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    When men don’t see themselves in the system: Barriers to disclosure

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    NCDV: For Women. For Men. For Everyone.

    At its core, this is not just a slogan, it’s a statement of principle. Domestic abuse does not exist within a single gender, and neither should support, understanding, or pathways to safety. While national conversations have rightly focused on violence against women and girls, it is vital that our collective response does not unintentionally exclude others. When men do not see themselves reflected in how domestic abuse is discussed or understood, disclosure becomes harder, silence becomes safer, and harm continues unchecked.

    One of the most significant barriers is men not identifying their experiences as domestic abuse.

    Domestic abuse is still widely understood through a narrow lens, often centred on physical violence. Yet many men experience abuse in other forms, such as, coercive control, emotional abuse, financial control, harassment, and post-separation abuse. When public narratives fail to acknowledge men’s experiences, they are often reframed as “relationship problems”, “arguments”, or simply something to be endured. This is exacerbated by the fact they are not visible within the figures. The government considers crimes like domestic abuse under the Violence Against Women and Girls (VAWG) strategy, therefore male victims are included, but you would never guess it from the title!

    If abuse is consistently described as something that happens to women, men may struggle to recognise that what they’re experiencing fits within that definition at all. And if abuse is not recognised, it cannot be disclosed.

    Masculinity and the cost of speaking out

    Disclosure can feel like a direct challenge to deeply ingrained expectations around masculinity.
    Many men are socialised to be self-reliant, resilient, and in control. Vulnerability is often discouraged, particularly when it involves harm within an intimate relationship. Admitting to being abused can feel like a personal failure, not just a difficult experience, but a loss of identity. For some men, the internal conflict between needing support and feeling they should cope alone becomes overwhelming. Silence can feel safer than risking judgement, disbelief, or shame.

    Fear of disbelief and misidentification

    A common fear among male victim-survivors is not simply that they will not be believed, but that they will be misunderstood.

    Men may worry that disclosure will result in:

    • Their experience being minimised or dismissed.
    • The abuse being reframed as “mutual conflict”.
    • Assumptions that they are the primary aggressor.

    These concerns often lead men to disclose cautiously, offering partial or indirect information to test how it will be received. When they receive responses that are dismissive, surprised, or framed around relationship conflict rather than harm, the opportunity for meaningful disclosure can close, sometimes permanently.

    The perceived risks of disclosure

    Disclosure is not a neutral act. For many men, it feels risky.

    Concerns may include:

    • Losing contact with their children.
    • Being asked to leave the home.
    • Escalation from the abusive partner.
    • Becoming involved with systems they do not trust

    When the perceived consequences of disclosure outweigh the perceived benefits, silence becomes a rational, self-protective choice.

    Professional responses matter

    Men often disclose abuse first to professionals outside specialist domestic abuse services, such as GPs, police officers, housing providers, or family court professionals.

    How these disclosures are received matters enormously. When professionals:

    • Use gendered assumptions.
    • Focus immediately on relationship conflict.
    • Fail to ask follow-up questions.
    • Appear uncertain or uncomfortable.

    Men can quickly conclude that their experience does not fit within the system’s understanding of domestic abuse. Conversely, when professionals use inclusive, behaviour-focused language and respond without surprise or judgement, disclosure becomes possible.

    Isolation and the absence of validation

    Many men experiencing domestic abuse feel profoundly isolated. They may have no peers they feel able to confide in and no visible public narratives that validate their experiences. Without examples of other men being believed and supported, it is easy to conclude:
    “If no one else is talking about this, maybe it isn’t abuse, or maybe it’s just me.”
    Visibility does not force disclosure, but it gives permission for it to happen.

    Creating the conditions for disclosure

    Men are more likely to disclose when:

    • Abuse is described in gender-inclusive, behaviour-focused ways.
    • Messaging makes it explicit that abuse can happen to anyone.
    • Professionals respond with belief rather than surprise.

    Systems clearly signal that support is available without assumptions.

    This does not detract from the urgent and necessary focus on violence against women and girls. It strengthens the overall response to domestic abuse by ensuring that no victim-survivor is left feeling unseen or unsupported because they do not fit a dominant narrative.

    Closing reflection

    Men do not fail to disclose because they do not need support. They fail to disclose because too often the system tells them, quietly but consistently,  that this story was not written with them in mind.

    If we want earlier disclosure, safer outcomes, and more effective intervention, we must ensure that everyone experiencing domestic abuse can see themselves in the conversation, and feel believed when they speak.

     

    Sally Herzog

    Training & Engagement Manager, NCDV

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    By Fiona Bawden, Times Online (8th May 2007)

    “Steve Connor, a student at City Law School, is a man on a mission. Six years ago he was a fairly directionless 27-year-old. Today, as well as taking the Bar Vocational Course, he is chairman of the National Centre for Domestic Violence, a ground-breaking organisation that he dragged into existence after a friend could not get legal help to protect her from an abusive partner.

    Connor’s route to the Bar has been circuitous. In 2001 he returned from a year in Australia (he says that he would not dignify describing it as a gap year), and took a job as a process server in South London. The job (“I just saw it advertised in the paper”) was not quite as dull as it sounds. On one occasion he was threatened with a machete, on another, he was nearly stabbed by a man he had arranged to meet on Clapham Common to serve with a non-molestation order: “He’d seemed really friendly on the phone…”

    The turning point in his life came when a friend, who was being abused by her partner, turned to him for support. Connor went with her to the police. She did not want to press criminal charges so the police suggested that she visit a solicitor to take out a civil injunction. “We must have seen 12 solicitors in a morning. We just went from one to the next to the next to the next. Everyone was very eager to help until we sat down to fill in the forms for the legal aid means test,” he says. The woman, who had a small child, did not qualify for public funding. But, Connor says, her financial situation as it appeared on paper did not bear any relation to her financial situation in reality. “She had a part-time job and she and her partner owned their home. Yet she didn’t have any money. Her boyfriend was very controlling and controlled all the money; he kept the chequebooks and didn’t let her have access to the bank account.”

    The injustice of the situation got under Connor’s skin. “I just couldn’t believe that there was no help available to people who did not qualify for public funds but could not afford to pay.

    I just kept feeling that this must be able to be sorted if only someone would address it.”That “someone” turned out to be him.

    In 2002, thanks entirely to Connor’s doggedness, the London Centre for Domestic Violence was formed. It started out with him and a friend, but is now a national organisation, covering 27 counties, and has helped approximately 10,000 victims last year to take out injunctions against their partners.

    NCDV now has nine full-time staff, 12 permanent volunteers and has trained over 5000 law and other students as McKenzie Friends to accompany unrepresented victims into court. We have also trained over 8000 police officers in civil remedies available regarding domestic violence. The National Centre for Domestic Violence (NCDV) has branches in London, Guildford and Manchester and is on track to have branches in 16 areas within the next two years.

    NCDV specialises exclusively in domestic violence work and could be characterised as a cross between McDonald’s and Claims Direct. The high degree of specialisation means that its processes are streamlined: clients can be seen quickly and the work is done speedily and cheaply. “Sometimes, we will have one of our trained McKenzie Friends at a court doing 10 applications in one day,” Connor says.

    Clients are not charged for the service. NCDV staff take an initial statement: clients who qualify for legal aid are referred to a local firm; those that don’t get free help from the centre itself. It runs on a shoestring, heavily reliant on volunteers and capping staff salaries at £18,000 a year.

    Steve expects to qualify as a barrister this summer and hopes that having a formal legal qualification will give the centre added clout. “We are already acknowledged as experts and consulted at a high level, so I thought it would be helpful if I could back that up by being able to say I’m a barrister,” he says. He is just about to complete a one-year full-time BVC course at the City Law School (formerly the Inns of Court Law School) and, all being well, should be called to the Bar in July. Although Connor sees his long-term future as a barrister, he says that he has no immediate plans to practise. “I want to get NCDV running on a fully national level. Then I may take a step back and have a career at the Bar.”