After decades of watching friends marry, have children, and face divorce, I found myself on a different path. I stayed single, which gave me room to reflect on my own experience and the journeys of those around me. I have developed something of a contrarian streak: I fail to see how anyone before forty can counsel people about life. It was late before I pivoted my career and moved to Vermont to practice psychotherapy.
In my practice I work primarily with men, many from socio-economically challenged backgrounds. A common thread: many became fathers in their early twenties, often emerging from broken homes with few educational opportunities. That is no excuse for the men I have counseled who have been abusive, incarcerated, or in desperate need of counseling. It is one layer of a psychological reality that long-term, nuanced therapy has to take seriously.
The question clients ask is, "Can I change?" The more pressing question is, "Do I want to?" Change here does not mean minor behavioral adjustment. It means a fundamental shift in how one interacts with others — particularly in the context of abusive behavior. The belief that change is possible is not a hopeful add-on; it is the central supposition of therapy itself. If change were out of reach, we would not bother.
A colleague recently asked what I thought of Lundy Bancroft, whose book *Why Does He Do That?* has shaped much of the public conversation about abusive men. Bancroft spent a decade counseling abusive men, and his commitment to victims is not in doubt. But his framework is bleak: abusers are men motivated by power and control, acting from entitlement and self-centeredness, and they rarely change without severe consequences.
That framework is contradicted by broader research on intimate partner violence. The data shows that abuse is perpetrated by both men and women, often driven by unresolved emotional pain, stress, relational conflict, trauma, and poor coping skills — not solely a hunger for dominance. Dynamics are frequently bidirectional, shaped by personal history and relational patterns. And the research on change is more hopeful than Bancroft allows: strong therapeutic relationships and tailored interventions do produce meaningful behavior change. His model can leave motivated men feeling confused and hopeless, which serves no one.
A more complete picture comes from neuroscience. Dr. Stephen Stahl's work in psychopharmacology and psychiatry — particularly on impulsivity, compulsivity, and violence — shows how brain circuits and neurotransmitters mediate the behaviors we see in domestic violence. Stahl's point is not that mental illness excuses violence; it is that violent behavior has multifactorial roots — psychological makeup, environment, social context — and that effective intervention addresses psychiatric symptoms and behavioral patterns together. His research on impulse control, OCD, and mood disorders suggests something Bancroft's model cannot: with proper support, people can develop greater self-awareness and learn to manage their actions.
That is the premise I work from. In therapy, my goal is to navigate the unique layers of a person's personality, background, and mind — addressing impulse control and mood disorders alongside appropriate pharmacological support. Believing in everyone's potential for change is not naiveté. It is the job.
The framework I find most useful for this work is Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. Its six components build something Bancroft's approach never offers: self-compassion as the ground of accountability.
Acceptance means acknowledging thoughts and feelings without judgment — not condoning harmful behavior, but creating an honest stance toward one's inner world. Defusion helps clients see thoughts as mental events rather than ultimate truths, loosening the grip of beliefs that perpetuate distress. Self-as-context offers an identity larger than any single action: the observer-self that remains constant while experiences change. Values clarify what actually matters to the client, so change becomes meaningful rather than punitive. Mindfulness anchors the work in the present, breaking habitual patterns. Committed action turns values into behavior, step by step, even when it is difficult.
None of this denies the seriousness of abuse. Some men are dangerous. Victims deserve safety and respect, full stop. But a framework that declares abusive men unchangeable abandons the very people most in need of intervention — and abandons their partners and children to the consequences.
Change is not only possible. It is a journey, and I have watched men make it: from grievance to responsibility, from reactivity to steadiness, from shame to something like self-respect. The path runs through self-compassion and a willingness to confront brutal truths. That combination — kindness toward oneself and ruthless honesty — is what breaks cycles.
