There is a thin, almost invisible line that separates renunciation from responsibility, and responsibility from emotional abuse.
This line, once drawn by common sense, a culture of solidarity, and the concreteness of family life, is now continually redefined by a society that has internalized the values of individualistic hedonism.
Over time, this line has shifted: from a criterion of balance to an ideological boundary.
Today, any form of sacrifice, any act of responsibility that involves a personal renunciation for the common good — of the couple or the children — risks being interpreted as a form of emotional oppression.
A society that has lost its sense of limits is no longer able to distinguish between what is freely chosen out of love and what is imposed to dominate.
Thus, renunciation is no longer a sign of maturity, but an indication of a "toxic" relationship.
Responsibility towards the other is no longer a value but a potential sign of guilt.
And the institution of marriage — based precisely on mutual responsibility and shared sacrifices — is emptied of meaning. Only to become a source of obligations at the time of divorce.
In the name of presumed protection, the systematic dismantling of family bonds is legitimized.
And the children — for whose well-being promises were made — disappear from the center of attention, becoming silent spectators of a justice system that no longer protects them.
We live in an age of total interpretative imbalance.
What for generations was understood as prudence, dialogue, and shared responsibility,
is now often reclassified as control dynamics.
Take a concrete example: a discussion between spouses about an important expense.
Once this was considered normal, a sign of shared responsibility in managing the family.
Today, the same situation can be read as economic control — especially if raised by the man.
This creates a paradox:
unity is no longer promoted, but rupture;
agreement is no longer valued, but suspicion.
And those who call for dialogue are often silenced.
What we no longer want to understand is that renunciation is not always abuse.
Nor is fatigue. Nor is compromise.
Real life imposes limits, sets obstacles, and sometimes forces us to give up something of ourselves.
In marriage, this is even more evident: no lasting bond exists without mutual sacrifices, shared decisions, and the downsizing of dreams to make room for something greater — the family.
But today, all of this is being rewritten.
Every renunciation can become an accusation.
Every frustration can be reinterpreted as "psychological violence."
If you want to find violence, you will.
All it takes is the will to see it — and a compliant system will provide the vocabulary and support to legitimize it.
The result? The trivialization of authentic pain, the distortion of the concept of abuse, and the erosion of the sense of limits and responsibility.
The law no longer distinguishes between behavior imposed to dominate and that which is accepted out of love.
And in doing so, it ceases to protect the truth.
Living together requires renunciations.
The attempt to avoid them is human, understandable, natural.
But asking the other to give up something is not violence, if it arises within a balance,
if it is accompanied by the willingness to do the same.
This is the implicit pact of life together: you win together, you lose together.
You both give up something — not to erase yourselves, but to build a shared space where the other is not an obstacle but part of you.
And what if one gives up too much? It can happen.
If one partner feels crushed, invisible, empty —
then yes, they have the right to raise their hand and ask for balance.
This is what a healthy society should encourage: dialogue, the search for a new understanding,
the courage to say "I can't go on like this" — without that meaning automatic destruction.
But today, too often, the shortcut wins: "it's abuse," they say — and that's the end.
No listening. No effort. No repair.
And so, we give up the relationship — and the very meaning of sharing.
A society that sees every compromise as defeat,
that sees in renunciation only weakness,
can no longer sustain lasting relationships.
It teaches flight. Rewriting. Destruction — to rebuild alone.
But not everything that costs is toxic.
Not everything that wounds is violence.
Sometimes, it is simply life.
And learning to live it together is the hardest task — but also the only one truly worth facing.