The Power Imbalance When a Diplomat Dates You

 

I never imagined that I would find myself entangled in a relationship with a man who held the title of diplomat. There is something inherently powerful about that word — a sense of nobility, intelligence, and integrity. For someone like me, who has always prided herself on being independent, educated, and emotionally resilient, the connection initially felt affirming. I thought, perhaps, I had finally found someone who could walk beside me as an equal. But what I didn’t realize at the time was how easily a title can conceal deeper truths — emotional manipulation, power imbalances, and an unspoken hierarchy that slowly erodes one’s sense of reality.

Our story began online, like many modern romances. Joel Runnels introduced himself as a diplomat stationed in Central Asia, working in human rights advocacy. From the beginning, our conversations were intense and intellectually stimulating. He spoke about his work with disabled communities, policy reform, and global diplomacy. These were the values I aligned with, both personally and professionally. I was drawn to his eloquence, his sense of purpose, and his apparent emotional depth. What started as a connection soon evolved into daily communication, filled with promises, poetry, and long discussions about love, purpose, and the future.

Eventually, we began to make plans to meet. The emotional closeness felt real. He spoke about building a life, and even mentioned places we might travel. After several months of building trust and affection from afar, I took a leap of faith. I flew over 8,000 kilometers to Uzbekistan to meet him in person after my first trip to Uzbekistan 3 months before. I believed I was walking into a new chapter of my life. Instead, I landed into a web of silence, detachment, and betrayal.

From the moment we met in person, something felt off. He was no longer the emotionally available man I had known. He was distant, inconsistent, and evasive. Within 15 hours of my arrival, he had withdrawn entirely, leaving me to process the sudden shift in an unfamiliar country. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he was overwhelmed. Perhaps there were work pressures. But the reality soon became clear: I had not just been emotionally ghosted — I had been deceived.

In my confusion and heartache, I began to investigate. What I found unraveled everything. Joel was married. Not separated, not recently divorced — but actively married, with a wife named Jollien and three children. I contacted her, and we had a long, painful conversation. She was blindsided too. He had told her, several women were merely a professional contact before, while actually his girlfirend and others. He had told me he was single and emotionally available. To each of us, he had presented a different narrative.

The betrayal was layered. It wasn’t just about romance — it was about being manipulated by someone who understood how to use power and perception to his advantage. As a diplomat, Joel wielded social and professional power that extended beyond normal relationships. He knew how to curate an image, how to say the right thing at the right time, and how to control the flow of information. That imbalance left me questioning my instincts, my worth, and my own memory of our relationship.

But I documented everything. I had messages, calls, and email. I kept save it— not because I anticipated needing them, but because deep down, I sensed something was off. When I finally shared my story publicly, including on Medium, the response was overwhelming. Women reached out, sharing their own experiences of being manipulated by men in power. Some knew Joel. Others simply related to the emotional blueprint of betrayal.

What I came to realize is that power doesn’t always present itself as overt control. Sometimes, it comes in the form of influence — emotional leverage, professional status, or carefully constructed charisma. In my case, the power imbalance was not just logistical or financial. It was psychological. He chose a woman like me — educated, independent, emotionally generous — because he knew I would make room for complexity, for misunderstanding, for second chances. He weaponized that empathy.

And when confronted with the truth, he did not apologize. He did not explain. Instead, he dismissed my feelings, blocked communication, and returned to his life as if nothing had happened. That is what power without accountability looks like.

The aftermath was brutal. I struggled to sleep. My work suffered. My confidence crumbled. I wasn’t just mourning a relationship — I was processing the psychological impact of being discarded by someone I trusted. But I refused to let that story be my final chapter.

I began rebuilding. I focused on healing, on reconnecting with my purpose. I am helping them navigate digital skills and remote work. I traveled, wrote more, and began collecting the stories of others who had been harmed by imbalances of power. What I found was a shared language: grief, confusion, anger — but also resilience.

There are important lessons I took from this experience, and I want to share them for anyone who might find themselves in a similar situation:

1. Titles Don’t Equal Integrity: A person’s job or social status does not guarantee their moral compass. Trust actions, not just words.
2. Emotional Abuse Can Be Subtle: Gaslighting, distancing, and betrayal can happen even in relationships that seem emotionally intimate. It’s not your fault for not seeing it immediately.
3. Documentation Matters: Keep records. Not out of paranoia, but as a form of self-protection. Sometimes, evidence is the only validation you’ll have.
4. Speak Your Truth: When you feel safe to do so, sharing your story helps dismantle the shame and silence that abusers rely on.
5. Healing Is Nonlinear: You may feel fine one day and broken the next. Give yourself grace. Your healing doesn’t have to look like anyone else’s.

In conclusion, the power imbalance in my relationship with Joel Runnels wasn’t about wealth or politics — it was about manipulation. It was about one person using his influence to control a narrative, and another trying desperately to understand why love turned to abandonment. I may have been hurt, but I emerged with clarity. I know who I am. I know what I deserve. And I know that the truth, no matter how delayed, always finds its way home.

If you are someone who has experienced something similar, I want you to know this: you are not alone. You are not foolish. And you are not broken. Sometimes, telling your story is the most powerful form of justice there is.