He was watching porn, and he needs to openly confess to my family.”
“You cheated once, so you don’t get privacy anymore.”
“I’ll never let you forget what you did.”
“You don’t get to move on from that- I bring it up whenever I need to.”
“You lost the right to be trusted, permanently.”

Withholding affection as punishment:
“She said she won’t kiss me for a year.”
“I’m not touching you until you prove you’ve changed.”
“You don’t deserve affection right now.”
“I’ll decide when you’ve earned me back.”
“Don’t expect intimacy after what you did.”

Isolating them from support systems:
“You can no longer see them.”
“Your friends are a bad influence- I don’t want you around them.”
“Your family doesn’t respect me, so you shouldn’t talk to them.”
“If you really cared about this relationship, you’d stop hanging out with them.”
“I should be enough for you- you don’t need anyone else.”

Gaslighting them into questioning reality:
“I am not capable of cheating on you.”
“That never happened- you’re making things up.”
“You’re too sensitive, that’s your problem.”
“You always twist things to make me look bad.”
“You’re remembering it wrong.”

Twisting responsibility through manipulation:
“You should have known I was so co-dependent.”
“If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have reacted this way.”
“You made me act like this.”
“This is your fault for not understanding me.”
“If you loved me properly, I wouldn’t treat you like this.”

Or just plain chaos:
“She used to put women’s panties in my suitcase and then claim I was having an affair.”

The list goes on.

This is something we do not talk about enough.

When women are the abusers, we often soften the language. We call it a “toxic relationship.”

And while that’s not entirely wrong- it avoids naming what is actually happening.

Abuse is abuse.

And sometimes, the perpetrator is the woman.

I’ve seen it.

And if I’m being honest, part of why I feel so strongly about this is because I’m raising a son.

Not only did he already suffer abuse at the hands of his father, one day, he’s going to be in relationships of his own. He’s going to love someone. He’s going to trust someone. And the thought of him ever being made to feel small, manipulated, or controlled by someone who claims to love him- it sits heavy on my heart.

I don’t just want to raise a good man. I want to raise a man who knows his worth.
A man who understands that love is not control.
That accountability is not the same as punishment.
That communication should never feel like walking on eggshells.

And just as importantly, I want him to recognize when something isn’t healthy- so he doesn’t stay in something that slowly breaks him down.

Because this isn’t just about what we’ve experienced.

It’s about what we allow the next generation to believe is normal.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me this about her?” he asked me, after detailing the night she was finally arrested.

I didn’t take it personally. I calmly responded,
“Jon, we tried.”

Stephanie had always been volatile. I had watched her through multiple relationships. I had been called more than once to help de-escalate situations before they turned into police calls.

I never personally witnessed the physical altercations she and her partners would later “joke” about- but I saw how she tore them down long before anything physical happened.

By the end of our friendship, she was self-medicating her bipolar disorder with Xanax, phentermine, and vodka.

She wasn’t just unstable.

She was dangerous.

The night she was arrested, she used her husband’s prison-grade pepper spray on him while he slept.

As he woke up disoriented and in pain, trying to clear his vision, she attacked him with a knife.

He was left defending himself- blind, shocked, and trying to avoid serious injury.

A few days later, he reached out to me. 

I had already paid a price for standing up to her.

As a mandated reporter, I had to consider the safety of the children in her care- sometimes including my own children.

That decision led to months of stalking, harassment, public shaming, and ultimately being served with a Personal Protection Order.

Still, when he reached out, I showed up.

I offered support.
I offered testimony.
I sent documentation.
I shared everything I knew about her downward spiral.

I wanted to help him make sense of what he had just survived.

And then- two days later- he disappeared.

No calls. No messages. Nothing.

I don’t know what happened.

I don’t know if they’re still together.
If she got help.
If he did.

But I do know this:

We need to start talking about this.

Openly. Honestly. Without bias.

And I hope this situation- no matter how messy or uncomfortable- forces that conversation to happen!

If you are experiencing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233 or visit thehotline.org. All calls are toll-free and confidential, and support is available 24/7 in over 170 languages.