A Latina Survivor’s Perspective on Domestic Violence in ‘It Ends With Us’

Trigger Warning: Physical Violence, Sexual Assault, Self-Harm

I avoided reading It Ends With Us by Colleen Hoover for as long as I could because I knew the effect it would have on me as a domestic violence survivor. When I saw my younger sister, a then 17-year old immersed in the novel during the pandemic, it felt like a cachetada (slap to the face). I remember reprimanding her that I basically lived the same life as the protagonist, but something that always stuck out to me was that she replied, “…but this is fiction”. And after watching the movie, released earlier this month, I could see the romanticization enmeshed within domestic violence and how Gen Zer’s & the CoHort Fandom (the official name of Hoover’s fan club) kept the saga a never-ending market that includes a sequel. After watching that movie I was clasping my hands because that is what fictional stories are meant to do. Fiction is based on non-fictional moments, but the characters are transcendental in nature so these stories can eye-opening and informative on real-life matters. As a Latina author I know the challenges and obstacles that stand in my way to voice such a similar story, except that mine is actually nonfiction.

We were high-school sweethearts who entered adulthood earlier than most because we welcomed our daughter entering our senior year of high school. We were best friends before we had any type of relationship, so we dated for a couple of months before I ended up pregnant, I found out at the end of my first trimester. He seemed like your out-of-a-storybook Prince Charming prior to having his child, and his secretive wit drew me to fall in love with him. Naturally, there were rumors that he was “toxic” in high school, but I never believed them since he was “spoiling me” and catering to my wants and needs. Whether materialistic or physical intimacy he made it a mission to place me first, and that was a feeling I was not used to.

It was an adrenaline rush entering parenthood at 17, but I made sure to prioritize my self-growth for our daughter. He had no desire to even finish high school, however, I excelled in my studies because I knew this would be the only way to rise above poverty. I was kicked out of my home because I did not uphold the familial traditions of walking down the aisle in white, nor did I plan to abide by a forced marriage for the sake of tradition and people’s perceptions. Many of these issues derive from marianismo, a belief that women need to be obedient, subservient, traditional, and dedicated to their family above all else.

The saying, “you truly do not know somebody until you live with them” is very true simply because it forces people to reveal their true colors. His colors were a mirage of control, egocentrism, and villainy. I saw a glimpse of his mental instability when he tried to hurt himself with a knife in front of me and our daughter. His mother was there and she had the force to stop him but after that instance I never felt wholly safe.

It was until after my pregnancy that I learned he was of Nicaraguan descent, and he belittled anyone of any form of Mexican heritage, including me. If I was speaking to my family—he had to hear the conversations happening: he had access to all of my social media accounts and monitored them religiously. I was not able to get my license until we broke up when I was 25, and he spent years stalking my every move.

I was never able to get a license or learn to drive for that matter because he thought these two things would give me power. Something he had no desire for me to ever hold because with any “power” it was a possibility of freedom, and he never wanted me to have contact with what was out there, in the real world. When we were no longer together, it was mandated by the police to set-up a restraining order. Even with this piece of paper, he was following, hacking my tech, and stalking me every chance he could get.

In this society as women we face scrutiny when we do not pull our weight to give it our all in relationships, no matter the consequences faced. I lived through it, with the exception that I was pregnant prior to the abuse, and I didn’t date a wealthy neurosurgeon like Ryle, the possessive love interest of Lily Bloom. Instead, my abuser was a narcissistic pathological liar that traumatized me. He mirrored the “Ryle” aesthetic: tall, dark-haired, broad shoulders, fitted shirts, slacks, and dress-shoes that were worth more than his entire outfit combined. His magnetism for spewing out all the things a woman wants to hear: “don’t worry I’ll take care of you” or “I will give you the life you deserve” were enough to hypnotize me.

The opening of the film, starring Blake Lively and Justin Baldoni as Lily and Ryle, reveals a majestic nighttime view of Boston’s beauty that is heavily admired by Lily and then she spots Ryle throwing chairs and raging out from inner conflicts. A similar depiction of Ryle in this scene as he bangs and clangs away at the outside furniture lives with me in my head —when my abuser punched away at our apartment door. Instead of fleeing the scene, I plastered posters over the gaping hole, the only form of physical evidence I ever obtained. I never mustered up the courage to leave, instead I flourished in high-functioning anxiety, and stacked on task after task with the attempt to better myself for our daughter.

Throughout those eight years, I held onto the thought that “he is going to change…” but little did I know. I wrote about the abuse in diaries and journals because I only ever dreamt of voicing such harsh realities through etched secrets. It was not until I wrote about the topic of domestic violence in my creative writing undergrad course that my professor shared the memoir, In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado. An honest and vivid look at Machado’s abusive relationship through a scenic trace of vignettes. Something most survivors never share is that you simply cloak yourself in contradiction of the truth (“he abuses me but he loves me”), over and over again, praying you’ll end up in some peaceful parallel universe.

Domestic violence is at the forefront for many women with one in four affected in the U.S and 1 in 3 Latinas experiencing intimate partner violence (IPV). However, it is more common for those between the ages of 18-34, and the sad truth is that many linger for fear of the unknown. Where will I go? Who is going to provide for me? Can I make it all on my own? Will my child hate me for leaving? My family supported me because they felt they had to, but in an emotional sense they never supported me wholly, simply because of their traditional mindset of adhering to generational gender norms.

The final abuse scene in the film is a sexual assault moment in which Lily is able to remove herself from the situation. As the clip played, I sat still, paralyzed in a moment of reliving that exact impulse — hot tears falling from my face, shaking in disbelief at what I once lived through. But it was the bite mark on Lily’s shoulder that made me want to run out of that chilly cinema. My abuser relished the idea of, “marking his territory” —more often than not he would brand a sequence of “love bites” throughout my body as vivid proof that only he would ever “love” me. A physical imprint that I did not bare in sight, but my mind has seen much more than meets the eye. In comparison to Lily, I lived through the abuse time after time, and it never truly fazed me until I reached the ultimate blow, a wake-up-call. It was his hands around my neck and the fear of impending death that brought me to the realization that I had to leave.

Even when we want it to end, this sense of love limits us, it is beyond ourselves to implement a boundary because we are not used to walking away. By the end of the movie, my mascara was cascading down my cheeks and my eyes were todos hinchados. This film did a great job of painting the picture of domestic violence, but as a Latina who has experienced this firsthand I am not fond of the lack of diversity or inclusivity, especially in films depicting issues like this.

People with stories like mine are not given the necessary power to devise such hard truths on the screen. The amount of people voicing domestic violence is not enough, it starts with one person breaking the narrative. Sharing these narratives sheds light on the cultural pressures and systematic inequalities we as BIPOC folx face day by day.

Crystal Reyes is a Chicanx essayist, poet, and educator who released her debut collection Wildflower Blooming in 2024.

If you or someone you know are experiencing domestic violence, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1-800-799-7233, or go to thehotline.org. All calls are toll-free and confidential.