Toxic Positivity- Ew!

Snark Warning: This post has a satisfying amount of snark. It is intended to feel cathartic for frustrated recipients of shallow platitudes. For those who are well meaning and have said these things in ignorance, there is no true malice in this post. Just some light hearted sass and enlightenment. Carry on.

You’re sitting across from someone—maybe a friend, a family member, or even a therapist who should know better—and you’ve just shared a fragment of your trauma story. The room fills with that uncomfortable silence that survivors know all too well. Then it comes: “Well, you know what they say, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” And just like that, your complex, painful, ongoing reality has been reduced to a bumper sticker slogan.

If you’ve survived narcissistic abuse, complex trauma, or any form of prolonged trauma, you’ve likely heard a collection of these dismissive platitudes. They often come from well-meaning people who genuinely think they’re helping, which somehow makes it even worse. Not only are you dealing with your trauma, but now you’re also burdened with managing someone else’s discomfort with your pain—smiling politely while screaming internally.

How It Feels to Be on the Receiving End

When someone responds to your vulnerability with a platitude, the effect is immediate and visceral. Your chest tightens. Your throat constricts. That brief moment of connection you thought you were having vanishes.

In that instant, you’re faced with an impossible choice: Do you nod and smile to preserve the relationship, knowing you’ve just been fundamentally misunderstood? Do you summon the energy to educate them, when you’re already depleted from carrying your trauma? Or do you express genuine frustration, risking being labeled as “too sensitive” or “negative”?

Many survivors describe feeling instantly isolated when these comments come—like they’ve been pushed back into a box of acceptable suffering. There’s a special kind of loneliness in being told, essentially, that your pain should be more manageable, more meaningful, or more temporary than it actually is.

Physically, your body might respond as if to a threat (because invalidation is threatening to someone healing from trauma). Your heart rate increases. Your thoughts race. The very nervous system you’ve been working so hard to regulate is now dysregulated again—all because someone couldn’t sit with discomfort long enough to offer genuine support.

Let’s rip the band-aid off these toxic positivity statements and examine why they’re not just unhelpful, but actively harmful to trauma survivors.

1. “What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger”

Let’s start with the heavyweight champion of terrible advice. This saying suggests that trauma is somehow a character-building exercise, a cosmic gym membership you never signed up for.

Here’s the truth: Trauma doesn’t make you stronger; it depletes you. It taxes your nervous system, rewires your brain for constant danger, and drains the emotional resources you need for everyday functioning. Survivors aren’t “stronger” for having endured abuse—they’re working with damaged neural pathways, hypervigilance, and often a profound sense of disconnection from themselves and others.

Survivors aren’t “strong”—they’re exhausted from carrying weights others never had to lift. They’re functioning despite the burden of invisible triggers, flashbacks, and somatic responses that the average person never has to manage.

What survivors develop isn’t “strength” but survival adaptations—many of which actually make life more difficult once the danger has passed. That hyper-awareness of others’ moods that kept you safe around an unpredictable abuser? It now exhausts you in normal social situations. That ability to dissociate when things get overwhelming? It now makes it hard to stay present during important moments.

Trauma survivors aren’t stronger. They’re working overtime just to achieve what might come naturally to others, like feeling safe in a relationship or not panicking at unexpected sounds.

2. “Everything Happens for a Reason”

This platitude suggests that your trauma was somehow part of a grand cosmic plan—that the abuse you endured was somehow necessary or purposeful.

Let’s be crystal clear: There is no “reason” good enough to justify abuse. None. Zero. Full stop.

This statement is a classic example of spiritual bypassing—using spiritual explanations to avoid confronting the uncomfortable reality of suffering. It’s easier to believe in a universe where everything has meaning than to acknowledge that sometimes terrible things happen randomly to good people. But packaging abuse as “part of the plan” or a “lesson you needed to learn” is not only false—it’s cruel.

When someone suggests your trauma “happened for a reason,” they’re unwittingly asking you to find meaning in your suffering to make them more comfortable with the random cruelty of the world. It places the burden on you to extract some profound lesson from your pain, rather than acknowledging the simple truth: what happened to you was wrong, and you deserved better.

It also subtly suggests that if you can’t find this mythical “reason,” you’re somehow failing at processing your trauma correctly. As if recovery means reframing abuse as a blessing in disguise rather than recognizing it as the injustice it was.

3. “God Doesn’t Give You More Than You Can Handle”

This faith-based variation of “everything happens for a reason” adds a particularly painful layer for many survivors. It suggests not only that your trauma was intentional, but that it was calibrated specifically for your capacity—that some divine entity looked at you and decided you were strong enough to endure abuse.

What’s particularly frustrating about this platitude is that it’s based on a misinterpretation of scripture. The verse commonly referenced is 1 Corinthians 10:13, which actually states: “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; He will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear. But when you are tempted, He will also provide a way out so that you can endure it.”

This passage is specifically about temptation—not trauma, suffering, or abuse. It’s about God providing a way to resist moral or spiritual challenges, not about God deliberately giving people suffering to test their strength. The misapplication of this scripture to trauma situations completely distorts its original meaning.

While this phrase originates from a Christian context, similar ideas exist across many faith traditions—and when misapplied, they share the same harm: recasting abuse as divine will. Whether it’s karma, fate, or providence, the suggestion that suffering was somehow divinely ordained can compound trauma with spiritual distress.

What this platitude fails to acknowledge is that many people don’t “handle” trauma—they are broken by it. They develop debilitating mental health conditions, turn to substance abuse to cope, or even take their own lives. Were these people simply given “more than they could handle”? The logic quickly falls apart.

For survivors with spiritual or religious beliefs, this statement can create a spiritual crisis on top of trauma. It portrays God as someone who deliberately inflicts or allows suffering as a test, instead of portraying God as a source of comfort and healing.

Even for those who find comfort in faith, healing often comes from understanding that trauma wasn’t part of a divine plan, but rather the result of human choices, random chance, or systemic failures—and that divine support can also come in the form of healing resources, supportive people, and inner strength to begin recovery.

4. “God Helps Those Who Help Themselves”

Ah yes, the favorite platitude of people who’ve never actually read the Bible but love to weaponize religion against those who are suffering. Let’s get this straight: this phrase appears exactly zero times in scripture. Not once. It’s as biblical as “cleanliness is next to godliness” or “money is the root of all evil” (it’s actually “the LOVE of money is a root of all kinds of evil”) —which is to say, not biblical at all.

The saying actually traces back to Aesop’s fable about a wagoner whose cart gets stuck in mud. When the driver prays to Hercules for help without trying to push his cart first, Hercules essentially tells him to put his own shoulder to the wheel before asking for divine intervention. So unless you’re worshipping the Greek demigod Hercules instead of the God of the Bible, you might want to reconsider this theological hot take. Benjamin Franklin later popularized the phrase, and somehow this advice about muddy cart wheels became the go-to spiritual weapon against trauma survivors who can’t just “bootstrap” their way through PTSD.

When directed at trauma survivors, this platitude becomes particularly toxic. It suggests that if you’re still struggling, you simply haven’t “earned” divine help yet. Still having flashbacks? Clearly you’re not praying hard enough or doing enough spiritual pushups to deserve God’s assistance. Having trouble functioning after abuse? Well, God’s waiting in the wings with healing, but first you need to prove you’re worthy by magically fixing yourself.

The cruel irony is that this saying completely inverts the central message of grace found throughout actual scripture. The Bible repeatedly shows God helping precisely those who cannot help themselves—the vulnerable, the broken, the traumatized. Psalms 34:18 explicitly states, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” Not “The Lord is close to those who have their act together enough to deserve his attention.”

When someone drops this spiritual grenade in your lap, they’re essentially saying: “Your continued suffering is evidence of your spiritual failure.” It’s victim-blaming dressed up in religious language, suggesting that healing is a simple matter of effort rather than a complex neurobiological process that requires appropriate support and resources.

When faced with this particular gem of invalidation, you might respond:

“Fascinating how that phrase isn’t actually in the Bible.”

“I prefer to focus on the parts of scripture that talk about compassion for the suffering.”

“My trauma therapist and my understanding of faith don’t quite align with that view.”

Or my personal favorite: “Actually, the Bible repeatedly shows God helping those who precisely cannot help themselves. But thanks for your theological input.”

The truth is that trauma recovery often begins at exactly the point where self-help fails—when we acknowledge that we cannot heal alone and need support, whether divine or human. There’s no spiritual merit badge for suffering in silence, despite what these platitude-pushers might have you believe.

5. “Just Let It Go and Move On”

If trauma survivors could simply “let go” of their experiences, don’t you think they would have done so already? Nobody earnestly trying to heal “chooses suffering,” as some uninformed outsiders might claim. This statement fundamentally misunderstands how trauma operates in the brain and body.

Trauma isn’t stored as a normal memory that you can choose to forget. It’s encoded differently—often as fragmented sensory experiences that can be triggered without warning. Your body remembers trauma even when your conscious mind is trying to forget. That’s why unexpected triggers can cause such overwhelming physical and emotional responses.

Trauma isn’t a thought you can simply “drop”—it’s a physiological imprint that requires specific tools to reprocess. This is why body-based therapies like somatic experiencing, EMDR, and sensorimotor psychotherapy are often essential components of trauma recovery. These approaches acknowledge that trauma lives in the body and nervous system, not just in conscious thoughts that can be willfully dismissed.

“Moving on” isn’t a decision; it’s a complex neurobiological process that takes time, support, and often professional help. When people tell you to “just let it go,” they’re essentially asking why you don’t simply press the delete button on your trauma—as if such a button exists.

6. “Time Heals All Wounds”

Time alone doesn’t heal trauma. Unaddressed trauma doesn’t fade—it festers, manifests in physical symptoms, relationship patterns, and mental health challenges. In fact, trauma that isn’t actively processed often develops into complex PTSD over time, with symptoms becoming more entrenched rather than magically disappearing.

What actually helps heal trauma is targeted work: therapy with trauma-informed professionals, building a support network, learning to regulate your nervous system, and gradually processing traumatic memories in a safe environment. Time is only helpful insofar as it gives you space to do this difficult work.

The idea that you can passively wait for healing perpetuates the harmful notion that recovery is something that happens to you rather than something you actively participate in. It also invalidates the very real ongoing struggle many survivors face years or even decades after the traumatic events.

7. “You Should Forgive Them for Your Own Peace”

Forgiveness has somehow become the expected final chapter in every trauma story. But mandatory forgiveness places an additional burden on survivors who are already carrying so much.

Here’s what’s rarely acknowledged: You can heal completely without ever forgiving your abuser. Forgiveness may be helpful for some survivors, but it’s not a prerequisite for healing, and suggesting otherwise creates unnecessary pressure and potential shame.

What’s more important than forgiveness is understanding that what happened wasn’t your fault, setting boundaries to protect yourself, and reconnecting with your own needs and values. If forgiveness naturally emerges from that process, fine. If it doesn’t, that’s equally valid.

8. “You’re So Resilient!”

At first glance, this might not seem like a harmful statement. After all, isn’t resilience a positive quality? But for many trauma survivors, being called “resilient” can feel like pressure to perform strength when they’re barely holding it together.

When “you’re so resilient” is used to gloss over suffering, it becomes another way to deny survivors the space to be vulnerable or struggling. It can feel like being told, “I prefer to see you as strong rather than wounded, so please keep performing that strength for my comfort.”

This comment often comes with an unspoken expectation that you should continue to endure without complaint. Worse, it can make you feel guilty for the times when you don’t feel resilient at all—when you’re breaking down, struggling with basic functions, or unable to keep up the appearance of having it all together.

Resilience isn’t the absence of struggle—it’s the presence of struggle and persistence. Real support acknowledges both your capacity for resilience and your need to sometimes fall apart. Being resilient doesn’t mean you’re never affected by trauma—it means you continue despite being affected by it, and that continuing takes an enormous toll.

9. “I’m Sure They Did Their Best” or “They Didn’t Mean It That Way”

This may be the most insidious platitude because it sounds compassionate while actually invalidating your experience. It prioritizes the abuser’s intentions over the impact of their actions, effectively asking you to empathize with someone who harmed you.

The hard truth is that some people are genuinely malicious, and others are so self-absorbed that they never consider how their actions affect others. Narcissistic abusers, in particular, often know exactly what they’re doing—the harm isn’t accidental but strategic.

Even if someone “didn’t mean it that way,” the damage is still real. Your pain isn’t less valid because someone didn’t intend to cause it. You don’t owe understanding to those who hurt you, especially when they’ve made no effort to understand the damaging impact of their actions.

10. Cultural Variations: “But They’re Family” and Other Pressure Points

Platitudes often take culturally specific forms that add layers of shame and obligation to trauma. “Blood is thicker than water” or “family is everything” can become weapons that pressure survivors to maintain relationships with abusive family members.

In some communities, sayings like “what happens in this house stays in this house” explicitly discourage seeking outside help. Other cultural messages might emphasize endurance as virtue (“grin and bear it”), minimize male accountability (“boys will be boys”), or prioritize appearance over well-being (“we don’t air our dirty laundry”).

These sayings aren’t just words—they’re social contracts that prioritize harmony over healing. They function as unwritten rules that maintain the status quo at the expense of individual wellbeing.

These cultural variations share a common thread: they place the burden on the survivor to protect the status quo rather than heal themselves. They leverage cultural identity and belonging against the fundamental need for safety and authenticity. And sadly, our wiring often leads us to choose attachment over authenticity.

Recognizing these cultural dimensions doesn’t mean rejecting your cultural heritage—rather, it means distinguishing between cultural values that support wholeness and those that were designed to maintain systems where abuse can flourish unchallenged.

11. The Infinite Variations of “At Least…”

A special category of invalidating statements deserves its own mention: the seemingly endless variations of “at least…” These comparative statements attempt to minimize your trauma by contrasting it with hypothetical worse scenarios:

“At least they didn’t hit you.” “At least you’re not still with them.” “At least you have a roof over your head.” “At least you learned something from the experience.” “At least you have other family members who care about you.” “At least you’re strong enough to handle it.”

These statements are particularly insidious because they masquerade as gratitude prompts or perspective checks. But what they actually do is invalidate the very real pain you’re experiencing by suggesting you should be grateful it wasn’t worse.

The “at least” approach creates a false hierarchy of suffering where only the absolute worst-case scenario deserves full acknowledgment. It suggests that because others might have it worse, your pain deserves less attention, less support, and less validation. This competitive approach to trauma is not only unhelpful but actively harmful—leaving survivors feeling guilty for their completely appropriate responses to abuse.

When You’ve Become Your Own Worst Critic: Self-Platitudes

Perhaps the most painful platitudes are the ones we tell ourselves. After hearing these messages enough times from others, survivors often internalize them:

“I should be over this by now.” “Other people have it worse—I need to stop complaining.” “If I were stronger, this wouldn’t still affect me.” “I must have done something to deserve this.”

These self-directed platitudes can be even more damaging than those from others because they come from within, attacking us in our most vulnerable moments. They create a cycle where normal trauma responses become evidence of personal failure, leading to shame, which further complicates recovery. Instead of supporting ourselves when we’re struggling, we come down harder ourselves, assuming the role of our own abuser.

Breaking this cycle requires profound self-compassion—the willingness to treat yourself with the same kindness and understanding you would offer a beloved friend in your situation. It means recognizing that healing isn’t linear, that having bad days doesn’t mean you’re failing at recovery, and that your pain doesn’t need to be “the worst” to deserve care and attention.

The next time you catch yourself thinking one of these self-platitudes, try to pause and ask: “Would I say this to another survivor? Is this actually true, or is it a message I’ve absorbed from others who didn’t understand trauma?” If you wouldn’t weaponize another survivor’s pain, why weaponize your own?

Why People Say These Things (And Why It’s Not Your Job to Educate Them)

Understanding why people offer these platitudes doesn’t make them less harmful, but it might help you feel less personally invalidated when you hear them.

Most people are deeply uncomfortable with the idea that terrible things happen randomly to good people. It threatens their sense of safety and justice in the world. Platitudes offer a quick way to restore that sense of order: if trauma makes you stronger, happens for a reason, or can be overcome through forgiveness, then the world still makes sense.

Some people resort to these statements because they genuinely don’t know what else to say. They haven’t been taught how to sit with someone else’s pain without trying to fix it. Our culture doesn’t model compassionate witness very well—instead, we’re taught to problem-solve, silver-line, or distract.

Others may be triggered by your trauma because it resonates with their own unprocessed experiences. Their platitudes might actually be self-soothing mechanisms, attempts to convince themselves that their own trauma wasn’t so bad or had some greater purpose.

And sometimes, people just repeat what they’ve heard without ever examining whether it’s actually helpful or true. Pop culture is saturated with these oversimplified narratives about trauma and recovery.

Here’s the important part: It is not your responsibility to educate these people. You’re not obligated to explain why their comment was hurtful, especially when you’re already managing your own trauma responses. You don’t owe anyone a polite smile or a patient explanation when they’ve just invalidated your experience.

What Trauma Survivors Actually Need to Hear

Instead of platitudes, trauma survivors need validation, compassion, and humble presence. Simple statements like:

“I believe you.” “That sounds incredibly difficult.” “I’m here with you.” “Your feelings make sense.” “This wasn’t your fault.”

These acknowledgments don’t try to solve, reframe, or minimize trauma. They simply recognize it as real and significant.

Ready-to-Use Responses (for When You’re Too Exhausted to Educate)

Sometimes you simply don’t have the bandwidth to explain why a platitude is harmful, especially when you’re already managing trauma symptoms. Here are some brief, low-conflict responses that neither accept the platitude as truth nor place you in the exhausting position of educator:

When someone says “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”:

• “I’ve found healing is more complicated than that.”
• “My therapist and I are working through a different perspective on trauma.”
• “That hasn’t been my experience, but I appreciate your concern.”

For “Everything happens for a reason”:

• “I’m still working on making sense of my experiences in my own way.”
• “I find it more helpful to focus on healing than reasons right now.”
• “I respect that that perspective works for some people.”

When faced with “Just let it go”:

• “Trauma recovery works differently than most people realize.”
• “I’m working through it at the pace that’s healthiest for me.”
• “My healing journey looks a bit different than that.”

For “Time heals all wounds”:

• “I’m finding that healing takes active work, not just time.”
• “That’s a comforting thought, but trauma is more complex.”
• “I’m focused on the present steps of my recovery rather than waiting.”

When confronted with forgiveness pressure:

• “I’m prioritizing other aspects of healing right now.”
• “My therapist suggests focusing on self-compassion first.”
• “Everyone’s healing journey looks different.”

For “They did their best/didn’t mean it”:

• “Impact matters regardless of intent.”
• “I need to honor my experience right now.”
• “I’m focusing on my healing more than their intentions.”

And for any “At least…” statement:

• “Comparing traumas hasn’t been helpful for my healing.”
• “I’m working on acknowledging my experience without comparison.”
• “My therapist encourages me to validate my own experience fully.”

These responses create a gentle boundary without requiring you to take on the exhausting role of educator. They acknowledge the comment without endorsing it and redirect without confrontation. Most importantly, they protect your energy for what really matters: your healing.

True support for trauma survivors means being willing to sit in the discomfort without reaching for tidy explanations or forced silver linings. It means respecting that recovery isn’t linear, forgiveness isn’t mandatory, and meaning-making is personal.

For survivors reading this: Your trauma did not make you stronger—in fact, you might feel anything but strong. You might feel broken, exhausted, or barely functioning. That’s a valid and common experience after trauma. What’s remarkable isn’t some mythical “strength” you’ve gained, but rather your resilience—your ability to survive despite everything you’ve endured. That resilience isn’t a gift from your trauma; it’s evidence of your fundamental humanity continuing to exist despite attempts to break it.

The endless internal work you do every day—work that most people will never see or understand—isn’t about becoming stronger than before. It’s about reclaiming pieces of yourself, finding moments of safety, and sometimes just making it through another day. There’s profound dignity in that journey, whether you feel “strong” or not.

Healing starts when we trade bumper-sticker wisdom for uncomfortable truths: that trauma isn’t a lesson, strength isn’t owed, and survival—however it looks—is always enough.

Your healing journey belongs to you, not to the expectations or comfort levels of others. And you are absolutely entitled to roll your eyes (internally or externally) the next time someone offers you a platitude instead of genuine support.

The truth isn’t always comfortable, especially for those who haven’t experienced complex trauma. But comfort was never the point. Healing is—and healing starts with honesty, not with pretty lies wrapped in inspirational fonts.

A Note on Neurodivergent Trauma Survivors

Neurodivergent individuals—those with autism, ADHD, sensory processing differences, and other neurological variations—often face unique layers of invalidation when processing trauma. Their natural responses to both trauma and healing may be pathologized or dismissed with statements like:

“You’re just overreacting because of your autism.” “If you could focus better, you’d get over this.” “Your sensory issues are making you too sensitive to what happened.” “You’re just fixating on this because of your OCD.”

These statements compound trauma by using a person’s neurotype against them, suggesting their perception of harm isn’t valid but rather a symptom to be dismissed. For neurodivergent survivors, healing often involves the additional work of separating legitimate trauma responses from the stigma surrounding their neurological differences.

If you’re a neurodivergent trauma survivor, know that your experiences are valid, your perceptions are real, and your unique neurological makeup doesn’t make your trauma any less significant. In fact, the intersection of trauma and neurodivergence deserves specialized understanding and support, not dismissal.

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my forthcoming book. All content is © 2025 Worldwide Groove Corporation. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this material without permission is prohibited. Thank you for respecting my work. 😊

Photo Credit: Author, Substack

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Trigger Warning: This is a darker post than I normally would write, but hey, I think this will resonate for many of you. Take care of yourself as you are reading.

Death is final.

It happens to all of us eventually, but when someone close to you dies, it hits just a little more than other deaths.

Have you experienced death of a close relative or a loved one?

We all grieve in different ways, especially if the person who died was a part of your everyday life. There is a five-stage grief cycle by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross. Her research is often mentioned when we talk about grief.

Kubler-Ross’ five stage Grief cycle

• Denial
• Anger
• Bargaining
• Depression
• Acceptance

Source: https://www.healthcentral.com/condition/depression/stages-of-grief

These stages of the grief cycle happen to all of us when we encounter death, but the experience of each stage is personal and can take time. You might be stuck in the denial stage for a long time and go through the anger stage in the afternoon.

The experience of grief is personal, but I think it’s far healthier to talk about how you feel than keep it all inside.

Keeping quiet and holding everything inside almost killed me. I needed someone, anyone to hear me and what I had to say. I wrote The Sex-Offender’s Daughter, https://www.amazon.com/Sex-Offenders-Daughter-Story-Survival-Against-ebook/dp/B0BBSV97VF so that my story of abuse and trauma was out there. No one believed me until this book.

Death

Death is a huge topic, but not something I’ve encountered much until now. My experience with death has been through estranged relatives who have dealt with funeral arrangements and everything else.

This time, I’m next of kin, and the person who needs to decide everything about my father’s remains and his estate. Not only that, but I’m also the only one who must do it because no one else cares.

Do I want a funeral? (Hell no! Nobody would come anyway)

Where should he be buried? (As far as I’m concerned, in a hole of undetermined origin).

Do I want a gravestone? (Nope, why would I want one?)

There’s a whole fat can of worms of legal mumbo jumbo when it comes to the death of a person — Sex-Offender or otherwise.

This time, I’m talking about the death of my abuser. My so-called father. The man who was the source of my pain and that of other kids and women. There were so many of them who were affected by his fear and abuse, but here I am dealing with his death on my own.

The Sex-Offender is dead.

He died alone.

He had nobody coming to see him for years as he lay debilitated after a stroke.

I’m not sorry, nor am I sad that I was estranged from the man for decades. He hurt me in the most profound way, and he led others to do the same. He caused so much misery to so many kids and women, but most of all, he hurt me, his only daughter.

• I was broken because of him.
• I left everyone and everything because of him.
• I started my life again because of him.
• I’ve been living in fear all my life because of him.

The fear unlike no other fear

The day finally came that I’d been wishing for all my life. The death of my father. A man I have feared my entire life. I’m talking about the kind of fear that breaks through every thought and action. A fear so profound that it held me in a death grip all my life.

When I received the news of my father’s death, it hit me in the strangest way I’ve ever felt. No matter how much I’ve longed for the day, I was not prepared for the news.

I was about to settle in for the night after my kids had gone to bed. The news came via social media from an extended family member. I had severed all contact and yet this member of the family found me. Words that I had wanted to hear all my life were delivered as a matter of fact, and all I felt was:

Nothing.

I felt completely calm, and I remember saying to my husband “I don’t care,” and went back to my writing.

But my brain and body had other ideas.

In all that “fine-ness” that I was trying to convey to the world. I was definitely not fine.

The truth is, after a few days, that blissful numbness was no longer. I’m now going through a whole range of emotions. It’s a rollercoaster of deep trauma, moments of clarity, depression, sadness, exhaustion, anger, and a strange sense of inner peace.

All these emotions are rolled into an undulating energy soup that rises and falls like waves inside of my head and chest. It changes every second of every day like a kaleidoscope of light fluctuating in the wind.

So there, Kubler-Ross. I’m an anomaly. I don’t go through those five grief stages. They take over me all at once and more.

Maybe I should invent my own grief cycle that matches what I’m feeling?

Each day is different than the last, each hour, each minute. They all hold some new memories, recently revealed thoughts, or glimpses from my past. A new truth formulating from an adult viewpoint about what was going on. The sudden realization of what it meant.

It consumed me and crushed me. The weight of knowing what he did to me and so many others. I have no words to explain these feelings coursing through my blood.

• Am I feeling “Denial?” No way. I know what happened loud and clear. I’ve lived with the horror all my life.
• Am I feeling “Anger?” You bet, I’m a raging tornado of anger.
• Am I “Bargaining?” Bargaining for what? That he be more dead?

Do I have “Depression?” Well I see the way I’m feeling as normal. Yes, I’m hurting but I’ve come a long way to live my own life free from trauma and abuse. Do the memories still follow me? Yes, but I don’t think traumatic events can go away.

Do I feel “Acceptance?” Yes, I have accepted my life and moved on.

The memories hurt with the same force as they did when they happened. Conversations played out in my head, words that cut me deeper than a knife. Followed by past actions that were terrifying and horrific.

At the same time as these emotions, I must deal with the people who were in my father’s life. The ones who have no clue who he was. There are many legal issues on my shoulders as next of kin to a man with no known will. A dangerous man society had forgotten.

But I haven’t forgotten. I know exactly who he was.

To make everything worse for my head, this is happening in a different time-zone that I don’t live in. I don’t know the estate laws, and don’t want to be spending any time in that place again.

I’m never going back to that place.

My father was a sex-offender and a murderer. He died alone without any friends or family, and I’m not feeling bad that I wasn’t there. I don’t owe the man anything because he stole everything from me.

He took my innocence, my childhood, my trust, and my identity, but even in death he comes back to haunt me.

I’ve lived in a different time zone for decades, to get away from my father and his evil ways. Death is final and doesn’t wait for anyone. It can’t be ignored, which is what my instinct wanted me to do. I wanted nothing to do with it.

He had been “dead to me,” for years.

So, there I was trying to deal with everything and get back in touch with relatives who I had not spoken to in decades. Hearing those voices again and speaking his name triggered something profound within me. Something I thought I had left firmly in my past.

My body started remembering again, after hearing his name. This time the flashbacks kept on coming relentlessly. Each memory fired a bullet of pain into my present life. I developed a tremor, and felt the pain hit me in parts of my body where invisible bruises came to life. They reminded me of a past I had wanted to forget. Each pain brought a vivid memory of horrifying evil.

Then the crying started. I felt out of control of my own body. Giant tears escaped from my tear ducts and rolled down my cheeks in quick succession. I had to stop what I was doing and try to get through whatever this was.

• A panic attack?
• An emotional shut down?
• Some kind of break down?

The scary thing was that I had no control over my emotions. They took over as the memories hit me in waves after waves.

I didn’t grieve his death. This was something else. This was more than grief. But I have no words for it. My memories were focused on everything he did to me and others. A life of pain and abuse. The trauma of the deaths he had been involved in.

If this is what closure feels like, then I want no part of it. I tried reasoning myself out of it. That it was normal to feel sad and the memories would eventually go away. (I guess I tried the bargaining for a spell.)

It didn’t work.

I tried grounding techniques and drew on all the tools of coping with trauma triggers that I’ve mastered over the years.

It didn’t work.

I tried breathing techniques to calm my racing heartbeat from the intense fear from the memories.

It didn’t work.

If anything, the slower breathing made a giant weight bloom in my chest and I felt like I was about to explode.

I kept on crying and let a few deep sobs escape as the memories took over. The pain was way worse than anything I’d ever felt before. The only way I can describe the feeling is by having a lifetime of memories hijack my consciousness at the same time.

I cried so hard, my chest felt like it was going to burst from the pain, and yet the memories kept coming.

The Power of Abuse Lives On

The shadow of power my so-called father wielded over my life continued, whether I was in contact with him or not. I moved time-zones to put space between me and him. A chasm between the present and the past.

It didn’t work.

The truth was, he was alive in the world and carrying on with his evilness even after I left.

The constructed reality my father demanded of everyone around him. His dominating presence where no voice apart from his own was heard. The judgmental pronouncements of doom and gloom over the lives of others. The complete lack of understanding or empathy for anyone, or any life form around him.

I survived, and guess what?

My father was wrong.

I’m not stupid.

I can live without him.

Laughter does exist.

I could get away and make it on my own.

I did not get sick and die after breaking my silence when I published “The Sex-Offender’s Daughter.

It took everything I had to leave. I spent decades trying to understand what had happened to me and why I was feeling different from others. I spent years searching for the truth that seemed to dissipate into mist at the slightest negative. To quiet the dissonance in my mind, heart, and soul.

I used everything I knew and read every book I could get my hands on, but do you know what? I made it. I have started again, established new relationships, and I encompass integrity, honesty and truth in my everyday life.

The Bible says, “The truth will set you free.”

I can wonder at the joy in life, pursue dreams and goals I never thought reachable, and more than anything else, I can finish what I start and do well, leaving a legacy of peace, encouragement, and kindness to my own children.

I feel sorry for my mother and father. They never knew how wonderful life could be. It’s still hard sometimes.

I miss the role-models that a mom and dad bring. I’ve never known what that’s like, but I give it to my own children every single day because I love them.

Love has turned my life around.

I will always bear the scars from the trauma and abuse to a certain degree, but I made it. I made it out, and I am grateful for my own resilience.

I did not give up. I defied trauma and abuse and started again.

I embrace joy and the goodness in everyone I meet.

Life is worth it.

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, a wife, a mom, a teacher, and an author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

Loving an emotionally healthy partner

Here is Part 1 of this series.

If the adult child finds an emotionally healthy partner, they might feel uncomfortable because this person can challenge everything they learned about love. For the adult child, love was historically mixed with criticism, guilt, disappointment, and control while unconditional love and kindness can make the adult child suspicious and distrusting.

The adult child might wonder, “what does this person really want?”; “why are they so nice to me?”; “why do they love me like this?”; “when will the criticism come?” The absence of criticism can feel unfamiliar and unfamiliar doesn’t always feel safe.

The emotionally healthy partner may express appreciation, affection, gratitude and admiration. The adult child might hear the words, but struggle to internalize them because they might think to themselves, “if they really knew me, they wouldn’t feel like this.” Years of criticism can create a deeply rooted belief that love must be earned. However, the adult child’s difficulties with emotional regulation, if not recognized and handled through interventions, risks negative effects to their romantic relationships (Riggs, Cusimano & Benson, 2011).

Researchers have found links between childhood emotional maltreatment and reported difficulties in communication, relationship satisfaction, intimacy, empathy, hostility, defensiveness, and overall relationship quality (Vaillancourt-Morel et al., 2024).

Specifically, some research has discovered that men who grew up with parents who were chronically critical or did not provide a healthy emotional environment are found to provide their partners with less support, engagement, and positive communication skills and have a greater observation of negative traits like high levels of conflict (Malek & Papp, 2015).

The risks of refusing to recognize the unhealthy patterns

If the healthy partner is trying to hold up a mirror to their emotionally injured partner, that person will have to answer to their partner’s insistence that they’ve been unfairly treated, how much they’ve sacrificed, how very little recognition they received, and how long they’ve tolerated this treatment. Sometimes these adult children get angry at the messenger showing them the truth.

If you happen to be one of these people, you are potentially sacrificing your relationship to hold on to your old coping strategies with your parents. That is very direct, I know, but it is true. While you’re feeling tremendous pressure to remain loyal to your parents and the criticism dynamic, you’re putting your partner in the position of being second and ignoring the pain they feel on your behalf, or pain they get if they are also in the line of criticism fire.

If you are the partner in this situation, understand that your partner might feel a great sense of shame beneath the defensiveness, irritation, and anger. They grew up in a family where emotions were not processed in a healthy way, so they didn’t learn how to handle anger, grief, disappointment, and shame in healthy ways. Instead of saying to you, “I’m angry with my parents,” they say, “why are you making such a big deal out of this?” Understand that your partner’s frustration might be understandable, but that doesn’t make it something you must inherently accept.

Because of the environment in which the adult child grew up, healthy partners may see the unhealthy relationship patterns when they participate in family events. That healthy partner will notice how the adult child is treated by seeing and likely mentioning the criticism, double standards, manipulation, and lack of appreciation. A healthy partner will want the adult child to be treated differently.

The adult child, when confronted with this information, will feel conflicted because part of them will agree with what the partner sees, but part of them feels strongly compelled to protect their parents. This can create tension because the partner sees and hears harm while the adult child feels the need to remain loyal to their family and defensive of those unhealthy family dynamics.

Healthy and unhealthy conflict

The healthy partner might model healthy arguments and quick attempts to repair after a fight. In unhealthy households, disagreements don’t get discussed. Feelings run high and hot, but efforts to repair are not done. The adult child does not learn how to disagree in a healthy way. The adult child has not had modeling of emotional maturity, so they might struggle with the skills needed for healthy discussions, especially around disagreements or hurt feelings.

What also tends to happen in this dynamic is the overly criticized, unappreciated adult child takes their frustrations out on their partner. The partner might think, “your parents are the ones criticizing you all the time, but why do you seem angry with me?” From the adult child’s perspective, a lot is happening under the surface. The real reason is often this: his parents feel unsafe to confront.

For someone who grew up with chronic criticism, challenging the parent might feel emotionally dangerous, even in adulthood. Their nervous system learned not to argue, not to upset them, not to challenge them, and keep the peace. Unfortunately, those hurt feelings will often get redirected towards their partners. This is not because the partner deserves it, but because they’re the person least likely to abandon them (Finzi-Dottan & Abadi, 2024).

Healthy partners understand that conflict is just a part of being in a relationship. Relationships require work and sometimes compromise. Adult children of unhealthy family dynamics may not have the skills they need to participate in healthy conflict resolution and tend to be afraid of rejection and fear they won’t ever get true acceptance (Finzi-Dottan & Abadi, 2024). This is not a put-down for these people. It’s reality. Growing up in emotionally immature environments and then having potential relationships with emotionally immature people does not equip these people with the skills needed for healthy discussions and arguments.

In healthy relationships, disagreements can happen without the relationship being threatened. Many people who grew up in the unhealthy dynamics tend to result in insecure attachments to romantic partners (Riggs & Kaminski, 2010). A healthy partner should be able to have constructive conversations that might be difficult, without fearing the other person will shut down and threaten them to leave. Someone raised by highly critical parents may unconsciously expect rejection, withdrawal, punishment or humiliation and because of that, a simple disagreement can trigger intense anxiety because their nervous system learned long ago that conflict equals danger.

A thinking myth might be at play here and that is the healthy partner believes that the person they’re dealing with is their present-day partner. However, if this partner is in the family environment that is filled with emotional dysregulation and criticism, or in moments of high stress, they may actually be encountering old survival strategies that were formed decades before. The partner that becomes defensive, shuts down, redirects anger, blames the healthy partner, or chases parental approval is not consciously choosing the childhood patters, but reverting to those strategies that once helped them survive.

Understanding this does not excuse the behavior and, if the adult child wants to improve their relationships, they need to first recognize what they’re doing, forgive themselves for that, and learn how to behave and respond differently to preserve or create a healthy partnership.

You do not have to keep engaging in these disrespectful interactions

If you are the criticized adult partner, it is your responsibility to recognize it and stop it, and if you cannot stop it, then you learn how to function in that dynamic by learning new ways of responding to parental criticism without internalizing it and processing difficult emotions. The technical word for this is learning emotional regulation and if you grew up in the chronic criticism, then you grew up in an emotionally dysregulated environment (Riggs, 2010).

Learning HOW to regulate emotions might require reading about it and seeking therapy. I know, I know… so many people say therapy is the answer, but this is something serious and severe that needs someone outside of you to help navigate and learn coping skills. Therapy does not mean you are broken. It does not mean you are weak. It does not mean your relationship with your partner is breaking apart. It means you’re taking ownership of your situation and trying to improve it for you, your partner, your current or future children, and, what’s even better, every single generation after them. Your partner will be very grateful and likely even help you in that process with a generous and loving heart.

References

Finzi-Dottan, R., & Abadi, H. (2024). From Emotional Abuse to a Fear of Intimacy: A Preliminary Study of the Mediating Role of Attachment Styles and Rejection Sensitivity. International journal of environmental research and public health, 21(12), 1679. https://doi.org/10.3390/ijerph21121679

Maleck S., Papp L. M. (2015). Childhood risky family environments and romantic relationship functioning among young adult dating couples. Journal of Family Issues, 36(5), 567–588. https://doi.org/10.1177/0192513×13491749

Riggs, S. A. (2010). Childhood Emotional Abuse and the Attachment System Across the Life Cycle: What Theory and Research Tell Us. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 19(1), 5–51. https://doi.org/10.1080/10926770903475968

Riggs, S. A., Cusimano, A. M., & Benson, K. M. (2011). Childhood emotional abuse and attachment processes in the dyadic adjustment of dating couples. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 58(1), 126–138. https://doi.org/10.1037/a0021319

Riggs, S. A., & Kaminski, P. (2010). Childhood Emotional Abuse, Adult Attachment, and Depression as Predictors of Relational Adjustment and Psychological Aggression. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 19(1), 75–104. https://doi.org/10.1080/10926770903475976

Vaillancourt-Morel, M.-P., Godbout, N., Bigras, N., Sabourin, S., & Bergeron, S. (2024). Partner effects of childhood maltreatment: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Trauma, Violence, & Abuse, 25(2), 1323–1343. https://doi.org/10.1177/15248380231173427

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

The invisible wound

When people think about childhood trauma, they might imagine bruises from physical abuse, scars on skin that remain red and thick, stories of children left alone to fend for themselves without food or comfort, or various forms of sexual assault.

Many children grow up in homes where their basic needs are met, and they aren’t beaten or sexually assaulted, but they grow up with chronic belittling, nit-picking, and criticism. For those parents, nothing is ever quite good enough, and the child is reminded of it regularly. When the young one tries to achieve or perform to please the parent, it’s followed by a parental judgment or correction. The parent reminds the child of what they missed, lack, or didn’t do right.

As a child, I learned at a very young age that I was not measuring up to my mother’s expectations. When I was younger, it started out with my physical appearance. My mother was born a small person, with small bone structure, which kept her petite all her life. While I was short, I had a very different structure. It seemed to me like my creator was confused, thinking I needed to be built like a linebacker as a 5-foot 4-inch female.

That difference displeased my mother, and I could not measure up to her physical expectations of me. For her, grades and academic performance were irrelevant compared to how I looked or behaved, because what other people thought meant more than my own achievements outside of having a “perfect” body.

As I aged, I was reminded even more regularly that my body just did not measure up, and her expectations (outside of academics) were that I took care of all household chores. Even when I was working two jobs and going to school, while earning good grades, if the house wasn’t spic and span, I was punished. My brother had no expectations laid upon him. I consistently disappointed my mother, and nothing I could do could earn her praise, except the time that I lost 30 pounds. Her praise then was endless, albeit temporary, as the weight came back.

Over time, the child learns a valuable but painful lesson: “I am only as valuable as my performance,” or “I am only valuable if I meet the expectations my parents have of me.”  For many adults living with complex trauma, the wound isn’t what the parent did to them; it was what the parent repeatedly said.

What does an overly critical parent look like?

A healthy parent teaches their children. They use constructive criticism and redirection if the child needs it, and do so with the goal of helping and nurturing the child’s growth. On the contrary, overly critical parents do not teach; they evaluate. They judge.

Common patterns look like: constant fault-finding, unrealistically high expectations, rare or non-existent praise or acknowledgment, comparing a child to their siblings, dismissing emotions or shutting down the child’s emotions, labeling their children (lazy, dramatic, difficult, ungrateful), and focusing on mistakes and overlooking successes and efforts to please the parent. The message is explicit or implied: “You could have done better.”

Why chronic criticism is so harmful

Children develop their sense of self through their relationship with their caregivers. When their caregivers repeatedly communicate disappointment, rejection, or conditional acceptance, children often internalize those messages as truths about themselves.

Research suggests that persistent parental criticism can contribute to negative self-image, depression, anxiety, and difficulty with emotional regulation (Spinazzola et al., 2014). Harsh and rejecting parental behaviors are also linked to increased psychological distress and poorer mental health outcomes (Cruz, et al., 2022). Children aren’t simply hearing criticism–they are building their identities around it.

The adult child’s hidden beliefs

Many adults raised by highly critical parents continue carrying harmful, unconscious beliefs like: I must earn love; my worth depends on what I do or accomplish; mistakes are dangerous; other people’s needs matter more than mine; I am responsible for maintaining my family’s peace; if I just try harder, I will finally be enough.

When criticism becomes trauma

Trauma is shaped by what happened to someone repeatedly. Developmental trauma research suggests that chronic interpersonal stressors in caregiving relationships can alter the way people handle their emotions, their self-concept, attachment patterns, and social functioning. Psychological maltreatment, which is what chronic criticism is, has been associated with depression, anxiety, shame, dissociation and relationship difficulties (Lippard & Nemeroff, 2020).

Chronic parental criticism, emotional abuse, and harsh parenting are also associated with increased risk for emotional distress, adverse childhood experiences, and substance use problems. For some people who grow up in this environment, alcohol or drugs become a way to cope with the pain of feeling perpetually inadequate, rejected, or unseen (Felitti et al., 1998).

Sometimes trauma looks less like a single event and more like thousands of moments that communicate to the child, “who you are is not enough.”

Why adult children keep trying to earn approval and what happens later

One of the most painful realities for children who grow up with chronic criticism is that the pursuit of parental approval carries long into adulthood. These children grow up to be high achievers, caregivers, helpers, people-pleasers, and perfectionists. They hope that enough success, sacrifice, and service will finally produce the validation they long for, yet many discover that the goalposts continue to move.

Adults who are raised by chronically critical parents might find themselves in relationships with people who do the same thing to them, because it feels like home. It’s familiar. They go from one unhealthy environment into another and maintaining a healthy relationship is difficult when they choose unhealthy partners (Vaillancourt-Morel et al., 2024).

The adult child might struggle with perfectionism, fear of failure, self-doubt, difficulty setting boundaries (especially with the parents), anxiety, depression, sensitivity to criticism (overreacting to it), and relationship problems (Kuo et al., 2011).

They may keep trying to prove their worth                     

One of the most common patterns is over-functioning that looks like becoming: the helper, the fixer, the provider, and/or the caretaker. This happens not because their partner demands it, but because that’s what the adult child learned:  contribution is how they secure connection. However, their healthy partner might say, “you do not have to earn your place here,” but the adult child doesn’t know how not to do that.

The adult child might have difficulty needing anything from their partner because receiving feels vulnerable. If their healthy partner offers comfort, support, or help, they might feel guilty, indebted, weak, or exposed. The adult child might react strongly, in a negative way, becoming defensive or even angry because they learned early that needing someone felt dangerous.

References

Cruz, D., Lichten, M., Berg, K., & George, P. (2022). Developmental trauma: Conceptual framework, associated risks and comorbidities, and evaluation and treatment. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 13, Article 800687. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyt.2022.800687

Felitti, Vincent J., Anda, Robert F., Nordenberg, D., Williamson, D. F., Spitz, A. M., Edwards, V., Koss, M. P., & Marks, J. S. (1998). Relationship of childhood abuse and household dysfunction to many of the leading causes of death in adults: The Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study. American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 14(4), 245–258. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0749-3797(98)00017-8

Kuo, J. R., Goldin, P. R., Werner, K., Heimberg, R. G., & Gross, J. J. (2011). Childhood trauma and current psychological functioning in adults with social anxiety disorder. Journal of anxiety disorders, 25(4), 467–473. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.janxdis.2010.11.011

Lippard, E. T. C., & Nemeroff, C. B. (2020). The Devastating Clinical Consequences of Child Abuse and Neglect: Increased Disease Vulnerability and Poor Treatment Response in Mood Disorders. The American journal of psychiatry, 177(1), 20–36. https://doi.org/10.1176/appi.ajp.2019.19010020

Vaillancourt-Morel, M.-P., Godbout, N., Bigras, N., Sabourin, S., & Bergeron, S. (2024). Partner effects of childhood maltreatment: A systematic review and meta-analysis. Trauma, Violence, & Abuse, 25(2), 1323–1343. https://doi.org/10.1177/15248380231173427

Photo Credit: Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

He too knew the darkness, intimately; instinctively, we spoke one another’s language, like siblings do. Yet there was also a darkness in his disparagement of the objectively good place that, against the odds of the ACE score, had become my reality, a darkness that would expand and soon permeate every aspect of our togetherness. 

In the aftermath of this relationship, I learned more about BPD and its overlaps with CPTSD. I concluded that while I had traits of the former, my symptoms overall added up to the latter.

Since cutting off contact with my family of origin a decade ago, my life had grown and healed in ways I never dared hope for, which is indicative of the context-dependent activation of triggers that is characteristic of CPTSD but not BPD (Martin 2026). Nonetheless, the point raised by my ex-partner – who would you be had it not been for your horrendous childhood – touched a nerve and remains difficult to explore. Partly, this is due to the fact that since day one of my professional life, I had aimed to perform and succeed ‘as if’ – as if everything was, and had always been, hunky-dory. The achievements that ensued from that mindset, and from working as if my life depended on it (which, on reflection, it did, as I was unable to maintain a relationship, and relying on my family of origin was not an option), meant that over the years, I would increasingly find myself in rarefied settings, rubbing shoulders with the super-rich. 

At home with the homeless

I had arrived, it would seem, I had made it, at least professionally. But there is a paradox to flourishing as a survivor of childhood abuse. Mingling with highly accomplished and confident people can seem like a betrayal to an inner child who is certain that this is not where we belong. On a social continuum that extends from homeless junkies via those crippled by personality disorders and suffering from CPTSD to those whose emotional and financial affairs are in marvelous shape, is our tribe not that of Gabor Maté’s hungry ghosts?

Pitiful, revolting, filthy, broken addicts whose stench and existential hopelessness are but a stomach-churning testament to the severity of the crimes committed against their younger selves, a deafening silent scream the world cannot ignore, however hard it tries. No, their wordless reproach goes, I am not okay, and neither were the things that happened when I was a child, nor is the fact that nobody cared to ask questions, let alone intervene. Now look away already, you know you want to.

According to my inner child, it is with these people, like with my BPD ex, with whom I will always share an instinctive, kin-like belonging. In contrast, interacting with emotionally healthy, high-functioning, and immaculately groomed folks while nibbling unpronounceable foods at swanky dos involves painstakingly learning a whole new language.

This, foreign to me, idiom is the shibboleth to social and emotional mobility of dizzying proportions, a leap into the world of generations of professional triumph and familial stability. My blending into these circles is the ultimate ‘as if’, an overcoming of childhood adversity so enormous that my inner child feels invisible, more so as the language barrier works both ways: these graceful sophisticates are protected from many of life’s trials through not just their wealth but by many-layered, strong personal bonds and professional networks, and the permanent severing of family ties is not just a delicate and ugly taboo subject but indeed, beyond comprehension and unfathomable.

Connectedness is everything, and so is family. This is a healthy sphere, seemingly with no concept, let alone first-hand knowledge, of the darkness. Of course, my fitting in here is only skin-deep, and my healing only partial. My private life remains non-existent, a vacuum so obvious that it too is a silent scream, telling the untellable story, making sure the inner child does not go ignored. 

The best revenge

And then I kept investing in my recovery. I am incredibly grateful to be alive at a time when I could stumble across the transformative works of Bessel van der Kolk and Richard Schwartz, among others. Eventually, my private life too began to heal, but only after I made a deal with my inner child, telling her that while my life will more and more look ‘as if’, the past will never be denied or forgotten. And that the best revenge is a life well lived.

Alice Segell is a pseudonym. The author is a wife, researcher, writer and survivor.

References:

Martin, Mozelle (2026), ‘When Dysregulation is not what First Appears: Differentiating BPD, CPTSD with Attachment Dysregulation, Trauma-Bonded Anxious Attachment, Chronic Pain Identity, and Long-Term Instability’, https://cptsdfoundation.org/2026/03/24/when-dysregulation-is-not-what-first-appears-differentiating-bpd-cptsd-with-attachment-dysregulation-trauma-bonded-anxious-attachment-chronic-pain-identity-and-long-term-instability/.

Maté, Gabor (2009), In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts, Close Encounters with Addiction, Random House Canada.

Schwartz, Richard C. (2023), Introduction to Internal Family Systems: A Revolutionary Therapy for Wholeness & Healing, Vermilion.

van der Kolk, Bessel (2014), The Body Keeps the Score, Brain, Mind and Body in the Healing of Trauma, Penguin.

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

It’s the moment they realize:

“I thought I had moved on…so why does my body still feel this way?”

Why does anxiety still show up when life looks okay on the outside?

Why does connection still feel uncertain, even in safer relationships?

Why does the past still feel present?

For a long time, I thought healing meant getting to a place where the past no longer affected me. Where I could close the door on what happened and finally be “done.”

But what I’ve learned – both personally and through my work – is that trauma doesn’t resolve just because we understand it or because life improves on the surface.

Especially when trauma has been ongoing or relational, the nervous system adapts in deep ways. Even when the danger is gone, the patterns of protection can remain.

I know this place well.

There have been seasons where everything in my life looked “fine” on paper, but internally I was still carrying tension, hypervigilance, and a sense of bracing for something to go wrong. Not because I was broken, but because my system had learned that was the safest way to exist.

What I’ve come to understand is this:

Healing is about learning how to move with what has happened.

To stop fighting the parts of us that still carry impact.

To stop judging the responses that once protected us.

And to begin building enough internal safety that those patterns don’t have to run everything anymore.

Healing is not erasing your past.

It’s learning how to be in relationship with it differently.

And from that place, something new becomes possible!

A Small Action You Can Take Today

Take one quiet moment today and notice your body, not your thoughts.

Ask yourself gently:

Where am I bracing right now?

What might this part of me be trying to protect me from?

You don’t have to fix anything.

Just notice.

Then place a hand somewhere on your body – chest, belly, arm – and offer a simple reminder:

“I’m here with you.”

That alone is a form of healing. Not dramatic. Not forced. Just present.

To the journey,

Rachel

P.S. If you’re ready to take the next step in healing from abuse and would like to explore enrolling in the Beyond Surviving program, start by applying for a Discover Your Genuine Self Session.

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

I can trace this belief all the way back to my childhood when I first began to believe that the rays pouring out from behind the clouds were the light of God (or Source or Universal Energy).  Must have been an idea I got from a painting or photograph.  Still, it’s an idea that has stuck in my mind for decades and stays with me even today as I watch the sunset outside my window and am, as always, filled with awe.

I can remember one day in particular from my childhood, a day when I was about six- years old, when my spirituality really began to take hold.  After escaping from some episode of domestic trauma that was going on inside my house, I ran outside into the front yard, looked up at the sky, and saw a jet way up at the top of all of that blue.  Instantly, I felt that if there could be something so incredible, something so very far away from me and all my family turmoil, I could hold on to that faraway place and keep a part of my soul safe there (early threads of dissociation, I suppose).  Ever since that day, I’ve felt that if I could just see a piece of the sky or the summit of some mountain off in the distance, or even a turkey vulture in flight, I could make it…that I could somehow be okay. 

Twenty-one years ago, however, right smack in the middle of an intense “psycho-spiritual crisis,” I was about as far from okay as I could possibly be.

It was during the summer of 2005 at the beginning of perimenopause (the eight or so years before the menstrual cycles cease) that, all of a sudden, all of my coping mechanisms began to collapse, both around me and within me.  As my mind and my body suddenly began releasing much of the terror, grief, and shame I’d been holding onto related to my abuse, I found myself plummeting into the most terrifying and yet liberating experience of my life—an experience I never could have survived without my spirituality.

All day and all night my hands and my body shook.  My pulse, usually around 65 beats per minute, began racing somewhere around 100, and my blood pressure, normally around 110/65, had begun churning out readings as high as 178/100.  I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t sleep.  It took all the concentration I could muster to perform even the simplest of tasks, things like making my sons’ lunch and doing the laundry.  I was afraid to take a shower, afraid to be alone, and terrified that I would take my own life. 

Even with all of this chaos and fear swirling around inside me, I held fast to my spirituality and continued to pray—to God, yes, but also to the inner and outer healing guides (angels, if you will), who I could sense were trying to help me, adding a special prayer for the life I so feared I was losing.

It took some time and a brief stay in an acute care psychiatric hospital for me to come to accept the fact that I was not suffering from any sort fatal brain disease but that it was the aftereffects of my long repressed childhood abuse that was causing all of my midlife physical and emotional upheaval—abuse that I was only just beginning to remember.  And so, desperate to heal my mind and body, once I left the hospital, with the help of talk and hypnotherapy, massage, movement and group therapy, I began my long-awaited journey toward integration, healing, and wholeness.

As many of you who are healing from similar abuse-related traumas know, this journey has not been an easy one.  There are many moments, so many moments when returning memories and long hidden feelings of grief, shame, and fear still threaten to steal away my newly found feelings of safety and sanity. 

While I have many tools to help me through these moments now, I remain amazed by how often simply being able to admit to myself  and to my inner and outer healing guides that I am afraid has brought me comfort, reassurance, and the blessed ability to move forward with my day.  Growing up in an abusive family, I was not allowed to give voice to feelings of shame, grief, or fear and so I internalized these emotions, turning them over the years into episodes of anorexia, bulimia, self-inflicted violence, anxiety, panic, and tendencies toward dissociation. 

Today I can see that it is only by embracing and ultimately releasing these long-repressed emotions and energies that I have been able to heal my mind, body, and spirit, one memory at a time, one tear at a time.

I think many of our difficulties with spirituality arise from our long-held belief that it is something that exists outside of ourselves, something unreachable and angry that we need to fear, much like the perpetrators who wounded us as children.  Through my studies of hypnosis, dream work, and the subconscious mind, however, I have come to believe that our spirituality or “higher power” is something that exists deep within each one of us and that it exists simply as the abundance of memory, wisdom, and faith that each of us needs to reclaim our lives and heal.  It is there whether we are able to believe in it or not, and it is there whether we feel we are able to access its power or not.

So, if you’re feeling so inclined, why not take a moment or two to access this inner spiritual power.  Close your eyes or, if you prefer, just lower your gaze toward the floor.  Take a deep breath and turn your attention inward.  Notice what you’re feeling.  No need to judge or try to change these feelings, just notice them.  Take another deep breath and then say these words whether you believe them or not…even if, or rather especially if it makes you cry—

• “I am taking back my power!”
• Say it again.  Louder.
• “I am taking back my power!”
• Say it again, even louder.
• “I am taking back my power!”

Say these words again, and again.  Say them every day if you need to and every night.  Say them until you truly believe with all your heart and soul that you really do have the right and the ability to reclaim the power that was stolen from you—to reclaim your life—and heal.

Wishing all of us much hope and wholeness on our healing journeys.

Many blessings,

Lynda Wisdo, MA, CYT

Another version of this post was first published in Many Voices Press Newsletter; October 2008 edition

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

During all those years before I finally got the right diagnosis of PTSD and AuDHD, chronic failure was a painful part of my life, both privately and at work. I often lost my jobs and I struggled in relationships, all of this without knowing why.

Living in a society where everybody is always so fast and harsh judging you based on your professional career and performance, chronic failure without knowing why can break you. I spent years feeling ashamed of myself, until finally a doctor took the time to do the right tests. Hearing the words, ‘None of it was ever your fault,’ was more than a big relief for me.

This is my personal reflection and what I learned about ADHD, Trauma, and the Path to Recovery:

For those living with both ADHD and PTSD, understanding the connection between the two can be a powerful step toward healing. Here is a brief overview of how these experiences often overlap. While a majority of individuals with ADHD may eventually adapt to adversity, they remain at a higher risk for more severe outcomes following traumatic events.

Some of the Key Reasons for Increased Vulnerability:

• Higher Risk of PTSD: People with ADHD who experience a traumatic event are roughly four times more likely to develop Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) than their peers without ADHD.
• Intensified Symptoms: ADHD and trauma affect similar regions of the brain, such as the prefrontal cortex, which governs emotional regulation and impulse control. When both are present, they can multiply, rather than just add together, worsening symptoms like inattention, emotional dysregulation, and hypervigilance.
• Sensitive Nervous Systems: Emerging research indicates that the nervous systems of those with ADHD may be more sensitive, making them more likely to experience a stressful event as traumatic compared to non-ADHD individuals.
• Executive Functioning Gaps: Core ADHD traits, such as difficulty with self-regulation and problem-solving, can make it harder for individuals to use constructive coping skills after a crisis. 

🌿 There is often a symptom overlap:
Because trauma symptoms like restlessness and distraction often mimic ADHD, it can be difficult for clinicians to distinguish between the two. Traditional ADHD therapy is “top-down,” using the brain to control the body. Trauma therapy often works “bottom-up,” using the body to calm the brain. 

This is why meeting with doctors who specialize in both of these fields can truly support the path of recovery. From my own experience, I know that finding the right doctors demands perseverance. In our country, the waiting lists for appointments are very long these days. However, please remember that it is worth the wait; and if possible, ask your local medical center to guide you toward the right specialists.

🌿 Being diagnosed later in life: 
When a person carries ‘hidden’ trauma for decades while living with ADHD, they often spend those years in a state of chronic exhaustion. This is because their brain has been working overtime to manage two different ‘storms’ at once: the executive dysfunction of ADHD and the survival instincts of trauma.

Individuals navigating this hidden toll often wear a high-functioning mask that lets them appear successful and capable in the workplace, meeting every expectation with quiet strength. Yet the moment they step into the safety of home, that energy simply vanishes, leaving them to collapse in exhaustion.

Because the deeper trauma remained unseen and unspoken for so long, they turned the blame inward, whispering to themselves that they were lazy, stupid, or simply not trying hard enough; in truth, their tender hearts were carrying an immense, invisible weight no one else could see.

That self-blame slowly deepened into a profound shame, quietly inviting chronic anxiety, depression, and the aching embrace of burnout. If this pattern echoes in your own life, please hold this truth close: you were never lazy, never broken, and never failing. You were surviving something extraordinarily heavy with every ounce of courage you had, and your heart has always deserved gentle, loving compassion, especially from yourself.

Understanding these connections is the first step toward reclaiming your well-being. Working alongside a certified medical doctor specializing in trauma therapy is an important part of the healing journey.

I see you. You have carried so much for so long; it’s okay to let the storms settle and finally step into the peace you deserve. Healing begins the moment you realize your survival was a quiet strength, and peace is finally within your reach. May you now allow yourself to breathe in the stillness of this new beginning, where your only task is to be kind to your own heart.

You don’t have to have all the answers right now; just focus on being a little more gentle with yourself today, and trust that you have the resilience to take this next part of your journey one step at a time.

Fill your days with the small things that bring your heart genuine joy, whether that is finding a creative hobby, spending time in the quiet of nature, or meeting with like-minded souls who truly understand you. New and more loving habits can open unexpected doors, helping you create the meaningful life you have always deserved.

It is in these simple, everyday moments of kindness to yourself that your world begins to feel whole again. By choosing what nourishes your heart, you are filling your daily life with more love right now.

And if you ever need someone to talk to, I am here for you.

With Love and Light,
Jeanne

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

They are not always the loudest child in the room. They are not always the child getting into trouble, asking for attention, or making their needs impossible to ignore. Often, they are the child who figures things out. The child who watches the room before entering it. The child who notices the shift in a parent’s voice, the tension at the dinner table, the bill left unopened, the sibling who needs help, the adult who is close to unraveling. They become useful early. 

They learn which emotions are safe to show and which ones make things worse. They learn when to stay quiet, when to intervene, when to comfort, when to disappear, and when to perform being fine. They become fluent in the needs of others long before they are given language for their own. And because they are capable, people stop worrying. Nobody worries about the responsible one. 

I was the responsible one. There was never a question when it was time to deliver a report card.

Test days were stress-free for my family, though I was filled with anxiety. The anxiety wasn’t related to the material; it was related to reactions from my family if I were to somehow obtain anything less than a perfect score. On the field, the court, the diamond or in the pool I was the athlete that was the leader. Game day nerves were never an issue, going home nerves were. Sports were my escape from the physical and emotional tension in my home. A standout scholar and athlete, I was exactly what my biological family wanted in their eldest child. 

As I moved forward in life, this became, quite naturally, my reason for living, my role, and my job. Afterall, as early as the age of 5 I was the problem solver, the little adult. The hypervigilance and ability to see detail beyond what my peers could see always served me well as a child and continued into adulthood. There is something about a young life that has learned awareness and attention to detail before they can even speak that causes them to be counted among the best of recruits as adults.

There is a level of maturity, a leadership quality, that doesn’t exist with people of their own age and background. Rarely does anyone stop to ask what it costs a child to become that composed. It is these and other associated qualities that employers look for in candidates. Paper credentials were important to show educational achievement, but the unspoken, unwritten qualities of adaptability, awareness, and foresight have been valued as equally (at times even more) important. While my teachers called these qualities leadership, the adults in my life called them maturity and manners, and employers call it executive presence.  

This is where many high performers begin. While the details of our story may differ, the responsibility often arrived long before we were ready for it.  

For many of us, those early experiences became the foundation for qualities that would later be celebrated. In the world of Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or CPTSD, these adaptations are often viewed through a clinical lens. Yet for many high performers, they are simply the way we have always moved through the world.

We become so accustomed to carrying responsibility that it feels less like a choice and more like a fundamental part of who we are. 

As this series unfolds, I want to explore that reality with curiosity rather than judgment. Not everyone who experienced adversity develops CPTSD, and no two stories are exactly alike. What I have found, both in my own life and in my work with high-performing professionals, is that many of us have spent years refining skills that helped us survive while rarely examining what those same skills cost us.

The ability to remain composed, productive, and dependable can open remarkable doors in our careers and relationships. It can also make it difficult to recognize when we are exhausted, disconnected, or carrying burdens that no longer belong to us. Understanding that tension is where this conversation begins, and it is where we will continue next. 

I’m curious. Were you the responsible one growing up? If so, what is one thing you’ve had to learn as an adult that responsibility never taught you? 

May your capacity never come at the expense of your peace. 

-Oak 

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Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

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Photo Credit: Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer