Walking into the Storm
- Ava Morgyn
- Sep 16
- 5 min read
Trigger warning: This blog post discusses DV
Her face is the red-purple of beets. Not bruised, just flush. Hot and pumped full of oxygen-rich blood, ready to run. But she's not running. She's washing her hands calmly at the sink, as if the stain is hers. As if she can wash him away.
I followed her in here. Strode right past him into the public restroom of the park to check on her. To make myself available. I wish these bathrooms had doors.
It was the screaming I noticed first.
Coming up the trail through dense woods, the trees were practically shaking with it. I slowed and put a hand out to signal my son to do the same. We crept up the walk, pressed our faces to the scrub, peeked through the leaves.
He was screaming so loud, straining so hard, his throat sounded raw. I picked up on the steady beat of expletives, spat in a stream like artillery. Saw the way he stood over her, followed when she tried to walk away.
"I can't hold your hand? Your fucking hand?? I can't hold your fucking hand because of that?!"
The instinct is always to flee. I am naturally conflict avoidant, aware I'm often one of the smallest people in the room. My son, full grown, is not a big man. Neither of us primed for a physical altercation. And really, I'm not that into other people's drama. Humans are messy and unpredictable. Truly the scariest thing in the forest.
So, of course, I wanted to turn and go back the way we had come, avoid whatever meltdown was unfolding up the trail before us. But this is different, isn't it? This is a woman alone with a man. This is not just drama. This is violent and threatening. This is abuse. If I leave, I leave her at a disadvantage. I leave her in danger. I leave her with him.
"We need to walk over there," I tell my son. "So he sees us. So there are witnesses."
He looks at me. He doesn't want this fight anymore than I do. But I raised him right. And he sees what I see, knows what I know. He nods, and we start walking.
As we clear the bend in the trail, I see her walk briskly back toward us, duck into the brick comfort of the restroom up ahead, the false security of a Women sign. And I know she's gone in there to get away from him, to go where she hopes he won't follow.
I point my son toward a nearby bench and say, "I'm going in there to check on her." He nods again, takes up his post. The man lingers at the edge of the parking lot beyond, watching me. I breeze past him despite the thrumming of my heart, act like I just need to pee.
Behind the restroom is a playground where small children are swinging. All unwilling witnesses to the man's unhinged tirade. Another red flag that I briefly clock. If he's willing to go off like that in front of an audience, who knows what else he's capable of?
When she steps up to the sink, face dark red and tear-slick, I say to her, "Are you alright?"
She looks up, surprise and unease on her face. I recognize the glazed expression of shock, of barely knowing where you are or what you are doing because something unthinkable is happening. She gives a very superficial smile. "I'm okay,"
"No," I say. "I mean, are you safe? Because you don't seem safe. That's why I came in here, to check on you. To make sure you're okay."
"I'm okay," she says again, an admissive drop in her tone, in the tilt of her head. She knows I heard, no point in denying it. And yet, I cannot seem to get through to her, to make her understand. She doesn't have to smooth any of it over for me. That's why I'm here.
"If you need help, I'm here to help you." If you need help? I will later think. Of course she does, though she will not take it. Not yet anyway.
"I'm okay," she says again. "It's just a bad day."
"There's no excuse for that," I tell her, indicating what we just witnessed, the threat looming over her.
She gets ready to leave and I say, as a last resort, "If you see me and my son walking and you need us, you just wave. We'll help you."
She smiles shyly, nods, and ducks out. By the time I make it outside, she's in his car, and he's peeling out of the parking lot.
Later, I will admonish myself for not getting the license plate, the make and model of the car. For not giving her my name and phone number. For not calling police. For not doing more.
Because she wasn't safe. Not with him. Not anywhere close to him. She knew that. I knew that. And yet I let her walk back out and get in his car. Not that I could have stopped her. But oh how I wanted to. How I wanted to say, "Please, make your exit. Let me help. You deserve so much better. Protect yourself. You deserve to be happy, to be free, to be safe."
The truth is, I failed her. I, who thought I knew so much better, failed her as much as the rest of the world failed her. It was just a few minutes in a public restroom, but she needed more from me, and I didn't know how to give it. So she walked back into the storm.
Or at least, that's what I thought until I began researching online, reading the advice of websites dedicated to helping women escape violent and abusive situations. And it turned out, I had not been that far off the mark. Though it still feels like far too little. Most sites advocate for the following should you find yourself in a circumstance like I did:
Using discretion, ask if the person is safe or would like to talk to someone
Express that they deserve safety and support
Let them know free help is available through various programs (share toll-free numbers and websites when possible)
Call police if you see or suspect imminent harm
When possible, remain available and supportive—they may choose to leave later, need help with a safety plan, require resources or referral to programs in the area, need a statement from you about what you witnessed for legal reasons
It is important to always ensure your own safety and to avoid escalating the violence against the survivor
Below are some online resources for those who witness partner violence or experience it:
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