DARVO, Gaslighting, and the Queer Silence: How "Nina’s Whisper" Confronts LGBTQ Intimate Partner Violence
Book Review: Nina’s Whisper by Sheena C. Howard A Decolonial Lens on Intimate Partner Violence and the DARVO Playbook
Book Review: Nina’s Whisper by Sheena C. Howard
A Decolonial Lens on Intimate Partner Violence and the DARVO Playbook
When I first picked up Nina’s Whisper by Sheena C. Howard, I didn’t expect to see such a deeply familiar and painfully accurate portrayal of intimate partner violence (IPV). The book has been described in some spaces as a psychological thriller—but let’s be clear: this isn’t entertainment. This is a resource. It’s a quiet, truthful, and accessible exploration of the subtle, slow, and insidious progression of domestic abuse—one that resonates powerfully, particularly for those who have survived it or are still living it.
What makes this novel so essential is its deconstruction of the myth that abuse only happens in heterosexual relationships or to financially dependent women. Nina, a successful, dark-skinned Black pediatrician with financial stability, a beautiful home, and professional success, finds herself trapped in an abusive relationship with Page, a white woman from Louisiana. Howard skillfully dismantles the assumption that economic freedom or education shields people from abuse. It doesn’t. Emotional manipulation, gaslighting, trauma bonding, and DARVO tactics are psychological weapons that can imprison even the most outwardly empowered people.
Love Bombing, Gaslighting, and DARVO: The Cycle of Abuse
Howard’s narrative is a masterclass in showing how abusers deploy DARVO (Deny, Attack, Reverse Victim and Offender) throughout the relationship. Page systematically chips away at Nina’s self-esteem, initially love bombing her with grand gestures and public displays of affection, while privately sowing seeds of self-doubt and confusion.
Page frequently denies her abusive behavior, attacks Nina’s credibility, and positions herself as the true victim.
This is classic DARVO—and Howard doesn’t just tell us, she shows us in brutal, everyday interactions.
For example, when Nina calmly communicates her feelings, Page mocks her:
"Look at you standing there shaking like a little baby," Page sneers, physically mimicking Nina in a degrading gesture. Nina’s instinct is not to fight back but to rationalize Page’s cruelty—maybe it’s the stress, the long commute, maybe it’s something Nina did. This internal rationalization is a hallmark of how DARVO tactics work: targets begin to self-blame and desperately try to ‘fix’ a relationship that was designed to keep them broken.
The Importance of Representation: IPV Beyond Heteronormativity
What I found particularly powerful is that Howard places this story in a lesbian relationship, disrupting the dominant narrative that IPV is a straight woman’s issue. Too often, the literature, resources, and cultural scripts center heterosexual dynamics, erasing the experiences of LGBTQIA+ survivors. Nina’s story reminds us that queer relationships are not immune to abuse and that the silence surrounding it is part of what perpetuates the violence.
Howard also layers the racial dynamics without flattening them. Page is a white woman, and Nina—a dark-skinned Black woman—grew up in a world that repeatedly told her she was not beautiful, not worthy, not enough. Her mother, aware of the anti-Black world her daughter would face, gave her gifts as a child to affirm her worth. But Page’s manipulation weaponizes Nina’s internalized self-criticism—**a uniquely racialized vulnerability—**to erode her confidence and autonomy over time. The insidiousness of this isn’t just personal; it’s deeply systemic.
Alcoholism, Codependency, and Inherited Patterns
Page’s alcoholism isn’t incidental—it’s a strategic layer Howard uses to demonstrate how codependency and trauma bonding often intertwine with abuse. Nina clings to the hope that if she just tries harder, loves better, communicates more effectively, she can save the relationship. But the brutal truth, one that Howard exposes with painful clarity, is that you cannot heal an abuser by sacrificing yourself.
What’s more, Howard shows how abuse is inherited and normalized across generations. When Nina visits Page’s family in Louisiana, she witnesses the emotional violence Page’s father enacts toward her mother. Nina’s gut tells her it’s wrong, but like many of us, she shrinks away, thinking, that’s not my business. Howard forces us to reckon with that silence—the kind that sustains domestic violence as a silent epidemic.
The Silence that Protects Abuse
One of the most compelling parts of the novel is how Nina’s silence and self-protection play into the abuser’s strategy. Even in couples therapy, Nina is too scared to disclose the knife incident or Page’s alcoholism, because she knows that if the therapist sides with her (Nina), the repercussions she might face at home could escalate. This moment reveals how abusers often manipulate public perception, including therapists, to portray themselves as the victim. Page is performing for the therapist, and it works.
Howard shows that DARVO isn’t just personal—it’s performative. Page carefully curates her image to friends, family, and professionals, making it even harder for Nina to be believed or supported.
My Personal Connection
What hit me hardest was how much Nina’s journey mirrored my own. Like Nina, when I was experiencing abuse in a former intimate partnership, I didn’t recognize it as abuse. I thought I just needed to communicate better. I too lost myself in self-help books, workshops, desperate to fix something that was never mine to fix. Abusers don’t need fixing—they need exposure.
Nina’s story reminded me that abuse is not a matter of financial dependence, nor is it always loud or visible. It’s the quiet erosion of self, the slow destabilization of reality, and the cruel exploitation of your deepest vulnerabilities.
Final Thoughts
Nina’s Whisper isn’t about thrills. It’s about truth. It’s a resource for survivors, a mirror for those who may not yet have the language to name what’s happening to them, and a call to action for those who assume IPV is something that happens to "other people."
Howard’s writing is accessible, not weighed down by clinical jargon, making it digestible and deeply impactful for those who need it most.
This book is a critical addition to the canon of intimate partner violence narratives—especially for those in queer, interracial, and non-traditional relationships. It makes one thing abundantly clear:
Abuse doesn’t look one way. It doesn’t happen to one type of person. And financial freedom doesn’t liberate you from psychological chains.
Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is to name it—and leave.
Nina was able to leave with her newborn son—leave for good—the first time. But it’s important for readers to understand that this is not the reality for most targets of intimate partner violence (IPV). Especially for women partnered with someone who makes the primary income, it can take multiple attempts to leave for good. In fact, research consistently shows that it takes an average of seven attempts for survivors to permanently leave their abuser (National Domestic Violence Hotline).
One of the primary reasons survivors return is because they face severe economic barriers, including homelessness and poverty. For survivors with children, the stakes are even higher—many return to their abuser to ensure housing and basic survival for their family. Tragically, the longer survivors stay, the more their risk of serious injury or death increases, not only for themselves but for their children as well (National Coalition Against Domestic Violence).
While Nina’s story offers a vital narrative of survival—and I’m glad she and her baby boy Chasten were able to leave for good on the first attempt—it’s important to remember that most mothers in IPV situations aren’t so lucky. Nina had certain privileges that many survivors don’t: she was a financially stable pediatrician earning a six-figure salary, and she had an extended family nearby for support.
If this book is ever reprinted in a future edition, I think it would be valuable for Sheena C. Howard, PhD (the author), to explicitly acknowledge this at the end:
that Nina’s access to financial stability and social support played a significant role in her ability to leave for good the first time. For many survivors—especially Black women and women of color—the pathways to safety are often obstructed by economic dependence, systemic barriers, and lack of community resources.
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