Law360 Canada (May 26, 2026, 2:44 PM EDT) --

Andrea Clarke

I was part of the earlier cohort of lawyers in England and Wales when coercive control was criminalized under s. 76 of the Serious Crime Act 2015. I still remember showing up at court in those early days of the newly criminalized offence and reviewing charge sheets where both defence counsel and Crown prosecutors were trying to navigate entirely new legal territory.

There were genuine uncertainties about exactly what constituted “coercive control,” what evidence would substantiate those allegations and, perhaps equally important, what evidence would not.

There were discussions in interview rooms between the Crown and the defence, trying to understand how these charges would operate in practice. Defendants and victims alike were attempting to grasp what this new law truly meant. Yet for many victims, whether there was ultimately a successful prosecution was sometimes secondary to something far more profound: for the first time, their experiences had a name, and the law was finally acknowledging that what had happened to them was real.

For years, many had quietly carried explanations they could never fully share with others for why they had stopped attending gatherings, why they had no access to “joint” finances, why each purchase they made required prior approval and why text messages had to be deleted. Isolation had become normalized, and fear now existed inside homes where no visible bruises appeared.

Over time, there was a shift; what had once been dismissed as “relationship difficulties” or hidden behind closed doors was now recognized by the U.K. courts as a pattern of behaviour capable of causing profound harm. The same victims who had once carried harm in silence told their truth openly from the witness box. The secret text messages became evidentiary exhibits. Financial control, surveillance, intimidation, monitoring, humiliation, isolation and degradation were no longer invisible realities suffered quietly in private.

During my years practising in England, the courts slowly began to understand and identify patterns that had long existed, unnamed and undefined. Email evidence was introduced, along with patterns in text messages and financial records. Statements from work colleagues, friends and family — in fact, anything capable of demonstrating the repeated and cumulative nature of conduct occurring quietly behind closed doors.

The legislative framework itself sounded deceptively simple: repeated or continuous behaviour towards another person that is controlling or coercive; at the time of the behaviour, the individuals are personally connected; the behaviour has a serious effect on the victim; and the accused knows or ought to know that it would have a serious effect.

In practice, these cases were never simple because what we have learned over time is that coercive control is often not a single moment. Evidence is hard to gather and victims are not forthcoming, often because they themselves have not recognized the signs.

It is not always a bruise, a broken bone or a medical report. Far too often, it is subtle, cumulative: the slow erosion of independence, autonomy, dignity and self-worth over months or years, until the person experiencing it no longer recognizes themselves.

The most heartbreaking of all: children so often live within that environment too, absorbing fear, tension, silence, intimidation, instability and emotional harm long before they can ever find words to explain what they witnessed.

While Canada has not criminalized coercive control, the Supreme Court of Canada’s landmark ruling in Ahluwalia v. Ahluwalia, 2026 SCC 16, released on May 15, marks a profound moment in Canadian law. The decision creates a new tort of intimate partner violence, allowing survivors to pursue damages for abuse rooted not simply in isolated incidents of violence, but in patterns of coercion, domination, fear and control.

At the centre of this case is Kuldeep Ahluwalia, and while there will no doubt be substantial legal discussion, debate and analysis surrounding the scope of this decision in the months and years ahead, what the court powerfully did on May 15 was acknowledge something survivors have long tried to explain: abuse is not always visible. It is not always documented neatly through medical records and photographs; sometimes it quietly and methodically corrodes the soul, character, confidence and essence of another human being, while the outside world sees very little.

This decision is certainly not the end of the story as to how this tort develops; there will still be evidentiary challenges, legal complexities and difficult conversations ahead. However, for many survivors, perhaps this moment represents something deeply important: the feeling that the law is finally beginning to see the full picture of harm that so many have carried silently for years.

Maybe, for victims everywhere, there is comfort in knowing that their experiences are no longer being dismissed simply because the harm was hidden behind closed doors.

Andrea Clarke is a lawyer practising in criminal, family and child protection law across Ontario and Nunavut. She holds both an LLB and an MBA from the University of Birmingham. Andrea currently serves as a deputy judge and is a panel member with the Office of the Children’s Lawyer. Based in Kincardine with her husband and three children, she is committed to advancing access to justice for individuals and families in rural and northern communities.

The opinions expressed are those of the author and do not reflect the views of the author’s firm, its clients, Law360 Canada, LexisNexis Canada or any of its or their respective affiliates. This article is for general information purposes and is not intended to be and should not be taken as legal advice.

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