Stop the "It Ends With Us" Discourse and Listen to Survivors' Stories

By now, the whole internet has long been abuzz with criticism of the flower-filled press tour for "It Ends With Us," an adaptation of Colleen Hoover's novel of the same name in which Blake Lively stars as Lily Bloom, who experiences an abusive relationship at the hands of neurosurgeon Ryle (played by Justin Baldoni). But unlike some survivors, it didn't bother me that the film was marketed as a romance movie. My story started out as a romance, too — dancing together in the kitchen, talking in bed into the wee hours in the morning, laughing so hard my stomach hurt. All the things two people do when they're falling madly, deeply in love. The first time he hurt me was barely a blip on my radar. I remember staring at my swollen wrist and thinking, It was just an accident and my wrists have always been weak. The excuses got bigger and more outlandish every time he hurt me, and they lasted for more than a year.

But leaving isn't easy when you've become financially dependent on the same person who is oozing his way into all the nooks and crannies of your life, making you smaller and smaller until you can only imagine fitting neatly into his world and start forgetting that you once had a life of your own. Financial abuse is present in 99 percent of domestic violence cases, according to the National Network to End Domestic Violence, but in "It Ends With Us," Lily is able to flounce her way out of a hospitalization, into her own apartment, and prepare to have a baby on her own. And research has shown domestic violence is more common among pregnant women than preeclampsia or gestational diabetes, yet pregnancy and a newborn are what set Lily free.

Perhaps the most absurd part of the movie happens in the hospital, when Ryle holds his newborn daughter and Lily says, "I need to know what you would say to our daughter if the man she loves with all her heart ever hurts her." Ryle responds, "I would beg her to leave him," and then seemingly walks out of Lily and their daughter's lives. When I saw this, I stared incredulously at the movie screen, and thought darkly to myself, Jeez, I wish my life had played out like this movie. The thing is, I had thought of that. I had begged, pleaded, bartered with him to stop, to leave me, to walk out of my life, to stop hurting me.

But domestic violence is about exerting power and control over a vulnerable person, and reality doesn't usually wrap up neatly like it does in the movie. Lily Bloom was never truly powerless or isolated the way most victims are. There are no magic words that break the cycle of domestic violence; a happily ever after has to be built brick by brick with blood, sweat, tears, and impossible grief in every step of the journey.

When I finally got out of that relationship, I felt like I had a flashing neon sign attached to my forehead that read, "Broken." Even though my body had healed, the emotional toll of surviving that relationship made me feel like I was covered in ugly, jagged scars. I was damaged goods. People still tell me how strong I was for surviving — but being told I'm strong when I had no other choice but to be strong isn't empowering. It's a nagging reminder of how exhausted I felt, of how I was on a constant verge of tears, and how I wished I could just lay in bed all day and cry, but instead I had to put one foot in front of the other. The only way out is through.

I could have dismissed "It Ends With Us" as simply a bad movie attempting to broach the difficult topic of domestic violence. (Hoover, who said she witnessed domestic violence in her own family growing up, has also come under criticism for her portrayal of abuse in the novel version.) Of course, it isn't easy to capture a highly individual experience. But other portrayals, like Netflix's series "Maid," have offered a more accurate portrayal of the difficulties a victim faces when they try to leave and navigate the complicated system of survivor resources.

And then I saw Lively on her press tour saying, "You are so much more than just a survivor or just a victim" and "Grab your friends, wear your florals, and head out to see it." Both instances felt like Lively was playing dress-up in my pain. She comes across as tone deaf to the complexity of intimate partner violence, and appears to be using 12 million people's annual experience with trauma and tragedy as a marketing opportunity rather than addressing the underlying public health issue.

Paired with the unrealistic plot, it makes sense why Lily's character is so unbelievable in the movie — it seems Lively can't relate to the experience of being trapped in an abusive relationship and the sense of powerlessness and helplessness that comes with such an entrapment. It isn't something a woman can just Rosie the Riveter her way out of; so many systemic factors keep a victim in place. In my own experience, I faced difficulty with finding affordable housing, being able to pay my student loans, pet rehousing/displacement, and having reliable and safe transportation. My job attendance also suffered, which put my source of income in jeopardy. All of these hardships were from leaving.

But ultimately, Lively doesn't have to be a survivor to be an advocate against intimate partner violence. She could have handed over her platform and the microphone to any one of the too many of us to share our stories. The cycle of abuse stops with awareness — and she could've helped spread that awareness like the flowers she's so focused on. But true to my own story, there isn't someone coming to save us anyway. That's the work we have to do. One foot in front of the other.

Alexandra Hunt is a public health researcher; a girls' soccer coach; an advocate for social, racial, economic, and environmental justice; and a community organizer. Alexandra has worked in a variety of fields from sex work to politics and believes that leading with vulnerability and sharing our stories can ultimately facilitate change.