When Love Keeps Hurting: Recognising Trauma Bonds

I’ve got this friend, he's brilliant, thoughtful, warm-hearted. The kind of person who shows up with soup when you’re sick and bad memes when you’re spiralling. He deserves the kind of love that lifts. The kind that settles in beside him and says, “You don’t have to earn this.” The kind of love I found.

But instead, he’s wrapped up in someone who gives just enough to keep him tethered… and not a drop more.

He waits for replies that never come. Holds in his feelings to avoid setting his partner off. Tiptoes around silence, then clings to the apology when it eventually shows up.

He once told me about a night he sent a message just before bed. Something unimportant, nothing heavy. And didn’t hear back until the next afternoon. Not because there was an emergency. Just, “Oh, I forgot to reply.”

He planned a visit, travelled across the country to see his partner… and ended up spending most of the time alone. Sitting quietly in his boyfriend's flat while his partner disappeared into his phone, his distractions, his mood.

And then there was that night. The night his calls that went unanswered until morning. The excuse?

“My phone wasn't working properly”.

His boyfriend was fucking someone else (the bear scene is as gossip ridden as any twink scene. They talk! It really sucks when you know someone is cheating - and you can’t say a word).

I'm pretty sure my friend knows - he's an intelligent guy, he can see the signs - but he still puts up with it.

That’s what trauma bonds do.

I’ve been turning it over in my head for a while now, why someone would stay in something that chips away at them, little by little. Why a person so full of love and tenderness would keep pouring it into someone who won’t even treat him with basic respect.

The pattern is so familiar, and it has a name. Trauma bond.

A trauma bond forms when someone hurts you repeatedly, but you stay. Because they’re not always cruel. Sometimes they’re kind. Sometimes they laugh with you and kiss your neck and say all the right things. And your brain, your body, clings to those scraps like they mean something bigger. Like the pain is the entry fee for love.

And when you’ve lived with that long enough, it starts to feel normal.

Even expected.

Maybe it's attachment?

Lately I’ve been wondering if part of the reason he’s still there, still holding on, is because of the way he’s learned to love.

It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s someone who leans anxious in attachment. The kind who craves closeness, but feels like they have to tiptoe to keep it. The kind who takes every silence personally. Who will work twice as hard to prove they’re worthy, even when the other person stopped trying long ago.

It’s not a flaw. It’s just how people learn to survive.

He’s always been the one to reach out first. To apologise first. To soften first, even when he’s the one hurting. It’s easy to call that an act of love. But what they're chasing isn’t really love. It’s relief.

Relief from the anxiety. From the not-knowing. From the silence.

Because when someone you’re attached to finally softens, finally smiles again, finally says “I miss you,” it feels like connection. But really, it’s just the crash after the climb. The reward after the punishment.

That's what love is?

The part that breaks my heart the most. He thinks that’s just what love is. But it’s not.

Imagine what life could be like around safe love. Around someone who texts back. Who doesn’t punish. Who offers warmth without needing to earn it.

I found secure love later in life, and the difference is breathtaking.

Shoulders drop.

Laugh comes easier.

You start to believe that maybe love doesn’t have to come with tension or tests.

That’s what secure love looks like. Not flashy or intense. Just consistent. Safe. Everyone deserves secure love - no one more than my friend.

He deserves the kind of love that lets you exhale too. But he’s in a loop where affection has to be earned. Where vulnerability is punished. Where reassurance only comes after a breakdown.

Where “I love you” feels like a reward instead of a daily truth.

He thinks it’s love because it hurts when it’s gone. But that’s not love. That’s survival, and trauma bonds don’t reward growth. They reward loyalty to dysfunction.

There’s nothing I can say that he doesn’t already feel in his gut. But still, I’m writing this.

Not to confront him.

Not to convince him.

But to leave the door open.

In case he sees himself in these words.

In case something clicks.

In case he’s ready to stop calling this hurt love.

And when he is, I’ll be here.

Not with an I told you so.

But with soup. And bad memes. And a hug that says: You were always enough my friend.