This project exists because domestic abuse is still too often hidden, misunderstood, or reduced to statistics. Behind those numbers are real people living with long-term impact — not just during the abuse, but long after it ends.
Echoes is built around listening. It brings together photography and first-person storytelling to create space for people to speak about their experiences in their own words, on their own terms. The focus is not on shock or exposure, but on truth, dignity, and the reality of what abuse leaves behind.
The work looks beyond the moment of harm and into the lasting echoes — how abuse shapes identity, confidence, relationships, and the process of rebuilding a sense of self. Each story is shared with care, consent, and respect, recognising that being heard safely can be as important as being seen.
This is not a project about labels or headlines. It is about people.
I had this book where I wrote down everything she did, like my own secret diary. But she found it, and she burned it all. All my words, all my proof, gone.
I felt so small, like I couldn’t do anything to stop her or prove what she did.
I wasn’t allowed on the bed. Every night, I’d try to sneak onto it, hoping for a moment of comfort, but she’d always shove me off.
I made it as comfortable as I could, with a cushion and a blanket, but it still felt like I was being treated like an animal. Lying there, I couldn’t shake the feeling of being less than human, undeserving of even a basic place to sleep.
He boiled a pan of water on the hob. He kept telling me that I had to stop upsetting him. He said it over and over again, but wouldn’t say what I was doing.
Then he called the dog over and held it near the water. He kept telling me to stop upsetting him.
I couldn’t. I didn’t even know what I had done wrong.
He took control of my banking, wanting to know every penny I had and where it went. I couldn’t have my own money. He watched everything. He’d even take cash from my account, moving it to his if he thought I had too much.
I dreamed of using that money to break free, but there was no hiding it from him. Every time I thought I had enough, he’d take it away.
I was out chilling with my mates when my phone rang. It was her, and she sounded really messed up, saying she’d hurt herself if I didn’t come back.
When I got back, I found her in the bathroom, knives lying there like some horror movie. It freaked me out big time.
After that, I felt like I had to stay close, like I was responsible for her. I couldn’t even hang out with my friends without worrying about what might happen when I wasn’t there.
Every morning there was a cup of tea waiting for me in the kitchen. Always in the same broken cup. I hated that cup, I wanted to smash it, but that would just get me in trouble. She would also leave the teabag and spoon for me to clean up.
She did it to remind me that I was a broken mess and that nobody would want me.
The thought of it still makes me feel sad and lonely.