When we think about unhealthy relationships, it’s tempting to picture clear villains and victims—one person causing harm, the other simply enduring it. But real life often isn’t that clean-cut. Sometimes, in the messy tangle of love and hurt, people find themselves becoming willing accomplices to their own undoing. This paradox sits at the heart of trauma bonds and the psychological phenomenon known as Stockholm syndrome.
A trauma bond is a deep emotional attachment that develops between a person and someone who repeatedly mistreats them. It’s not the healthy attachment of mutual respect—it’s a bond forged in cycles of abuse and reconciliation, fear and relief, pain and pleasure. The abuser inflicts harm, but then offers moments of kindness or “rescue,” which the victim clings to as proof of love. Over time, this intermittent reinforcement creates loyalty that can feel unshakable.
Stockholm syndrome is a related concept, often used to describe hostages who form emotional connections with their captors. The logic is survival: identifying with the person in control can feel like the safest choice when escape seems impossible. What’s surprising is how often this dynamic shows up not just in hostage situations, but in romantic relationships, friendships, and even workplaces.
If you’ve ever listened to Olivia Rodrigo’s Favorite Crime, you’ve heard the emotional anatomy of this kind of connection. She sings from the perspective of someone who knows they’ve been hurt—who can list the betrayals, the lies, the moments when they should have walked away. And yet, there’s an aching nostalgia, even tenderness, toward the very person who caused the harm. It’s a confession: I helped you hurt me, and part of me still cherishes the memories.
That’s the painful truth about trauma bonds. They can make you remember the good times with a golden glow while pushing the bad times into the shadows. You replay the moments when you felt chosen, adored, or needed, even if those moments were surrounded by neglect or cruelty. You justify the harm, sometimes even protect the person who caused it, because leaving them would mean letting go of both the fantasy and the identity you built around surviving them.
The “willing accomplice” idea is tricky. It doesn’t mean the victim wanted the harm, or that they are to blame. It means the brain, wired for connection and safety, can convince itself that staying is the safest choice—even if it’s also the most damaging one. What outsiders see as self-destructive, the person inside the bond experiences as loyalty, love, or destiny.
Breaking free from this cycle isn’t just about cutting contact; it’s about rewiring how you define love and safety. It’s learning that love shouldn’t require you to betray yourself. It’s grieving not only the person, but also the role you played in your own captivity. And it’s understanding that you can tell your story—full of both tenderness and truth—without romanticizing the harm that was done.
Because sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is stop being your own favorite crime.
