Disregarded and Under-Protected: Examining Black Women Intimate Partner Violence Survivors’ Help-Seeking in the Criminal Legal System

Abstract

Black women intimate partner violence (IPV) survivors are overwhelmingly burdened with the poorest outcomes due to a dearth of culturally responsive interventions and a plethora of culturally-blunted approaches. Fundamental to improving their outcomes is interrogating systems upon which they are known to rely upon during their IPV help-seeking process. Existing literature primarily examines Black survivors’ experiences within the criminal or legal system separately, disregarding their interconnected experiences across both the criminal and legal systems (CLS). Guided by standpoint epistemology and anti-carceral feminism, this qualitative study examines how 30 self-identified Black women survivors navigate help-seeking via the CLS. Semi-structured interviews were analyzed using inductive-deductive thematic analysis, with focused and axial coding to identify cross-participant themes. Six themes emerged from the data: (1) critique of carceral feminism, (2) criminalization, (3) safety concern, (4) intersectional feminism, (5) transformative justice, and (6) limited protective CLS responses. Survivors frequently described disbelief, criminalization, and racialized bias that they believe rendered them invisible, even when reporting life-threatening violence. Many survivors noted they delayed help-seeking or turned to family, churches, and community supports due to mistrust of CLS providers and repeated institutional harm. Although a few women reported empathy and safety from female police officers, most found CLS involvement retraumatizing and unhelpful. Findings are consistent with previous research about the perpetuation of systemic harm rather than ensuring safety for Black survivors. Survivor-centered, community-based approaches grounded in transformative justice may provide more effective and equitable pathways to healing and accountability.

Keywords

Black women intimate partner violence criminal legal system anti-carceral feminism transformative justice

Introduction

Intimate partner violence (IPV) victimization has profound proximal and distal consequences, and Black women are particularly burdened (Violence Policy Center, 2023; Waller, Lee, et al., 2024; Waller et al., 2022, 2025). IPV includes any physical, psychological, financial, or sexual abuse as well as stalking and/or controlling behaviors inflicted by a current or former intimate partner (Zhang Kudon et al., 2026). Black women experience the highest rates of IPV-related homicide, among all racial and ethnic women in the United States due, in part, to limited viable help-seeking options (Violence Policy Center, 2023; Waller et al., 2025). A 22-year epidemiological inquiry revealed that Black women are murdered on average 6- and as much as 20-times that of white women, with half of the femicides IPV-related (Waller et al., 2024). A burgeoning body of literature emphasizes the unique and compounding barriers Black survivors face when seeking help for IPV (Decker et al., 2019; Waller & Bent-Goodley, 2023; Waller, Joyce, et al., 2023; Waller et al., 2022, 2025). Scholarship generally focuses on Black survivors’ experiences with providers either in the criminal system such as police officers (Decker et al., 2019; Fedina et al., 2019; Harper et al., 2021; Judson et al., 2024) or, to a lesser degree, with the courts and the legal system (Brown, 2012; Gutowski et al., 2023). A dearth of literature interrogates the ways these two mutually exclusive, yet complementary systems interact impeding Black survivors from securing timely, life-saving assistance. This study seeks to rectify that gap.

Black Survivors’ IPV Help-Seeking

IPV help-seeking among Black survivors is a complex interplay among personal, social, and structural factors. Monterrosa (2021) delineates a paradox, noting that Black survivors often perceive formal help-seeking as a sign of weakness, in contrast to white survivors who interpret it as an act of strength. The internalization of the “Strong Black Woman” stereotype pressures Black survivors to endure suffering in silence, often at the expense of their mental and physical well-being (Monterrosa, 2021; Waller et al., 2022, 2025). Waller et al. (2025) found that Black survivors typically seek help through formal means as a last resort, made only when the violence escalates to life-threatening levels. Underpinning their hesitancy is a pervasive distrust of providers due to racism and cultural incompetence (Waller et al., 2025). Black survivors enumerated a series of harmful experiences with systems designed to help them. One survivor noted, “the way they would talk to you and treat you, like if you were less than. I felt that if I’m going to be abused, let it be by somebody that I do know, which was my husband.” (Waller et al., 2025, p. 11).

These harms have resulted in Black survivors preferring informal and non-traditional support. However, disclosing to friends and family further complicates their help-seeking process. Survivors often fear that loved ones might retaliate against the abuser with physical violence and possibly end up in jail themselves (Waller et al., 2025). With Black women turning to faith-based organizations and spirituality for strength, navigating the norms within this environment may not be optimal, depending on religious leaders’ preparedness to assist. Cultural and religious norms within the Black church often encourage silence, teaching women to “cover” their husbands (Schmidt et al., 2023, p. 8098) and not “put their business out there” (Schmidt et al., 2023, p. 8101). Black women often learn about resources through television, Google, or social media, rather than their personal networks. In the absence of community-based information or visible IPV-related messaging, many survivors are unaware of a myriad of resources, such as IPV agencies (Schmidt et al., 2023). They noted support groups for alcohol or drugs but not IPV; therefore, the only means of help was to notify law enforcement (Schmidt et al., 2023).

Black Survivors’ Help-Seeking Experiences With Police

Black survivors’ interactions with police are often characterized by minimizing, discrediting, or victim blaming when reporting their abuse, leaving many survivors dissatisfied with police responses (Decker et al., 2019; Duhaney, 2021; Harper et al., 2021; Richie & Eife, 2021; Sharpless et al., 2024). Although Black survivors are 52% more likely than their white counterparts to report IPV to the police, these actions often stem from self-preservation efforts as a result of experiencing an escalation of violence to lethal levels rather than their trust in police officers (Powers & Bleeker, 2022). There is an established mistrust of police among Black survivors that is undergirded by historical and contemporary patterns of police violence against Black communities (Bent-Goodley et al., 2023). Consequently, many Black survivors anticipate racial and gender discrimination from police, causing them to further delay or even forgo assistance (Sharpless et al., 2024). Instead of receiving support, reporting IPV to police further perpetuates marginalization and harm for Black survivors (Decker et al., 2019).

Black survivors are also forced to contend with police officers’ internalization of racial and cultural beliefs surrounding structural violence, or systemic practices and policies that are embedded in social institutions that denigrate and disproportionately impact marginalized communities (Decker et al., 2019; Simmons, 2020; Waller & Bent-Goodley, 2023). Black survivors’ interactions with police are shaped by intersecting racism, sexism, and classism (Collins, 2023). Officers’ endorsement of racial stereotypes of Black women often casts Black survivors as angry mutual combatants rather than credible victims deserving of protection (Simmons, 2020). When Black survivors defend themselves physically, they often face backlash, placing themselves at risk of arrest and criminalization (Powers & Bleeker, 2022). As a result, Black survivors are often mislabeled as aggressors of violence at disproportionate rates rather than survivors in need of crisis intervention (Duhaney, 2021).

Although not the norm, there are instances where Black women report engaging with police as beneficial and necessary help is provided by arresting those who cause harm (Derr et al., 2024). However, police interventions, collectively, may be more harmful than helpful in supporting Black survivors’ safety, deterring future help-seeking attempts within the criminal legal system (CLS).

Black Women’s Help-Seeking Experiences With Courts

Black women seeking protection from the court system face distinct barriers shaped by systemic bias, racialized stereotypes, and procedural inequities (Williams & Jenkins, 2015). Judicial decisions are often influenced by implicit assumptions that undermine Black survivors’ credibility (Williams & Jenkins, 2015). Courtroom interactions among judges, Black survivors, and respondents, or those who cause harm, frequently lack respectful engagement, clear communication, and meaningful participation, contributing to perceptions of injustice and deterring further help-seeking. Current judicial behavior fails to promote interactions with survivors that are informational, explanatory, participatory (i.e., permitting voice), or respectful. Many survivors cite judicial interruptions, being cut off when speaking, or judges’ impatience that deters them from help-seeking with the courts (Lucken & Rosky, 2016). Contemporary feminist research shows that Black survivors are routinely judged against narrow, racialized ideals of victimhood, leading to the dismissal or skepticism of petitions that fall outside dominant narratives (Park, 2025). For example, a Black mother seeking a restraining order who raises her voice or appears emotionally expressive may be perceived as aggressive or unstable. Her natural responses to enduring long-term abuse and feeling silenced throughout her help-seeking process undermines her credibility and reinforces harmful stereotypes (Park, 2025). Even when relief is granted, courts often fall short of procedural justice standards, leaving survivors feeling dismissed or misunderstood (Lucken & Rosky, 2016).

Prior criminalization compounds these harms. Black survivors with legal system involvement are often further penalized for survival-based actions and viewed through a punitive lens, fostering distrust and hopelessness (Gutowski et al., 2023). Extralegal factors, including gender and racial bias, continue to shape case outcomes. While gender role beliefs may not always predict prosecutorial decisions, disparities persist based on perceptions of victim identity and case severity (Gutowski et al., 2023).

Judicial discretion ultimately reinforces these inequities. As Park (2025) argues, family court decisions often mirror broader social hierarchies such as those related to race, class, gender, and citizenship status, limiting protection for those who deviate from dominant norms. Gender biases and culturally insensitive conceptualizations of ideal motherhood perpetuated by family court judges relegate survivors who are Black, poor, undocumented, or otherwise marginalized to face skepticism, surveillance, or dismissal from judges and court personnel, reinforcing systemic inequities under the guise of neutrality. The lack of empathy, shame, and silencing that survivors endure impede future help-seeking (Park, 2025). Without structural reforms, courts will continue to fall short in meeting Black survivors’ urgent need for justice and safety.

The Continuum of Challenges in the CLS

While the criminal and legal systems operate as separate entities, Black survivors often experience them as one continuous system of harm. Racial and gender stereotypes that shape police interactions, such as the belief that Black women are aggressive, combative, or complicit, do not stop at arrest or intake (Richie, 2012). They generally follow survivors into the courtroom. Judicial decisions are rarely independent of law enforcement framing. Police narratives influence how judges assess credibility, which can determine access to protective orders or sentencing relief (Gutowski et al., 2023). Judges may also rely on narrow, racialized ideas of what a victim should look like, creating additional barriers for survivors who lack formal evidence or whose self-defense is misinterpreted (Park, 2025). These stereotypes often result in survivors’ misidentification as aggressors, leading to their criminalization rather than protection (Decker et al., 2017). Together, these institutions reinforce one another, producing a pipeline of disbelief and legal exclusion. Survivors often enter court already disadvantaged by biased police records, and interactions with the judicial system may further invalidate their experiences. As a result, Black women are often denied meaningful safety or justice at every stage of legal system involvement (Lucken & Rosky, 2016; Richie & Eife, 2021).

Anti-Carceral Feminism

Rooted in abolitionist feminist principles, anti-carceral feminism critiques and rejects the punitive response of the CLS (e.g., policing and incarceration) to address IPV and provide protection for survivors (Kim, 2019). Anti-carceral feminism posits that the CLS’ response upholds a white supremacist, patriarchal carceral state that enables an ineffective, violent, and racist system for Black survivors, failing to recognize their humanity (Derr et al., 2024; Michalsen, 2019). Key constructs of anti-carceral feminism include (a) a critique of carceral feminism for its overreliance on the CLS to criminalize IPV which disproportionately harms Black survivors and other women of color; (b) intersectional feminism, which recognizes that interpersonal forms of violence are inseparable from and manifestations of structural forms of violence (e.g., racism, sexism, classism) for Black survivors; and (c) transformative justice, or the utilization of community-based and survivor-centered responses to address violence and dismantle the root causes of violence.

Anti-carceral feminism has been used sparingly within IPV and social work literature. Anti-carceral feminism and the construct of transformative justice has been employed to understand Black survivors’ interactions with police (Sharpless et al., 2024) and to highlight the ways the CLS harms and hinders Black survivors (Derr et al., 2024). Within the social work literature, anti-carceral feminism has been used to critique social work’s involvement in maintaining carceral systems in areas such as child protection, immigration, and sex workers (Bergen & Abji, 2019; Panichelli et al., 2021). Furthermore, scholars such as Mimi Kim and grassroots organizations like INCITE! Women, Trans and Gender Nonconforming People of Color Against Violence, and generation FIVE champion transformative justice as a liberatory vision of justice that reimagines accountability as a collective process requiring connection and compassion rather than retribution (Kim, 2021). To contextualize the experiences of Black survivors within the CLS, specifically their interactions with police and the courts, this study utilizes anti-carceral feminism.

Methods

This project was part of a larger formative qualitative study that identified the psychosocial processes of help-seeking among historically underserved IPV survivors. Thirty women who self-identified as Black who were securing services from the continuum of IPV service provision system, inclusive of the criminal legal, shelter, health care, mental health care, were included in the study. To ensure we accounted for Black women’s more nuanced help-seeking, we also included survivors who were obtaining assistance from quasi-trained providers, namely clergy and lay ministry leaders within the Black church and informal networks inclusive of family and friends (Waller et al., 2022). A more detailed overview of methods may be found in previous publications (Waller & Bent-Goodley, 2023; Waller, Goddard-Eckrich, et al., 2023; Waller, Joyce, et al., 2023).

Data Analysis

Standpoint epistemology grounded our analytic approach (Harding, 2013). This epistemic tradition allowed us to understand the lived experiences of an especially marginalized population of Black survivors by centering their voices throughout coding and analysis. Data was organized in a matrix for ease of analysis and synthesis (Averill, 2002; Stefancic et al., 2022). We employed inductive-deductive thematic analysis (Fereday & Muir-Cochrane, 2006) to ensure we captured survivors’ experiences in their own words during open coding (Chapman et al., 2015; Clarke & Braun, 2017). Focused and axial coding allowed us to identify themes across participants (Clarke & Braun, 2017). To reduce bias, three members of the study team met bi-weekly to review analysis and resolve analytic differences related to how closely to code to the data (WLH, AB, BYW). Analytic differences were resolved through discussion. Data was triangulated via demographic data, semi-structured interviews, and field notes. Seven of the eight techniques were used to ensure rigor (Lietz et al., 2006). Since this study did not include theoretical development, we decided to forgo employing negative case analysis (Lietz et al., 2006). Pseudonyms are used to protect survivors’ identities.

Findings

Six major themes emerged from the data highlighting Black survivors’ interactions with the CLS. Three themes corresponded with constructs of anti-carceral feminism including critiques of carceral feminism, intersectional feminism, and transformative justice. Criminalization and safety emerged as two additional themes. The final theme emerged contradicting anti-carceral feminist perspectives, favoring criminal legal responses as a viable intervention for IPV victimization.

Critique of Carceral Feminism

Most of the participants articulated how the CLS failed them, from unhelpful police who refused to take action to unfair treatment by the courts that prevented them from being treated with dignity and gaining equitable justice. Janice’s reflection is salient to understanding why there is a pervasive distrust of the police:

Sad to say because the police have failed us. They have failed us as far as stepping in and believing the cry of the victim. They have failed us as far as . . . you know, keeping us alive. They have failed us.

Many Black survivors felt that responding police officers lacked empathy which was evident in their inadequate responses to their cries for help. Black survivors experienced insufficient responses including failing to arrest the abuser, not advocating for them, and delayed follow-up after filing a report. In several situations, survivors felt that police officers delayed responding to incidents. When law enforcement finally arrived, some participants felt that they sided with the person who inflicted violence. Alice, who experienced ongoing abuse from the father of her child, recalled several such interactions with police officers. While disclosing her experiences to the police, she felt that they were not there to protect her and seemed to defend her abuser. She indicated:

The way in which the officer treated me made me feel like I was talking to the abuser himself . . . He treated me in a very violent way. Which made me feel like I was talking to another abuser, not someone that was neutral that was there to help.

Consequently, Alice felt she had to repeatedly disclose her abuse to police officers despite calling them for several incidents. She said:

I was determined to just keep trying on my maybe my third or fourth try of calling the police and him actually getting caught, the officer was telling the abuser “She’s been trying to get you arrested like she’s out to get you.” I will never forget that, I will never forget how I felt at that moment. I felt like I was dead already just because the officer didn’t come to protect me in the here and now moment.

Several participants commonly mentioned unfair treatment such as being bullied inside the courtroom by attorneys and being silenced by judges. Black survivors reported feeling ignored and dismissed, and that essential information was disregarded which led to inaccurate conclusions in their court cases. Ultimately, most participants viewed the CLS as unjust. After her abuser secretly divorced her and served her a restraining order, Denise was forced to go to court, where she says she had a realization. She reflected:

You know what I realized? The system is really messed up because nobody was really trying to hear my side [of the story].

Criminalization

Commonly, survivors believed that providers within the CLS, specifically police officers, prosecutors, and judges, further victimized and criminalized them. They frequently felt they were being treated as if they were a person who inflicted violence. This resulted in incidents where they were wrongfully arrested or penalized. Alice recalls when she was treated unfairly by the police. She stated:

I was not being protected at all. I was falsely arrested for harassment by standing up for myself one time and I'll never forget how hideous it was. I was pregnant . . . I’ll just never forget the detective spitting in my face and just treating me like a criminal. I had no record. Even if I am really getting arrested for harassment. I have no record. Why are you ill-treating me and I’m pregnant?

Survivors shared that their adverse interactions continued throughout the court system, inclusive of criminal, family, and housing courts. Black survivors shared that they were routinely mistreated by judges and attorneys. Camille reported several negative interactions with criminal, family, and housing courts. She recounted one particular encounter with the family court, where she was seen as the abuser. Her experience highlights the criminalization that survivors endure when disclosing their abuse:

Yeah, family court is the worst, out of all the courts. I’ve been at housing court. I’ve been everywhere, family court is horrible, is designed to break you up, is not designed to help you, or be compassionate, or understanding. They really looked at me like I’m the abuser. Even the family court is like I’m the abuser. They have to go more than people at criminal court, they’ve got to go so fast, it is disgusting, horrible, and horrible.

Safety Concern

Black survivors consistently expressed safety concerns, fearing physical or emotional harm, loss of property, and other repercussions due to the lack of protection from police and the courts. Several survivors sought police protection, but, for some, it only increased their risk of retaliation from their abusive partner. When attempts to seek protection were disregarded, Black survivors indicated that they felt increasingly vulnerable and unsafe. Brenda, a 59-year-old woman who was married to her abuser for 36 years, says she called the police for an incident that occurred after she learned her husband was an alcoholic. Brenda’s fears were compounded by the fact that her husband, a former FDNY 9/11 responder, suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). The police showed him great regard due to his service, and often failed to take her concerns seriously. She says this left her feeling alone and unsafe. She recalls law enforcement’s response after disclosing that her husband was threatening her life. She told the responding officers:

Well, you sending me back into my grave. I said because it’s a death sentence for you to send me back in the house and him knowing that I called the police now.

Additionally, Black survivors expressed frustrations with court-issued orders of protection. While many did not oppose them, they found the orders ineffective as they often expired too quickly to provide lasting protection, while others failed to stop abusers from violating the terms.

After months of going to court for protection order violations by her husband, Jada noted that she did not realize the charges against him were dropped until he showed up at her home unannounced. She called her Assistant District Attorney distressed. She recalled saying:

I should have got a phone call, I should’ve got an email, I should’ve got a text, I should have got a notification. I did not know that the charges were dropped until he came to my house.

Intersectional Feminism

Most participants felt that being a Black woman had a negative impact on their interactions with the CLS. Black survivors described feeling invisible when engaging with police. They often felt overlooked, dismissed, and disregarded. These participants believed that their racialized identities impacted how police officers perceived them as Black survivors. They felt the police did not believe their cries for help, contributing to the invisibility of their pain. Again, Janice conveys what it is like for her pain to be invisible:

They treat it like, “Oh! It’s just another angry.” Well, I’m Black so I would just say from a Black woman’s point of view, “Oh! It’s just another angry Black woman.” They don’t believe the cries for help.

Beyond race and gender, Stacey felt that living in New York City Housing Authority (NYCHA) housing influenced how police and other authorities treated her. She described the poor conditions including roaches, extreme temperatures, broken appliances, and unreliable water, highlighting how this living situation added stress and reinforced negative perceptions of the residents. Stacey suggests that her race, gender, and living situation contributed to how she was treated by police. She reflected:

I don’t want to say it was because I’m African-American. That’s what I feel like because they were all white males and the other [a] female. I would say it’s either because of my skin color or because I was a female in a Black NYCHA development.

These negative experiences continue for Black survivors when interacting with the courts. When Brenda was assigned an attorney from a community agency, she quickly realized that her attorney did not respect women. She noted:

He didn’t have respect for women. Not only that respect for women, for African American women especially. . .

Like Stacey’s experience with the police, Brenda’s treatment in the courts was influenced by more than just her race and gender. Her socioeconomic status also played a role, as her attorney, who was handling the case pro bono, dismissed her concerns, seemingly valuing her case less because she was not paying him directly.

Additionally, a majority of respondents reported experiencing blame and shame for the abuse they endured. Several survivors indicated that it was evident that they were also contending with cultural biases portraying Black women as “imperfect victims” who do not fit traditional stereotypes of victimhood. To this end, Nicole shares why she believes it is difficult for Black women to be viewed as credible survivors. She shared:

Stereotype, Black women, aggressive, big mouth. So, once they get that because usually, sometimes when the police is called, you’re irate, you’re ignorant. So, all that gives you an image to make it look like, you know.

Transformative Justice

A large proportion of participants identified multiple alternative methods they employed while seeking assistance. Community-based programs like Family Justice Centers (FJCs) and working with social workers were reported as the most helpful among survivors. Many Black survivors did not trust the CLS, mostly due to their inability to provide necessary safety and support; therefore, Black survivors turned to their community and sought assistance from their churches, families, and friends. Janice echoed these sentiments stating:

. . . we don’t go to the police because we feel like we can’t trust them. We go to the church, which are close family members of friends. That’s how we look for help.

Other survivors noted that their families provided a sense of emotional security to disclose their experiences with violence. Instead of being perceived as “playing the victim,” some survivors’ families offered space for survivors to process their emotions. Moreover, Camille alluded to a notable, community-based help-seeking method that Black survivors employ when other alternatives does not meet their safety needs:

Violence, is straight violence . . . you better go get Melvin from down the block ago, to go beat him [partner who causes harm] with a bat. But remember, that’s what stopped him. It wasn’t the cop, it wasn’t the ACS (Administration for Children’s Services) case, it wasn’t the stabbing. It was me being with the guy. When he knew that violence, that horrible come his way that he stopped. And the guy wasn’t even aggressive guy, or anything like that. Just what he perceived in his mind the man is here you know. That alpha, that’s what stopped him. It wasn’t like the cop. That’s how we deal with violence . . . You got to go and get somebody with your cousin or with brother, that’s what they would say.

Multiple participants also longed for alternative methods of justice that were not rooted within the CLS. Estelle shared what it was like to look for domestic violence help:

Looking back at it, it would have been nice to have had a place besides the police department to go to where you could really share what was going on with you. Besides someone with a police uniform. Well, because this uniform was a little bit intimidating. You know it’s very, well I would say, “calloused.”

Joyce’s experience reaffirms the experiences of a few other Black survivors who never wanted to involve the CLS but were seeking ways to stop the violence. She noted that survivors need safe and comfort zones to deal with and work through their trauma with people they can trust:

They can just form normal groups in the neighborhood that meet once a week if they choose. If they desire. They can set up workshops, meetings, I don’t know. You may not want to talk to your family, you may not want that . . . A lot of people don’t want to walk into a center. A lot of people don't want to go into a hospital.

Carceral Feminism

Despite challenges within the CLS, a few Black survivors did have positive experiences throughout their interactions. These survivors felt heard, encouraged, and protected. Maia shares what it was like for her to disclose her abuse to the police:

I never thought that this would ever happen to me. I also felt very happy that we have a justice system because, had the police not stepped in to help me, I don’t know what would have happened. So, I did feel very protected by the police at that time.

Some participants felt protected when police took violence against women seriously, especially when children were involved. For these survivors, a proactive law enforcement response provided a sense of safety and validation.

Black survivors also noted feeling more supported specifically when female police officers responded. They described these officers as more empathetic and willing to take the time to listen. Erica recounted her experience with a female officer, stating:

There’s this one officer she makes me feel safe and she always ask questions and makes sure I’m good and sends officers to my house to check on me or wherever I am, to check on me thoroughly. It don’t matter where I am, they coming to check.

A small number of participants described positive experiences with the courts, highlighting moments of understanding and empathy. Karla, a survivor who endured severe physical abuse that left her homeless, shared how the court’s support made the difficult process more manageable. During her impact statement, court officials allowed breaks when needed, and provided a space where she felt heard.

Karla explains her court experience:

They put me at ease, they made sure if I needed to stop, they would, I was allowed to stop, I was able to make an impact statement. That was very helpful. It gave me an opportunity to express to the defendant, what he did to me and I expressed how I was trying to be helpful in his life and how he inconvenienced me by making me homeless and just the whole abuse of beating me up.

Several Black survivors perceived that being protected by the CLS ensured a sense of safety, and justice, and provided the ability to receive necessary IPV-specific services.

Collectively, these themes reveal a complex and sometimes contradictory experience for Black survivors navigating the CLS. While most Black survivors encountered systemic failures, safety concerns, and biases that left them feeling invisible or even criminalized, a few shared moments of support that demonstrated the potential for positive interactions with the CLS.

Discussion

We utilized an inductive-deductive approach to thematic analysis (Fereday & Muir-Cochrane, 2006) to understand the experiences of 30 Black women IPV survivors’ help-seeking in the CLS. Using anti-carceral feminism (Kim, 2019) to contextualize survivors’ experiences with the CLS, six themes emerged from the data: critique of carceral feminism, criminalization, safety concern, intersectional feminism, transformative justice, and carceral feminism. These six themes expose Black survivors’ complicated, conflicting, and sometimes conflated experiences that begin with police officers and involve the courts.

Overall, our study reveals the structural harm that extends beyond police encounters (Kajstura & Sawyer, 2024) and into the legal system by exposing the continuum of adverse interactions for Black survivors within the CLS, ultimately revealing how interactions within two separate but complimentary systems compound challenges for this population of survivors. Enhancing justice and safety for Black survivors requires acknowledging and disabling structural inequalities within the CLS (Decker et al., 2019). Transformative justice approaches rooted in community-based justice responses and not rooted within the carceral system may be more beneficial for Black survivors (Kim, 2021; Sharpless et al., 2024).

By centering the voices of Black survivors, this study underscores the need to critically assess the reliance on the CLS as a response for Black survivors. Our findings echo anti-carceral feminist critiques that question the legitimacy of the CLS as a pathway to safety and justice (Richie, 2012). Reliance on the CLS risks deepening structural inequities rather than addressing them for Black women whose survival strategies are often criminalized. Moving beyond the current system failures of the CLS requires reimagining justice in ways that do not rely on punitive systems of control. Participants vocalized a desire for an alternative method of justice that is not rooted in the CLS and ensures their safety, dignity, and access to meaningful resources to desist the violence that permeates their lives.

Our study reveals the realities Black survivors contend with when engaging the CLS during their IPV help-seeking process. Findings largely reaffirm Black survivors’ wariness of the CLS and its actors (e.g., police officers, attorneys, and judges) who discount and perpetuate additional harm toward marginalized survivors seeking support and safety. Collectively, these findings reveal the lack of protection extended by the CLS to Black survivors, suggesting the CLS may be more detrimental than beneficial to support the needs and safety of Black survivors, signaling the need for alternative options for culturally responsive interventions.

Our findings suggest that the CLS is failing Black survivors by ignoring and dismissing their cries for help. Multiple participants reported that responding police were unhelpful as they neglected to act or extend empathy to survivors. The dismissal of Black survivors by the police is rooted in racist and sexist stereotypes that exacerbate the Black community’s distrust of the system collectively (Simmons, 2020; Waller & Bent-Goodley, 2023). The CLS’s failure to appropriately respond also jeopardized survivors’ safety. Participants conveyed feeling unsafe, fearful of retaliation, and being killed by their partners. Some participants reported feeling bullied by attorneys and silenced by judges within the courts. Participants were also frustrated with enforcement of court-issued orders of protection as they were ineffective in providing protection for survivors (Gezinski & Gonzalez-Pons, 2021). Most notably, nearly all participants did not trust the CLS and relied on alternative forms of justice that included relying on community support such as churches, family, and friends. Black survivors’ reliance on alternative forms of justice is consistent with Black survivors’ reliance on informal and community support (Bent-Goodley et al., 2023; Monterrosa, 2021; Waller et al., 2025).

Moreover, our findings reinforced Black survivors’ beliefs that their identities negatively impact their interactions with the CLS. Due in part to their racial and gendered identities, several participants stressed feeling invisible when engaging with the CLS, with their pain being overlooked, dismissed, and disregarded. Black women experience intersectional invisibility, where their identity is unrecognized as a woman and as a Black person (Coles & Pasek, 2020). Some participants cited further victimization and criminalization from providers within the CLS influenced by internalized racist and sexist beliefs. Participants often felt that they were treated as the person who caused harm because of stereotypes, which they felt contributed to wrongful arrests or being penalized by the courts (Duhaney, 2021; Monterrosa, 2021; Richie & Eife, 2021). A few Black survivors also reported how their socioeconomic status influenced interactions with pro bono attorneys who often dismissed survivors’ concerns.

Our findings are consistent with previous research concerning the distrust of formal providers due to racism and cultural incompetence (Waller et al., 2025). Experiencing stigma from helping professionals is not uncommon for all IPV survivors and is particularly pronounced among Black survivors (Taccini & Mannarini, 2023; Waller et al., 2022). Regarding police officers, our findings provide additional support that suggests police officers minimize Black survivors’ experiences (Harper et al., 2021; Nnawulezi et al., 2022; Serrano-Montilla et al., 2023; Sharpless et al., 2024). Participants also experienced victim blaming, unprofessionalism, discrimination, and shame which are all experienced by survivors from court professionals (Crowe & Murray, 2015).

Finally, many participants reiterated their distrust among police which prompted the utilization of alternative methods to seek safety from their churches, family or friends, and other members of their communities. Relying on community members or “street justice” is consistent with help-seeking among Black survivors who feel rejected by formal help-seeking systems (Waller & Bent-Goodley, 2023). One participant explicitly stated a preference for an alternative place outside of the police department to disclose abuse, insinuating that officers in police uniforms can be intimidating. Furthermore, a couple of participants commented they never intended to involve the CLS but wanted a way to stop the violence. Research suggests that although Black women are more likely to self-initiate calls to the police, they do not receive responses that include the safety practices such as expressing compassion, de-escalating violence, and providing resources (Nnawulezi et al., 2022). These participants also expressed the need for safe, comfort zones to work through their trauma with people they can trust.

Despite critiques of the CLS, a few participants felt supported and protected by the CLS, reporting positive experiences, especially when children were involved. Our findings suggest a preference for female officers who appeared to be more empathetic and listened to participants. Research suggests female officers have a better understanding of the complexities of IPV (El Sayed et al., 2020). Participants also praised the courts’ efforts to make an already difficult process more manageable by allowing them to take breaks when making impact statements, signaling the efficacy of specialized domestic violence courts (Gover et al., 2021).

Strengths and Limitations

This study offers several strengths. It centers the lived experiences of Black survivors, a population historically marginalized within IPV and CLS research. It is also the first known IPV-related study to apply anti-carceral feminism, offering a novel analytical framework to interrogate how structural violence intersects with race, gender, and class. The qualitative design enables rich, in-depth insight into survivors’ interactions with police and courts, perspectives that are often absent from quantitative studies. By capturing both harmful and supportive CLS experiences, the study adds critical nuance and avoids overgeneralizing system responses. Additionally, contextual variation in help-seeking underscores the need for an intersectional, survivor-centered approach in research and practice.

Despite these strengths, several limitations should be acknowledged. As with all qualitative studies, findings are not generalizable to the experiences of all Black survivors. The study relied on retrospective self-reporting, which may introduce recall bias, especially given the traumatic nature of the events discussed. Survivors’ recollections may be influenced by time, emotional state, or the need to make meaning of their experiences. Selection bias is also a concern. The sample may disproportionately reflect individuals who were willing and able to share detailed accounts, potentially excluding those who are currently incarcerated, in crisis, or more distrustful of research processes. This could skew results toward more extreme or more reflective perspectives. Interviewer effects may have influenced how participants disclosed experiences, despite efforts to establish rapport and use trauma-informed approaches.

The study also relied on a single time-point, limiting our ability to understand how survivors’ help-seeking behaviors and perceptions of CLS change over time. A longitudinal or repeated-measures design could illuminate these shifts. Additionally, while we foreground survivor voices, the study did not include the perspectives of system actors such as police officers, judges, and advocates. Including these perspectives in future studies could enhance understanding of systemic disconnects and opportunities for reform. To enhance trustworthiness, the study employed multiple strategies, including peer debriefing, an audit trail, and triangulation with field notes and demographic data. Although traditional member checking was not conducted due to the transient nature of the population, member checking occurred at the end of each interview. We further used verbatim quotes to preserve narrative integrity and center survivor voices.

Despite its limitations, this study contributes significantly to the literature on systemic harm in Black women’s help-seeking and has urgent implications for policy, practice, and transformative justice movements.

Implications

Our study has implications to practice, policy, research, and education. As it relates to practice, our study identifies ways that the CLS offers an inequitable response for Black survivors. Findings indicate the system neither fully protects nor repairs the historical and present structural harms perpetrated against them (Gohara, 2023). Black survivors need a more responsive, credible, and less punitive CLS to appropriately respond to their needs. To ensure that responses to Black survivors are more responsive and less punitive, the CLS should adopt trauma-informed and survivor-centered policies. Survivor-centered policies aim to maximize survivors’ choice and address their needs in a collaborative manner (Cattaneo et al., 2021). Implementation of such policies prioritizes open dialogue between survivors and CLS actors, and provides law enforcement, specifically, with an opportunity to share resources for support, which can strengthen trust with communities.

The CLS has long been the primary societal response to IPV in the United States with the intent to increase enforcement of criminalization by police and prosecutors to demonstrate society’s commitment to ensure those who cause harm are held accountable (Goodmark, 2023). As such, future research should consider elevating survivor leadership and engagement in knowledge production. Perspectives from system actors, as well as exploring survivor pathways outside the CLS (e.g., mutual aid, restorative, or transformative justice), could deepen the field’s understanding of alternative models of safety and accountability.

Though antiviolence advocates envisioned social justice through the CLS, they did not foresee the impact of this approach which disproportionately burdens marginalized survivors and contributes to the criminalization of women’s survival (Michalsen, 2019). Criminalization was intended to increase awareness of IPV and serve as a deterrent for men’s violent behavior (Goodmark, 2023), but has instead led to a series of unintended consequences for Black survivors including arrest and death in some instances (Waller, 2016). Black survivors do not benefit from more punitive policing but instead would benefit from support provided by communities in which they reside. Education regarding the importance of culturally-responsiveness, collective community-based approaches, and transformative justice would greatly benefit law enforcement in not only understanding but knowing the implementation processes and use for transformative justice when attempting to respond to Black survivors. Moreover, implicit bias training and continuing education classes to combat the socially constructed racist and sexist ideologies misrepresenting Black womanhood should be mandatory for all service providers working with Black survivors but especially police and judges who misinterpret Black survivors’ responses to violence and misidentify them as “imperfect victims” (Goodmark, 2023).

Conclusion

Black survivors are overburdened with poorer proximal and distal outcomes resulting from severe, long-term victimization. There is an urgency to understand their reluctance with engaging formal systems of support within the criminal and legal systems. Our study is the first to explore the experiences of Black survivors seeking services and support from the continuum of the CLS. Despite its utility, the CLS is largely failing to fully support Black survivors. With few exceptions, these two distinct systems often work in tandem to reinforce racist tropes used to dismiss their desperate cries for aid, subvert potential support, and inflict punitive interventions. Fundamental to improving Black survivors’ outcomes is providers within the CLS partnering with Black survivors to co-create innovative, trauma-informed, survivor-centered interventions with a transformative justice lens.

Footnotes

ORCID iDs

Whittni L. Holland

Bernadine Y. Waller

Funding

The authors disclosed receipt of the following financial support for the research and/or authorship of this article: This work was supported in part by the National Institute of Mental Health (R36MH116680, and K23MH133979 [Waller]).

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the authorship and/or publication of this article.

Author Biographies

Whittni L. Holland, LMSW, is a PhD candidate and adjunct professor at Howard University School of Social Work. Her program of research examines IPV among marginalized populations in rural contexts, particularly Black women, with an emphasis on help-seeking behaviors, criminal legal responses, and community-based interventions.

Ashley Butler, MSW, is a PhD candidate at Adelphi University School of Social Work, Adjunct Professor at Metropolitan College of New York, and serves as Director of Advocacy Programs at a nonprofit supporting survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Her research explores nonprofit organizational capacity and accessibility in services for marginalized populations, particularly older Deaf or Hard of Hearing adults and survivors of intimate partner violence.

Cassandra Nathan, MSW, is a research assistant in the DIVAA Lab at Columbia University Irving Medical Center. As a helping professional, Cassandra has experience working with individuals impacted by intimate partner violence, specifically regarding their mental health. Her scholarship examines intimate partner communication and emotional regulation among Black men who batter.

Bernadine Y. Waller, PhD, LMHC, is an international award-winning, NIMH-funded Assistant Professor and principal investigator of the DIVAA Lab in the Department of Psychiatry at Columbia University Irving Medical Center, Vagelos College of Physicians and Surgeons, and a Research Scientist at New York State Psychiatric Institute. Dr. Waller is an implementation scientist who employs community-partnered approaches to interrogate the intersections of intimate partner violence, help-seeking, and mental health with a specific focus upon Black people.

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