The Weight You Carry

You wake up each morning with a heaviness that makes even lifting your head from the pillow feel impossible. The weight isn’t physical—it’s the accumulation of emotional wounds, betrayals, and the exhausting effort of pretending to be okay when you’re anything but.

There’s a peculiar kind of loneliness in walking through the world carrying this invisible burden. People pass by with casual greetings—”How are you?”—a question that forces you into an impossible choice: lie and say “I’m fine” while wanting to die inside, or risk the vulnerability of honesty when so few truly understand the depth of your pain.

So you smile. You nod. You perform the dance of normalcy while inside, a voice whispers that continuing to exist shouldn’t be this unbearable.

The Fog of Invisibility

In this state, it becomes frighteningly easy to picture a world without you in it. Not because you’re actively planning to leave, but because you fundamentally believe you don’t matter—not really. Even when people insist you’re important to them, their words can’t penetrate the dense fog you’re lost in.

You don’t even remember when you started believing you don’t matter. It feels like a truth you’ve always known, buried deep in your bones. There seems to be no amount of love, affirmation, or validation that will make it register in your soul that you truly matter. The narcissist didn’t create this belief, but they identified it with unerring precision and exploited it until it grew to consume your entire reality. Palpably feeling loved seems like something “other people” get to have, but it seems impossible for you.

For many survivors, the only tether keeping them anchored to this world is their children. The thought of abandoning their kids is unthinkable—the one line they won’t cross. But this creates its own cruel trap: they don’t want to be in this harsh world, yet they can’t leave it. They’re caught in limbo, neither fully living nor able to escape.

This brings crushing waves of guilt. They grieve the time they’ve lost with their children while battling this internal darkness. They mourn not being the parents they desperately want to be—fully present, engaged, and joyful. Instead, they go through the motions, knowing their kids are growing up, that these fleeting years are passing, and that irreplaceable stretches of precious parent/child moments have been robbed by this struggle.

They’ll never get that time back. And just knowing this doesn’t magically end the struggle. So they face the heartbreaking knowledge that more days will be lost, more precious moments missed, before their children are grown and gone.

The Silent Struggle: Loss of Will to Live

Victims may feel deep apathy, hopelessness, or a loss of motivation to engage in life or pursue future goals. In narcissistic abuse and complex trauma, this often comes from prolonged emotional, psychological, or relational distress caused by the abusive dynamic.

This isn’t about wanting to die—it’s about no longer feeling capable of living. It’s waking up each morning, believing you don’t have what it takes to survive in this world. And you can’t imagine having to endure more days, months, decades feeling this way. Thinking about the future feels overwhelming and triggering because you’re bracing yourself for the next wrecking ball.

For survivors of narcissistic abuse, this silent struggle often goes unrecognized. Friends and family might see someone functioning—going to work, maintaining appearances—while inside, that person feels panic and dread about their own existence.

The Inner Struggle: Beyond the Surface

When Words Fail

For many people actively struggling with the loss of will to live, simply forming words to describe their experience becomes impossible. They may receive a text from a concerned friend asking, “How are you?” and find themselves staring at the screen, utterly paralyzed.

This isn’t merely an emotional block—it’s rooted in brain biology. When trauma overwhelms us, our nervous system can shift into a protective shutdown mode (what scientists call a “dorsal vagal state”). In this survival state, the thinking and language parts of our brain temporarily go offline. The brain literally deprioritizes our ability to form words and sentences while it focuses on basic survival functions. This is why trauma researchers sometimes refer to this as “speechless terror”—the experience is so overwhelming that the brain’s language centers cannot process or express it.

To someone who hasn’t experienced this state, it seems inconceivable that a person couldn’t muster a simple response. But in these moments, language itself becomes inaccessible. How do you translate the vast, formless void inside you into words? How do you explain that you’re simultaneously numb and in excruciating pain? That you feel nothing and everything at once? And you’re literally incapable of expressing it.

So the message sits unanswered. Adding another layer of shame, another reason to withdraw further, believing you don’t have what it takes to live in this world.

“But My Abuse Wasn’t That Bad”

A common obstacle to seeking help is the belief that their experiences “weren’t bad enough” to justify their deep suffering. Survivors often downplay their trauma, thinking:

“Other people have it so much worse.” “I wasn’t physically harmed, so why am I falling apart?” “They didn’t mean to hurt me, so this isn’t really abuse.” “I’m just too sensitive.”

Many struggle to accept the word “abuse,” finding it hard to connect it to their experience. This minimization isn’t accidental—it’s often shaped by the abuser, who downplays the harm they cause and makes the victim feel like their reactions are overblown.

This cycle of self-doubt deepens the pain, layering shame about the struggle itself on top of the original trauma.

The Protective Part That Wants to Give Up

In the internal family systems (IFS) therapy model, the part of us that wants to stop living isn’t trying to harm us—it’s trying to protect us in the only way it knows how. It’s not a destructive impulse but a misguided protector that sees ending the struggle as the only solution.

This part formed when other coping strategies failed—when fighting didn’t work, fleeing wasn’t an option, and freezing no longer brought relief. It whispers, “I can make the pain stop,” believing it’s offering mercy, not destruction.

Recognizing this as a protective response, however paradoxical, can help survivors replace fear and shame with self-compassion.

Living Minute by Minute

For someone in acute crisis, even “taking things one day at a time” can feel overwhelming. Their world narrows to surviving moment by moment, unable to imagine a future beyond the next few minutes.

They genuinely don’t know how they’ll exist from one hour to the next. Basic tasks become monumental achievements—eating a meal, taking a shower, responding to a text. On particularly difficult days, the only goal might be to eat three small meals or simply not resort to hospitalization.

These individuals often develop elaborate ways to avoid potential triggers. They may:

• Avoid all public places or social media for fear that one negative interaction with a stranger could push them over the edge
• Stop watching any shows with suspenseful or emotional content
• Experience panic at notification sounds, dreading the task of responding
• Rehearse casual conversations to prepare for inevitable social interactions

It cannot be overstated how fragile someone can be during these periods—existing in a constant state of pain and torment, where the slightest additional stress threatens to break them completely.

The Invisible Wounds

Beneath the surface of daily life, survivors of narcissistic abuse carry unseen wounds that impact every part of their being—their thoughts, emotions, physical health, and spiritual well-being. The harm runs deep because it attacks their very sense of identity and self-worth, leaving them questioning their right to exist.

Causes:

Existential Shame and Humiliation: Beyond ordinary shame about actions or behaviors, narcissistic abuse often creates a profound existential shame—the feeling that your very existence is somehow wrong or flawed.

This isn’t simply feeling bad about something you did; it’s feeling that who you fundamentally are is defective. The narcissist’s constant criticism, devaluation, and manipulation create a state of existential humiliation where you feel inherently unworthy of taking up space in the world. This deep shame becomes a core identity, making the thought of continuing to exist feel pointless or even wrong. You’re embarrassed at your own existence.

Emotional Exhaustion: Victims of narcissistic abuse often endure relentless invalidation, neglect, and emotional turmoil, leading to extreme fatigue and loss of motivation.

The constant vigilance required to navigate a relationship with a narcissist—walking on eggshells, managing their unpredictable moods, defending against accusations, and trying to make sense of reality when someone keeps distorting it—taxes every emotional resource you have. Eventually, your emotional reserves are completely depleted. You have nothing left to give—not even to yourself.

Hopelessness and Worthlessness: Narcissistic abuse can erode a person’s self-esteem and sense of worth, fostering feelings of being trapped and powerless.

After years of being told you’re not enough, that your feelings don’t matter, or that you’re the problem, you begin to see yourself through the narcissist’s distorted lens. Your achievements become meaningless, your dreams seem ridiculous, and your future appears pointless. Why bother living when you’ve been convinced your life has no value?

Cognitive Dissonance: The conflict between reality and the narcissist’s false narratives can contribute to confusion, self-doubt, and despair, making life seem meaningless.

Living in two worlds—the real one and the narcissist’s version—fractures your sense of truth. You doubt your own perceptions and memories. This constant state of uncertainty exhausts the mind and spirit, making simple decisions feel overwhelming. Life becomes a maze with no exit, where nothing makes sense anymore.

Identity Erosion: When someone systematically strips away your sense of self, you may eventually forget who you are outside of the abuse.

The narcissist slowly replaces your authentic self with the version of who you must become to survive. Your preferences, boundaries, dreams, and even your personality become shaped by their demands and criticisms. When you finally emerge from the relationship, you may feel like a stranger to yourself, unsure of what you like, what you want, or who you are meant to be.

The Layered Nature of Trauma: Many survivors of narcissistic abuse carry previous wounds from childhood that made them vulnerable to narcissistic manipulation in the first place.

Childhood emotional neglect, attachment trauma, or growing up with narcissistic parents can create the perfect foundation for later narcissistic abuse. The narcissist didn’t create your wounds—they simply found them with unerring precision and exploited them. This layering of trauma upon trauma creates a compounding effect, making recovery particularly challenging. You’re not just healing from the current relationship but from a lifetime of having your sense of self and worth undermined.

Grieving What Was Lost

Survivors of narcissistic abuse often carry an unspoken, invisible grief—a mourning that few recognize or validate. Unlike grief caused by death, this loss is ambiguous, complex, and deeply personal. What has been stolen isn’t just a relationship or a period of time—it’s a sense of safety, trust, identity, and sometimes, even the belief that joy is possible.

You may grieve the person you were before the abuse—someone who once moved through life with more ease, trust, or optimism. Or perhaps you grieve the time you lost—years spent trying to make things work, trying to be enough, trying to survive in an environment that was slowly eroding you. Some mourn the family they never truly had, realizing that the people who were supposed to love them were incapable of doing so in a way that was safe or nurturing.

Grief may also appear in unexpected ways: feeling waves of sorrow over memories that now seem tainted, feeling anger over what you tolerated before you understood it was abuse, or feeling deep sadness when you witness healthy relationships and realize what you never had.

Many survivors struggle with self-blame in their grief. They wonder, Why didn’t I see it sooner? Why didn’t I leave earlier? Why did I let it affect me this much? But this is not a failure on your part—it is a testament to how deeply you loved, how hard you tried, and how much you deserved better.

Grieving is painful, but it is also proof that you are healing. It means you are recognizing what you lost, what was taken from you, and what you still deserve. True healing doesn’t mean erasing the grief—it means making space for it while also making space for what comes next: reclaiming your life, your identity, and your future.

Living in the Shadow

When the will to live has been eroded by narcissistic abuse, survivors don’t just think differently—they experience the world differently. What was once colorful becomes gray; what once brought joy becomes empty; what once felt meaningful becomes pointless. This isn’t simply a shift in perspective but a fundamental alteration in how reality is experienced moment by moment. The outer persona may continue to function while the inner self has gone dormant, creating a shadow existence where one merely goes through the motions of living.

Manifestation:

Emotional Numbness: Victims may experience detachment from their emotions, as the constant invalidation and gaslighting make it difficult to trust their own perceptions.

Survivors often describe feeling like they’re “dead inside” or “just going through the motions.” This numbness isn’t a choice—it’s the mind’s way of protecting itself from overwhelming pain. When feelings have been weaponized against you, shutting them down becomes a survival strategy.

Reduced Capacity for Joy: Simple pleasures and future aspirations become difficult to connect with, as the narcissistic relationship strips away a sense of purpose and hope.

Activities you once loved bring no satisfaction. Future dreams seem pointless or unattainable. The present moment feels empty. This isn’t depression as most people understand it—it’s a profound disconnection from the very things that make life worth living.

Self-Isolation: Withdrawal from social connections and neglect of personal care are common as the person feels disconnected from the world.

The energy required for social interaction becomes too much to bear. Basic self-care feels pointless. Why shower, eat well, or rest when nothing matters anyway? This withdrawal often reinforces the feeling of disconnection, creating a cycle that’s difficult to break.

Persistent Feeling of Defeat: A pervasive sense that no matter what you do, things will never improve or change.

This isn’t pessimism—it’s the result of having your efforts consistently undermined, your successes diminished, and your hopes repeatedly crushed. When every attempt to improve your situation has been sabotaged, giving up seems like the only logical response.

Small Triggers, Massive Waves

For survivors with Complex PTSD from narcissistic abuse, what appears to be a minor incident can trigger a catastrophic collapse of your will to live. The depth of this reaction often seems incomprehensible to those who haven’t experienced complex trauma.

When Trust Is Shattered Again

Consider this true story: A trauma survivor hired a dog sitter through a reputable company while away on vacation. Midway through the trip, they discovered through security cameras that the sitter was neglecting their beloved pet—not staying at the house as promised, leaving the dog alone for 17 hours, failing to provide food, and sending false updates about the dog’s care.

From several states away, they scrambled to find emergency care for their pet while documenting the neglect with timestamped video evidence. The vacation was ruined, but worse was coming. Despite irrefutable evidence and promises from the company, the sitter remained on the platform after being suspended for only one day, even posting public lies denying any wrongdoing and openly calling the survivor a liar.

For someone without trauma, this would be infuriating. For a complex trauma survivor, it was catastrophic. The combination of betrayed trust, gaslighting, injustice, powerlessness, and institutional failure to protect the vulnerable hit every trigger point from their abuse history. Being publicly called a liar—and watching that lie be allowed to stand without consequence—recreated the exact dynamic of their previous trauma. And doing everything in their power to pursue justice, only to have no influence, was soul shattering. For weeks afterward, they found themselves thinking, “I don’t want to be alive anymore.” The depth of despair was so severe they had to ask family not to leave them unattended.

To an outsider, this reaction might seem disproportionate. But trauma doesn’t operate on logic. When your psyche has been previously shattered, even the smallest betrayals can reopen those wounds completely.

The Invisibility of Triggers

Triggers can be unexpectedly small—a flash of painful memory, an unanswered message, a minor mistake at work. To others, these moments seem trivial, but to a trauma survivor, they can spiral into despair in an instant, reigniting feelings of shame, abandonment, or fear. The body reacts as if the past is happening all over again, no matter how much time has passed. For someone with CPTSD, these moments can instantly trigger:

• Emotional Flashbacks: Suddenly feeling the same helplessness, shame, or terror you experienced during the abuse
• Overwhelming Fatigue: A wave of soul level exhaustion that makes continuing to stay alive seem impossible
• Dissociation: Mentally “checking out” because reality becomes too painful
• Return to Hopelessness: All progress seems erased in an instant
• Sleep Seeking: The desperate wish to “go to sleep and never wake up”—not actively wanting to die, but wanting desperately for the pain to stop

What makes these triggers so devastating is that they often appear inconsequential to others. A friend’s constructive feedback becomes a crushing blow. A minor setback feels like definitive proof of your worthlessness. A happy memory brings guilt and confusion rather than joy.

The thoughts that follow aren’t dramatic plans for self-harm but quiet surrenders: “Being alive is too hard.” “I can’t do this anymore.” “I just want this to be over.”

This is why recovery isn’t linear. A survivor might be doing well for weeks or months, only to encounter a trigger that temporarily erases all sense of progress and returns them to that place of not wanting to continue living. And they often suffer in complete silence, because how do you explain to someone that a seemingly minor disappointment has made you lose your will to live?

Read the rest of this article in the first book of Ellen’s series “There’s A Word for That”: https://a.co/d/01GdqiwJ

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my 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. 😊

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Internalized Worthlessness: When You Truly Believe You Don’t Matter

Khalil stood in front of his bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie for the third time. His therapist Dr. Rivera had suggested this simple daily affirmation: “I matter. My voice matters.” But today, the words felt foreign in his mouth, like stones too heavy to lift.

The promotion letter lay unopened on his dresser—the department chair position he’d been quietly encouraged to apply for. Instead, he’d recommended his colleague Tariq, insisting Tariq would be “a better fit.” Yet in his current role, Khalil regularly stayed hours after his shift ended, taking on the cases nobody wanted, covering colleagues’ weekends without complaint, and volunteering for every committee that needed members.

“You’re the hardest working doctor in this hospital,” his supervisor often said, not realizing that Khalil’s relentless work ethic wasn’t ambition but atonement—constant payment for the space he occupied in the world.

Downstairs, his achievement awards lined the hallway—the community leadership plaque, his medical school diploma, framed articles about the free clinic he’d helped establish. His mother Amara had insisted on displaying them, proud of the son who had “made something of himself.” What the awards didn’t show was how he’d driven himself to exhaustion earning them, taking on impossible workloads while declining recognition that might put him too visibly in the spotlight.

At the clinic, he was known for working through lunch, seeing extra patients, and personally making follow-up calls on his drive home. The staff marveled at his dedication while worrying about his health. Last month, he’d nearly collapsed from pneumonia after refusing to take sick days, convinced the clinic would fall apart without him—not because he was irreplaceable, but because he felt responsible for everyone else’s welfare while dismissing his own.

“You coming to the fundraiser tonight?” His colleague Nisha had texted earlier. “They’re recognizing your refugee healthcare initiative.”

Khalil had responded with a thumbs-up emoji, not mentioning how he’d personally covered three families’ medical bills last month when funding ran short, stretching his finances thin. He hadn’t told anyone, adding it to the invisible ledger of things he did to prove his worth—a ledger that somehow never balanced, no matter how much he gave.

Last week, he’d run into Leila at a conference. Now married with children, she’d mentioned casually, “Remember how I always said you worked too hard? Looks like nothing’s changed.” She didn’t know that after their breakup, he’d thrown himself even deeper into his career, taking overnight shifts and weekend rotations that no one else wanted, filling every moment so he wouldn’t have to face the silence of his apartment and the whispers of inadequacy that filled it.

He practiced his smile in the mirror—the one that projected confidence while hiding the constant calculation happening behind it: Am I doing enough? Have I earned my place today? What more should I be giving?

The irony wasn’t lost on him. As a doctor, he fiercely advocated for his patients to prioritize their wellbeing, to set boundaries, to recognize their inherent value beyond what they could produce or achieve. He could articulate with perfect clarity how every human deserved care and rest simply by existing. For everyone except himself.

There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that comes from trying your absolute hardest to make a difference—whether in the life of someone you love, a community you care about, or a cause you believe in—only to watch your efforts disappear like teardrops in an ocean. You extend your hands to try to hold back what feels like a tsunami of dysfunction, injustice, or pain, and find yourself nearly drowning in the process. And after years, perhaps decades of this pattern repeating, something shifts deep inside. A quiet, devastating conclusion forms: I don’t matter.

This is internalized worthlessness—what psychologists might clinically term “existential invalidation” that has been absorbed into your very sense of self. It goes beyond mere discouragement or feelings of ineffectiveness. It’s the bone-deep belief that your existence, your voice, your efforts fundamentally lack the weight or significance to affect the world around you. Yet this belief, however entrenched, is a distortion, not a truth.

How This Wound Forms

Internalized worthlessness rarely begins in adulthood. Its seeds are typically planted in childhood, often in homes where a child’s emotions, perspectives, or needs were consistently dismissed or minimized. In narcissistic family systems, children learn early that their reality holds less value than the distorted reality their caregivers insist upon. They’re told they’re “too sensitive,” “overreacting,” or simply wrong about what they’ve experienced.

But even those who grow up in relatively healthy homes eventually encounter a world that can be profoundly invalidating:

• The high-achieving student whose genuine passion is met with indifference
• The whistleblower whose truth-telling is punished rather than rewarded
• The compassionate friend whose efforts to help a struggling loved one are resisted or rejected
• The advocate who watches institutions protect the powerful while abandoning the vulnerable

Each instance reinforces the message: “I don’t count. I can’t change anything. I make no difference.”

In our modern digital landscape, this wound now comes with metrics. Social media platforms offer concrete numbers to measure our “impact”—likes, shares, follows—creating an endless treadmill where we can never quite outrun the feeling of insignificance. Previous generations may have wondered about their reach; today’s can watch it quantified in real-time, often reinforcing feelings of inadequacy.

One of the most powerful and often unconscious dynamics in this struggle is how our primal need for attachment frequently overrides our authenticity. As humans, we are wired for connection before almost anything else. When faced with a terrible choice between maintaining our authentic sense of worth and maintaining attachment to important people in our lives, our survival brain will often sacrifice our self-worth to preserve the attachment.

This explains why even people who intellectually understand their inherent value may continue to behave as if they don’t matter when around certain people – particularly authority figures, romantic partners, or family members. The threat of losing connection activates such primal fear that abandoning our truth feels like the safer option. Children in invalidating environments make this bargain instinctively: “I’ll believe I don’t matter if it means you’ll stay connected to me.” As adults, we continue this pattern unconsciously, particularly in relationships that echo our early attachment experiences.

The Blueprint for Future Relationships

This early conditioning creates a powerful template that shapes all future relationships. Having learned that their needs and opinions matter less than others’, many carry this blueprint forward, unconsciously seeking out or creating situations that confirm what they already “know” to be true. They enter friendships, romantic relationships, or work environments where they automatically defer to others, accept mistreatment as normal, and feel guilty for having needs at all.

They become magnets for people who sense this pliability and exploit it – partners who expect them to remain in relationship while being totally neglected, friends who disappear when support is needed but demand immediate attention for their crises, bosses who pile on extra work without recognition or compensation. They’re so busy hustling for their worthiness, they don’t even notice their own self-worth baseline is at zero.

What makes this cycle so devastating is how it confirms the original wound. Each relationship that follows this pattern becomes another piece of “evidence” reinforcing the belief that was planted long ago, operating beneath your conscious awareness but directing your choices nonetheless.

The Paradox of Accomplishment

Perhaps the cruelest aspect of internalized worthlessness is that it often persists despite objective evidence to the contrary. Many who suffer from this belief are highly accomplished individuals—teachers who’ve inspired hundreds, healthcare workers who’ve saved lives, artists whose work has moved many to tears, parents who’ve raised kind and capable children.

Yet deep in their nervous system, a primal panic remains: I haven’t done enough. It’s not enough. I’m not enough.

What makes this so insidious is that this belief often operates completely outside of conscious awareness. Many people reach middle age or beyond before realizing that “I don’t matter” has been the invisible force shaping their entire lives – their career choices, relationships, how they respond to conflict, their reluctance to ask for help, their endless drive to achieve, their difficulty receiving love. It’s not a thought you consciously think, but more like an operating system running silently in the background, influencing everything without announcing its presence.

When you receive genuine words of appreciation, these validations can get dismissed as the other person just being nice, unable to alter your core belief of unworthiness. The belief exists primarily in your nervous system, not your logical mind, which is why reasoning with yourself rarely helps. You can’t estimate how much you would need to achieve or how many affirmations it would take to finally feel secure in your worth.

This relentless sense of ‘not enough’ is not just personal but reinforced by cultural narratives that equate worth with productivity, self-sacrifice, and external validation. Messages from family, media, and institutions can make it seem as though our right to exist is contingent on what we contribute, further embedding this belief beneath conscious awareness.

As people age and their spheres of influence naturally shift or narrow—retirement from a profession, children growing independent, physical limitations increasing—this sense of worthlessness can escalate into an existential crisis. They feel they’ve failed to earn their right to occupy space on this planet, as though existence itself were a privilege that must be continually justified through service, achievement, or impact.

The Wider Context of Invalidation

This personal wound exists within societal structures that reinforce it. Many who feel this profound worthlessness are responding to very real systems of invalidation:

• Survivors of narcissistic abuse whose reality was systematically denied
• Marginalized groups whose histories, experiences, and pain are routinely dismissed
• LGBTQIA+ and gender non-conforming people whose identities are questioned or rejected
• Immigrants facing dehumanizing rhetoric, policies, and the constant threat of deportation
• Patients with invisible or contested illnesses who face medical gaslighting
• Neurodivergent individuals whose perceptions and needs are invalidated
• Whistleblowers and truth-tellers who face institutional silencing
• Elderly people whose wisdom and contributions are increasingly overlooked
• Children whose emotions are dismissed as manipulation or overreaction

In each case, people receive the message that their existence, their suffering, their perspectives simply don’t matter enough to deserve acknowledgement or response. For those holding multiple marginalized identities—like being a disabled survivor of color—these messages compound. Systems of oppression conspire to amplify worthlessness, making healing both more urgent and more complex. When these messages compound over time, the toll on mind, body, and spirit becomes inevitable.

The Compounding Weight of Intersectionality

For those holding multiple marginalized identities—such as being a disabled survivor of color or a queer immigrant—messages of worthlessness are amplified by overlapping systems of oppression. For example, Black women often face the “strong Black woman” stereotype, which equates worth with relentless self-sacrifice, while neurodivergent individuals may mask their needs to avoid being labeled “difficult.” These layers create unique barriers to healing, requiring approaches that honor both personal trauma and systemic erasure. These systemic intersections often exacerbate the trauma types we’ll explore next.

The Impact of Different Types of Trauma

The wound of worthlessness can be deepened by various forms of trauma that operate at different levels:

Systemic Trauma: When entire communities or identity groups face discrimination, marginalization, or violence, the message that “you don’t matter” becomes institutionalized. This creates a burden that goes beyond individual healing, requiring collective recognition and systemic change.

Intergenerational Trauma: The feelings of worthlessness can be passed down through families, with parents who never healed their own wounds unconsciously transmitting these beliefs to their children through behaviors, attitudes, and unspoken family rules.

Developmental Trauma: Occurring during critical periods of brain development, this form of trauma shapes how the nervous system responds to stress and connection, often creating deep patterns of shame and self-doubt that feel wired into one’s very being.

Cultural Trauma: When dominant narratives consistently devalue certain ways of being, thinking, or existing, people can internalize these messages as truth about their fundamental worth.

Each of these trauma types requires specific healing approaches that acknowledge both the individual pain and the larger contexts in which that pain exists.

Internalized Ableism: A Special Form of Worthlessness

For neurodivergent individuals, people living with disabilities, and those with chronic illness, internalized worthlessness often takes the specific form of internalized ableism. In a society that equates productivity with value and independence with dignity, those who need accommodations or whose bodies or minds work differently receive constant messages that they are “less than.”

This can manifest as:

• Feeling like a burden when asking for needed accommodations
• Pushing through pain or exhaustion to appear “normal”
• Hiding aspects of neurodivergence to fit in, even at great personal cost
• Measuring self-worth by ability to function according to neurotypical or able-bodied standards
• Constant apologizing for needs related to disability or neurodivergence

Healing from internalized ableism involves recognizing that human value does not depend on productivity, independence, or conformity to neurotypical standards. It requires finding communities that celebrate neurodiversity and disability justice, where different ways of being in the world are recognized not as deficits but as valuable forms of human diversity.

The Just World Fallacy and Cosmic Unfairness

Many who struggle with internalized worthlessness are, at heart, idealists. They believe deeply in justice, compassion, and the possibility of a better world. They are the ones who feel actual pain when witnessing cruelty or indifference. Their sensitivity—often pathologized as weakness—is actually a form of moral courage and empathic awareness.

When these sensitive souls repeatedly witness:

• Corrupt individuals rising to power while ethical ones are marginalized
• Wealth accumulated through exploitation rather than contribution
• Vulnerable populations abandoned by systems meant to protect them
• Truth distorted while lies are amplified
• The natural world desecrated for temporary profit

…something breaks inside. They feel like a tiny speck trying to resist a tornado of corruption and cruelty, powerless against forces that seem to reward the very qualities they’ve refused to embody: selfishness, manipulation, callousness, greed.

The psychic burden of maintaining hope in such circumstances becomes overwhelming. The gap between what should be and what actually is grows too vast to bridge, and with it comes profound disillusionment about one’s capacity to matter in such a world.

Few experiences cut as deeply as pouring everything you have – your time, energy, heart, voice, resources, and courage – into fighting for justice or positive change, only to watch the forces of corruption, indifference, or cruelty prevail anyway. The environmental activist who watches corporations continue to pollute despite years of advocacy. The family member who tries everything to help a loved one escape addiction only to attend their funeral. The whistleblower who sacrifices their career to expose wrongdoing, only to see perpetrators promoted while victims remain silenced.

The unique agony of these experiences lies in having to continue living in the reality you fought so hard to change. You must still breathe the polluted air, still pass the house where your loved one used to live, still read industry publications praising those you know have caused harm. Each day becomes a reminder of your defeat, your smallness against systems that seem designed to crush the compassionate and reward the callous.

After several such defeats, a bone-weary exhaustion sets in – not just physical tiredness, but a depletion that reaches into your soul. You begin to wonder if the problem isn’t the injustice itself, but your naïve belief that your efforts could ever make a difference against it. And that wondering hurts more than any external defeat ever could.

Many who experience this deep wounding come to see their own empathy and moral sensitivity as liabilities rather than strengths. They may wish they could stop caring so deeply, stop feeling the pain of others, stop being moved to action by injustice. This too becomes evidence for the belief that something is wrong with them – that they were built incorrectly for this harsh world, too tender to survive in it without constant wounds.

The Toll of Worthlessness

When the belief that you don’t matter takes root, it exacts a devastating toll across every dimension of your being:

Mental and Emotional Impact

The mind becomes a battlefield where what you know clashes with what you feel. You might understand in your head that all people have value, but your heart refuses to include you in that category. This painful split creates a constant inner tension that wears you down day after day.

You might find yourself living in constant worry, always on high alert, thinking “If I stop proving my worth even for a moment, I’ll be abandoned.” Depression can settle in like a heavy fog, bringing thoughts like “Why even try if nothing I do matters?” When you make a mistake, shame can wash over you for days, far beyond what the situation calls for.

Many describe the crushing experience of “emotional flashbacks” – where a small setback today suddenly throws you back into the overwhelming feelings of being worthless that you experienced as a child. The voice in your head becomes so harsh, so familiar, that you mistake it for the truth rather than recognizing it as echoes from the past.

For some, this struggle becomes so unbearable that they lose the will to continue. The thought takes root: “If I don’t matter, why go on?” This isn’t simple sadness, but a soul-deep exhaustion from fighting to feel valuable in a world that seems to confirm at every turn that you aren’t. This despair can lead to a dangerous defeat – not just on goals or dreams, but on life itself.

Physical and Somatic Manifestations

The body keeps the score of this internal battle:

• Chronic tension, particularly in the shoulders, jaw, and stomach
• Disrupted sleep patterns, often with difficulty falling asleep
• Digestive issues triggered by chronic stress
• A sensation of heaviness in the chest or throat
• Exhaustion that doesn’t resolve with rest
• A physical collapse response when facing situations that trigger feelings of ineffectiveness

The Body’s Role in the Experience of Worthlessness

The belief that you don’t matter isn’t just a mental concept—it lives in your body as well. Research in trauma studies has increasingly revealed how our bodies store emotional wounds, particularly those formed in early childhood before we had language to process them.

When children experience consistent invalidation, rejection, or neglect, their developing nervous systems adapt to this reality. The constant state of feeling unsafe, unwelcome, or burdensome creates patterns of physiological stress that become encoded in the body. Over time, these patterns become your baseline—so familiar that you don’t even recognize them as abnormal.

This embodied experience of worthlessness often manifests as:

• Chronic muscle tension, particularly in areas associated with protection (shoulders, jaw, abdomen)
• A collapsed posture that literally takes up less space in the world
• Shallow breathing that never quite fills the lungs completely
• Disrupted interoception (the ability to sense and interpret internal bodily signals)
• A persistent feeling of being “on guard” even in safe environments
• Disconnection from bodily sensations as a survival mechanism

What makes this particularly challenging is that many people with internalized worthlessness have diminished interoception—the ability to accurately sense what’s happening inside their bodies. You might not notice hunger until you’re lightheaded, fail to register fatigue until you collapse, or be unable to identify emotions until they’re overwhelming. This disconnect happens because sensing your needs requires believing those needs matter—something your nervous system may have learned wasn’t true.

Healing worthlessness therefore cannot be purely cognitive. You can intellectually understand that you matter and still have a body that behaves as if you don’t. True transformation requires working with the nervous system directly, helping it establish new patterns of safety, belonging, and inherent value. Practices like trauma-sensitive yoga, somatic experiencing, or even simple body awareness exercises can gradually help reconnect you with the bodily sensations that have been muted or misinterpreted for so long.

Pay particular attention to moments when setting a boundary or asking for something you need creates intense physical reactions—racing heart, churning stomach, dizziness, or the urge to flee. These are not signs that you’re doing something wrong; they’re your body’s outdated alarm system responding to perceived danger based on early experiences. With patience and practice, you can teach your nervous system that standing in your worth is safe, that your needs are valid, and that your body deserves to exist fully in the world.

No one is funding my writing. If this saves you a therapy appointment, feel free to buy me lunch: Venmo @ellentift

Spiritual Impact

Perhaps most profound is the spiritual crisis this belief creates:

• A sense of cosmic abandonment or rejection
• Difficulty receiving love or care from the divine
• Questions about whether existence itself has meaning
• Disconnection from one’s sense of purpose or calling
• The painful sense of being invisible to whatever forces govern the universe

Beyond Achievement: The Many Faces of “Not Mattering”

While feelings of worthlessness often attach to achievement and impact, they manifest in many other domains:

Relational Worthlessness

Many experience the belief that they don’t deserve love or meaningful connection:

• The person who automatically moves aside when someone walks toward them on the sidewalk
• The partner who can’t express needs for fear of being “too much”
• The friend who never initiates gatherings, certain no one truly wants their company
• The family member who sits silently at holiday gatherings, feeling invisible
• The person who accepts mistreatment, believing they deserve nothing better

Bodily Worthlessness

Some experience profound alienation from their physical existence:

• Difficulty taking up physical space or speaking up
• Neglecting basic self-care, feeling their body doesn’t deserve attention
• Apologizing for basic needs like hunger, rest, or medical care
• Pushing through illness or pain to avoid being “a burden”
• Feeling fundamentally uncomfortable in their own skin

Existential Worthlessness

Others experience a cosmic sense of being superfluous to the universe:

• The belief that their death would go largely unnoticed
• Feeling like an “extra” in the story of life rather than a protagonist
• A persistent sense that no one cares about their perspective
• The sense that their suffering or joy is insignificant to the larger world
• Feeling fundamentally alone even in crowded rooms

Moral Perfectionism: The Exception Rule

Those who struggle with worthlessness often live by a profound double standard — what we might call “the exception rule.” This manifests as the unshakable belief that:

“It’s fine for others to be human, make mistakes, and have limitations—but I must do better.”

This isn’t ordinary perfectionism aimed at achievement, but a moral imperative about one’s basic right to exist. The person operating under this belief system might:

• Easily extend compassion to others while mercilessly judging themselves
• Set impossible standards for themselves that, when inevitably unmet, confirm their unworthiness
• Make elaborate excuses for others’ shortcomings while allowing themselves no margin for error
• Believe they must “earn” what they freely insist others deserve inherently
• Feel fraudulent when receiving care or compassion they freely give to others

This moral perfectionism often operates beneath conscious awareness, becoming so deeply ingrained that it’s perceived as fact rather than a learned belief. It often stems from early experiences where a child’s worth was contingent on meeting impossible standards, carrying responsibilities beyond their years, or compensating for dysfunctional family systems. The child learns that their basic safety depends on extraordinary performance, creating a profound split between what they believe about others’ worth and what they believe about their own.

Read the rest of this article in the first book of Ellen’s series “There’s A Word for That”: https://a.co/d/05GMPCCX

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my 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: Original Content Image

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

When Trauma Leaves You In Hibernation Mode

Have you withdrawn from the world, feeling disconnected, like you don’t know how to live a “normal” life? Watching everything happen from behind glass? Does stepping back outside and re-engaging feel impossible? You’re not alone. Many trauma survivors experience “functional freeze”—a protective shutdown affecting nearly every aspect of life.

Luis Goes Into Hibernation: A Story

Luis used to be known for his energy – always the first to suggest a weekend hike, quick to laugh, and passionate about his work as a school counselor.

What others didn’t see was how Luis had spent his childhood walking on eggshells around an unpredictable parent with addiction issues. He’d learned early to be hyper-aware of others’ emotions, to make himself useful, to prevent conflict. He’d worked hard to overcome these patterns as an adult, building a life where he felt relatively safe and valued. In this season, he found stability by spending time with his closest friend since childhood, Steven. And Luis was saving up to buy an engagement ring for his long time partner Francesca.

Then began the harsh winds. First, the cold front arrived with the systematic undermining by a new principal who questioned his every decision and took credit for Luis’s programs. Around the same time, Steven moved across the country, leaving Luis without their regular workouts, pool nights, and belly laughs.

Then, bringing the first hard frost, Francesca dumped Luis for a younger guitar player. And as winter truly set in, Luis was mugged while walking to clear his head in a quiet park he’d always come to for peace – an event his sister dismissed with “at least they didn’t hurt you.” His roommate Marco, while not unkind, was emotionally distant and uncomfortable with vulnerable conversations.

As temperatures plunged outside, Luis felt winter spreading within him too.

First came the fatigue – bone-deep and unrelenting. He started declining social invitations, his body too heavy to move beyond necessary tasks. “Just busy,” he’d text, watching the chat bubbles fade as friends eventually stopped asking.

By mid-winter, Luis’s apartment became his cave – a place of necessary retreat. His entire system powered down. The dirty dishes didn’t register. The unwashed laundry didn’t matter. Marco’s comments about “pulling your weight around here” barely penetrated the protective numbness.

When absolutely required to leave for work, Luis would muster everything he had to get by – then return to collapse in exhaustion. At night, he’d stare blankly at his phone for hours, scrolling past images of former friends at concerts and dinners, feeling a hollow ache but lacking the energy to even name the feeling.

His sister kept telling Luis to go on antidepressants, but she didn’t understand. This wasn’t depression. This was survival.

Spring arrived outside, but not within. Luis remained in his protective cave. He couldn’t remember what spring felt like anymore, couldn’t imagine ever wanting to feel the sun again.

In the depth of his hibernation, Luis couldn’t see that beneath the frozen surface, something was still alive, waiting for conditions to become safe enough to emerge. He just wanted to sleep and couldn’t even think about waking up.

Understanding Functional Freeze

What Luis is experiencing has a name in trauma psychology: functional freeze. Like hibernation in the natural world, functional freeze is a protective response to threatening conditions – not a character flaw or personal failing, but a natural adaptation when the environment becomes too harsh to navigate normally.

Functional freeze happens when your nervous system shifts into a state of profound shutdown (what therapists call a “dorsal vagal state”) to protect you from perceived threats that feel inescapable. It’s your body’s way of saying, “I can’t fight this danger, I can’t run from it, so I’ll preserve energy and disappear.”

This isn’t a conscious choice – it’s a neurobiological response controlled by your autonomic nervous system, specifically the oldest part of your vagus nerve. You didn’t decide to enter this state of withdrawal. Your body made this choice for you based on what it learned was necessary for survival.

A former marketing executive describes her experience: “After years of psychological abuse from my boss, I found myself unable to do the simplest things. I’d stare at my phone, knowing I should call friends back, but it felt like trying to lift a thousand pounds. Even making dinner decisions became overwhelming. I wasn’t depressed exactly – it was like my whole system had just… powered down.”

The Freeze Response Spectrum: From Fluctuating to Complete Shutdown

It’s important to understand that freeze responses exist on a spectrum, with several distinct forms that vary in intensity and impact on functioning. Understanding where you fall on this spectrum can help in recognizing your patterns and developing appropriate support strategies.

Fluctuating Freeze

Many trauma survivors experience fluctuating levels of freeze, moving between:

• Periods of greater engagement and capacity
• Episodes of deeper withdrawal and shutdown
• Cycles that may be affected by stress, triggers, or physical health

Partial or Situational Freeze

Some people experience freeze responses that are triggered only in specific situations or contexts:

• Freezing in social situations while functioning well alone
• Freezing at work but being more engaged at home
• Experiencing freeze only when confronted with specific triggers

Functional Freeze

The form of freeze described throughout this article is “functional freeze” – a state where the person maintains some minimal functioning while still experiencing profound shutdown in many areas of life. In functional freeze, a person can:

• Maintain basic survival needs, though often with difficulty
• Perform certain required tasks (like going to work) while collapsing afterward
• Engage in limited necessary interactions
• Appear “normal” to casual observers for brief periods

Complete Freeze and Tonic Immobility

At the most severe end of the spectrum is what might be called “non-functional freeze” or “complete freeze.” In this state, a person may be:

• Unable to maintain even basic self-care
• Physically immobilized for extended periods
• Completely withdrawn from all social contact
• Unable to work or engage in any productive activity
• In need of immediate intervention and help

This profound shutdown may require hospitalization or intensive support, as the person cannot meet their basic needs. It often occurs during or immediately after acute trauma.

In its most extreme manifestation, the freeze response can progress to complete physical shutdown – literally making it impossible to move, speak, or react. This is your body’s ancient “playing dead” response (what scientists call “tonic immobility”).

Just as certain animals become completely still when trapped by a predator, humans can experience this profound immobilization in moments of overwhelming threat. Someone experiencing tonic immobility might feel physically unable to move despite wanting to, be unable to call out or speak, remain conscious but unable to control their body, experience a sensation of heaviness or paralysis, or have difficulty breathing normally

Although this response is most common during acute traumatic events, some survivors experience episodes of tonic immobility even years later when faced with triggers that remind them of past trauma. This isn’t a conscious choice or “freezing up” from fear – it’s a primitive survival mechanism activating at a neurological level.

Like a hibernating animal whose bodily functions slow to near standstill during the deepest winter, tonic immobility represents the most profound conservation of resources in the face of perceived inescapable threat.

The spectrum is not fixed – many people move through different points as their healing progresses, sometimes experiencing improvements followed by temporary regressions. If you’re experiencing complete freeze or tonic immobility, please seek immediate professional help, as this state can become dangerous to your physical health and safety.

The Foundational Impact of Childhood Trauma

For many people experiencing functional freeze, the roots extend back to childhood experiences. When childhood trauma or neglect occurs, the developing nervous system learns early that the world isn’t safe, creating a foundation for freeze responses later in life.

Childhood trauma can include:

• Overt abuse – Physical, sexual, verbal, or emotional abuse from caregivers
• Neglect – When basic physical or emotional needs aren’t met, whether intentionally or unintentionally. This includes parents who were physically present but emotionally absent, or who couldn’t provide consistent care due to their own struggles
• Witnessing violence or conflict – Seeing abuse or intense conflict between family members, in the neighborhood, or at school, even when not directly targeted. This can include repeated exposure to frightening or age-inappropriate media content, especially when there’s no adult support to process these experiences
• Attachment disruptions – Inconsistent caregiving, frequent separations, or abandonment, starting from birth
• Emotional invalidation – When feelings are consistently ignored, dismissed, minimized, or punished. This includes being told you’re “too sensitive” or that your experiences aren’t real
• Unrecognized traumas – Experiences society often normalizes: severe bullying, medical procedures without adequate support, being forced to suppress your identity, or growing up in a home with addiction or mental illness

Even when caregivers weren’t intentionally harmful, their own trauma, mental health struggles, addiction, or inability to provide consistent emotional support can create lasting impacts on a child’s developing nervous system. As in Luis’s case, many adults with functional freeze have childhood histories where they learned to always scan for danger in others’ emotions, suppress their own needs and feelings, take responsibility for others’ emotional states, or see the world as fundamentally unsafe.

These early patterns create nervous system pathways that make the person more susceptible to freeze responses when trauma occurs in adulthood. What might seem like an “overreaction” to others (like Luis’s response to being mugged, according to his sister) makes perfect sense when understood as a reactivation of early survival patterns.

When childhood trauma exists, there may be no clear “pre-trauma” self to return to – but there is still the possibility of creating new patterns of safety, connection, and aliveness.

The Physical Reality and Biology of Functional Freeze

Functional freeze isn’t just a psychological state – it creates profound physiological changes in your body. Understanding these biological aspects helps explain why willpower alone isn’t enough to overcome freeze.

How Your Body Changes in Freeze

When your nervous system enters protective shutdown, significant biological changes occur:

• Energy conservation – Your body drastically reduces energy available for “non-essential” functions. Physical activities, social engagement, creative thinking, planning for the future, and even basic self-care become nearly impossible as your body diverts limited resources toward basic survival functions.
• Hormone dysregulation – Particularly stress hormones like cortisol, which affect every system in your body from metabolism to immune function to sleep regulation
• Immune changes – Leading to increased inflammation and vulnerability to illness, as your body prioritizes immediate survival over long-term health maintenance
• Sleep disruption – Even when sleeping more hours than normal, trauma can prevent the deep, restorative sleep cycles your body needs, leading to persistent fatigue despite seemingly adequate or even excessive rest
• Digestive issues – Creating gut problems such as irritable bowel, inflammation, or stress-related digestive disturbances that further limit activity and well-being
• Appetite dysregulation – Either loss of appetite or emotional/comfort eating as the body’s attempt to regulate through food
• Diminished awareness – Feeling “numb,” “foggy,” or “not really here” as the brain protects itself from overwhelming emotions, including becoming blind to environmental disorder or clutter
• Minimal movement – Feeling “stuck” or “paralyzed,” struggling to initiate even basic tasks that require planning or sustained effort
• Reduced engagement with pleasurable activities – Diminished interest in previously enjoyable activities and withdrawal from things that once brought joy (a state known as “anhedonia”)
• Energy depletion at the cellular level – Affecting mitochondrial function and creating profound, bone-deep fatigue

These physical effects create a confusing reality – you have legitimate physical limitations while simultaneously experiencing psychological withdrawal. This makes it difficult to know: “Am I too tired because I’m physically ill, or is this my trauma response?”

The answer is often both, as these systems interconnect in complex ways. Your physical symptoms aren’t “just in your head” – they’re real physiological responses to trauma that require both physical and psychological healing approaches.

When Trauma Speaks Through Your Body

One of the most misunderstood aspects of functional freeze is how trauma manifests physically. Many survivors develop very real physical symptoms that doctors struggle to explain through conventional testing.

Unlike the outdated concept of “psychosomatic illness” which suggested symptoms were somehow imaginary or “all in your head,” we now understand that trauma creates genuine physiological changes that result in real physical symptoms:

• Chronic pain without clear structural causes
• Digestive disorders and gut inflammation
• Immune system dysfunction and increased susceptibility to illness
• Migraines and tension headaches
• Skin conditions that flare with stress
• Chronic fatigue and sleep disturbances
• Unexplained dizziness or balance problems

These conditions aren’t simply your mind “creating” symptoms – they’re the result of real changes in how your nervous system, immune system, and endocrine system function after trauma. Your body remembers your trauma, even when it’s not in your conscious thoughts.

Many trauma survivors find themselves caught in a frustrating cycle of medical appointments, inconclusive tests, and providers who suggest their symptoms might be “just stress” or “anxiety.” This minimizing experience can itself become traumatizing.

When addressing physical symptoms during functional freeze, the most effective approach typically combines holistic care for the whole body, trauma-informed therapeutic approaches, nervous system regulation practices, and gentle physical movement that respects your current limitations.

Just as a hibernating animal experiences profound physiological changes – altered metabolism, immune function, and healing processes – a person in trauma-induced functional freeze experiences genuine biological changes that require both physical and psychological healing approaches.

Signs You May Be in Functional Freeze

This protective state can manifest in many ways that affect every aspect of life:

Physical and Behavioral Signs

• Deep fatigue that rest doesn’t seem to touch – Your body’s energy systems remain in conservation mode regardless of how much you sleep
• Mindless numbing activities – Endless scrolling, binge-watching shows you barely remember, or playing mobile games for hours without enjoyment
• Sleep pattern changes – Either excessive sleeping as escape or disrupted sleep despite exhaustion
• Body disconnection – Profound alienation from your physical self, beyond just neglect of appearance
• Physical symptoms in social settings – Headaches, stomach issues, or feeling faint when attempting to engage with others

Social and Environmental Signs

• Avoiding social contact – Even with people you once enjoyed, because interactions require energy your system is conserving for survival
• Preferring isolation – Feeling safest behind locked doors, even when loneliness is painful
• Missing social cues or forgetting social skills – What one could call “social atrophy” – the weakening of social muscles through disuse
• Experiencing pain seeing others’ lives – Feeling shame, grief, or envy when seeing social media posts of others living seemingly normal lives
• Environmental blindness – Not seeing clutter, mess, or disorder in your living space
• Inability to meet basic responsibilities – Struggling with tasks like cleaning or self-care, which others might label as “laziness”
• Procrastination until deadlines – Waiting until the last minute to complete necessary tasks, as the stress of an immediate deadline provides the activation energy needed to overcome freeze

Mental and Emotional Signs

• Decision paralysis – Even small choices become overwhelming, from what to eat to which route to drive
• Time perception distortions – Days blur together while individual moments can feel endless
• Persistent mortality awareness – Frequent, non-distressing thoughts about death (your own or loved ones’)
• Diminished life aspirations – Inability to envision or plan for your future
• Shame cycles – Feeling ashamed about your withdrawal, which triggers deeper withdrawal, creating more shame
• Feeling like you’re “performing” in conversations – Either sharing too much (trauma dumping) or maintaining a painful facade of normalcy

The most confusing part? You may recognize you’re not truly living but feel oddly resistant to changing this pattern because on some level, it feels safer than the alternative.

Read the rest of this article in Ellen’s first book of her “There’s A Word for That” series: https://a.co/d/02U7m1gT

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my 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. 😊

This article is part of Ellen’s first book.Order on paperback or Kindle.

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

Yes, because of my CPTSD, I was a people-pleaser. This was like a survival-mode I learned as a child. And that doormat syndrome was often painful for me, for many years. Until one day, I had had enough and decided to change. Here is what I learned:

Studies show that people-pleasing significantly increases the risk of burnout. People-pleasers are especially susceptible because their difficulty setting boundaries and their desire to be loved by everyone directly lead to chronic stress and emotional exhaustion.

Maybe you’re an empath, and perhaps you’ve often heard, “Oh, you’re so kind.” Many of us were raised to be good girls or good boys to earn our parents’ approval and affection. Nothing is more traumatic for a child than losing that parental love.

Children who experience love withdrawal when they make a mistake naturally become people-pleasers. What many don’t realize is that these patterns often lead to depression and chronic burnout later in life.

Being taught to be a good girl or boy as children turns people-pleasing into a learned, but deeply painful emotional pattern. At home, in church, and at school, the message was the same: we had to be kind and nice. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be loved and might even be rejected by our entire social circle, triggering primal survival fears in young hearts.

The roots of that chronic fear of rejection run deep and are triggered in every area of life, both private and professional. Naturally, we always do more than we’re asked to do, driven by that OCD-like need to keep everyone around us happy. This is where burnout and depression gently take root, growing over time when our efforts remain unreciprocated.

Yes, people will love you as long as you serve them in one way or another. The people-pleaser is often the best student, the most perfect secretary, the kindest boss, and, of course, the ideal parent. People like you because you’re always the first to help others.

But one day, the sky becomes clouded. You notice that weird feeling in the background and realize that people may be abusing your kindness: they aren’t there for you when you need them and don’t appreciate all your efforts. Often, we respond by working harder, trying harder, and performing better until we find ourselves in the doctor’s office, exhausted and perhaps diagnosed with depression.

There is a lasting impact of early approval‐seeking.

When you grow up trained to be a people-pleaser, it often looks on the outside as if everyone likes you; but they stop liking you as soon as you learn to say, “Sorry, no. I can’t help this time.” The more you establish healthy boundaries, the more they criticize you, accusing you of selfishness.

When a people-pleaser awakens and starts setting boundaries, their children often rebel because their parent suddenly says “no” as part of a healthy upbringing. Coworkers begin to gossip because they can no longer exploit your kindness and must handle their own tasks. Employees in your team, too, have to learn to respect their boss in earnest.

And, of course, all the groups that once welcomed you (as a volunteer, donor, or committee member) will let you go as soon as you stop paying with your time or money. They never truly cared about you, only about the resources they could extract.

Maybe, those so-called best friends, or even family members, will tell you that you’ve disappointed them lately, because as a people-pleaser you were their favorite trash bin for emotional issues. But since you learned to say “no” and you’re no longer as available as before, of course, they’re disappointed: they can’t use you for their narcissistic intentions anymore.

Now, another important point: as people-pleasers, we were often trained to forgive and taught that we should always remain kind and nice to those who hurt us. In many situations, this pattern is deeply harmful. It’s one of the main reasons so many of us end up feeling exhausted, depleted and depressed

Depending on the situation, yes, we may forgive, but we don’t have to stay in contact.

If you keep seeing toxic, negative, critical narcissists and other manipulative people, you’ll never move forward or reach your goals in life. If you feel worse after every conversation, that’s a clear sign it may be better to move on.

Like my grandfather used to say, “It is often wiser to spend a season in your own gentle company than to remain surrounded by those who do not truly see, honor, or respect your sacred light. When you lovingly release connections that no longer feel aligned, you create beautiful, open space for the Divine Universe to bring in people who genuinely cherish you.”

It’s wonderful to be kind and helpful – so long as it’s mutual and the appreciation is genuine, valuing you as a person rather than your performance. You are not a doormat or a trash bin for other people’s unresolved issues, jealousies, laziness, or frustrations. There is great relief on the other side of healthy boundaries, and sometimes going no-contact is simply the healthiest way to protect your peace of mind.

Warning signs you’re a doormat for others include chronic exhaustion and resentment, guilt when you say “no,” and feeling used or unappreciated. And the cost of continuing to “be good” often shows up as burnout, depression, and loss of identity, along with relationship imbalances at home and work.

It’s better to be alone for a short time than to stay with people who have no honest respect for you, who belittle, judge, and criticize you just to keep you pleasing them. When you let go of the wrong people, you create space for the divine universe to bring better people into your life.

The good news is that you can build a healthier tribe: because you deserve people who truly support you, respect your boundaries, and uplift your self-worth.

If this message resonates and you need help with a similar situation, feel free to reach out.
With warm regards,
Jeanne
💗

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

As I listen to Elton John’s “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me” on a loop, I mentally counter the lyrics with the fantasy that the sun will just fall from the sky. Can’t it do me the courtesy of burning out and shrouding me in complete darkness at long last? All it does is illuminate the scorch of my pain. The cruelly ironic side effect of CPTSD is that it often leaves us longing for invisibility even as we are desperate to be seen. It seems to “force” us into actions that are counterproductive to our well-being. Take, for example, my self-imposed exile to a darkened room, where I  repeatedly listen to a song that only makes me sadder. I’m not doing myself any favors, but here I sit.

In a deep depression, compounded by the uncomfortable weight of a generalized sense of claustrophobia, I want to hide from the light. As an added bonus, my seasonal depression, which swings in the opposite direction of what many people experience, buries me deeper in despair. Most people afflicted with Seasonal Depression Disorder experience it at a time of year when the world is overcast, gray, and cold. Meanwhile, in the middle of the hottest and brightest month of the year, I find myself barricaded in a completely darkened room, longing for the forlorn and lazy days of winter to wrap me in a blanket of security. I lay shrouded in the comfortable embrace of darkness and the familiar numbness of profound loneliness. I don’t see any reason to get out of bed or find the light in anything. Right now, I only have room in my heart for darkness.

Part II:

Fortunately, before I sank too deeply into the cave of my pain, my therapist coaxed me from my hole. In the previous day’s therapy session, I voiced profound despair; today, I reached out to her via the patient portal to let her know that the spiral continued downward. She asked if a quick call would be beneficial; that’s usually the part where I say “I’m okay” before covering my head with my pillow. Fortunately, a part of me knows that I don’t want to live that way anymore. I’m tired of burying myself in my head and hiding in the darkness. On the opposite end of the spectrum, my other go-to “coping strategy” of working myself so hard I don’t have time for contemplation also holds no allure. I’m exhausted with being a prisoner of the extreme coping mechanisms that long “saved” me while also suffocating me. Things have needed to shift for a long time, and I’ve allowed myself to shift in increments; I thus accepted my therapist’s offer for a call. Accepting help is a sharp deviation from my usual script. I grabbed hold of the metaphorical hand she offered, partially out of curiosity. What would happen if I didn’t fall into my usual patterns?

Our conversation, short but impactful, represents a slight but mighty shift from my “norm.” The fact that I allowed myself to even participate in an introspective discussion while locked deep in the jowls of depression constitutes a bit of a “miracle.” I am not someone who reaches outward when in despair; instead, I deflate, falling inward. So why wouldn’t I use my coveted vacation time to hide in my room and drown myself in a self-defeating soundtrack of sadness? Knowing my appreciation for Bob Dylan, my therapist encouraged me to change the tune to “Forever Young” and venture out into the sunshine. I said I would try, thinking I would do no such thing. After some contemplation, I admitted to myself that she’s usually right about these things. I begrudgingly dragged my emotionally exhausted carcass outside. 

Part III:

Although I have not teleported into the land of rainbows and lollipops, I am surprised to discover beauty in the day. When I close my eyes, the sun glimmers across my eyelids like glitter. Even as the darkness beckons me inward, I feel the current of hope tugging patiently at my heart. I am gently reminded by the breeze that lands upon my cheek that I will be okay. I’ve changed the soundtrack, and tears of gratitude trickle down my face. I reflect on the irony that the words and sentiment of this song, “Forever Young,” make me think of my Grandma (whose upcoming death anniversary has contributed to my spiral). I reflect on how her “youth” rubbed off on my old soul in many of our moments together. I smile in silent remembrance. I am grateful for the love she planted deep in my heart, even as others stripped me bare. It’s a reminder that things don’t have to be “all or nothing.” It doesn’t have to be pitch dark or glowingly bright. I can sit in the sunlight while feeling the darkness within. I’m in pain, and I’m healing; one does not negate the other. 

Healing is a nonlinear process filled with fluctuating moments of despair and hope, sometimes existing simultaneously. Some days I move forward, and others I fall backward. I often stand motionless. Every once in a while, I take a gigantic leap forward. I am taking it all in stride and am confident that I will eventually arrive at a place where I feel at home in my body and mind. For now, I’ll just sit here, patiently waiting for what comes next.

Lesson Learned:

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves.

Sometimes, small shifts can flip the script, which matters because we are the story we tell ourselves. Although power may have been out of reach in the small and big moments that eroded our confidence in the world, in other people, and ourselves, we do have the power of choice in the small things as we move forward. Shifting just a little bit can be enough movement to redirect our trajectory in a healthier direction, ground ourselves in the place we are meant to be, and/or return us to our path of healing after we have temporarily lost our footing. Although we can’t change what happened to us, we can adjust trauma’s impact within us. We can learn to dance with, rather than battle with, the ghosts of the past. As a child, I could not liberate myself from the isolation created by the secrets that I carried around like an invisible suitcase. Decades later, I finally have the power to unpack the pain. I can’t change where I was then, but I can change where I am now. I can’t change who I was (or was not allowed to be) then, but I can be who I want to be now. 

Much of the pain I feel today lies rooted in the turbulent landscape of the past; it feels simultaneously ancient and new. The truth is that sometimes I need to wallow in it because when I lived it the first time in real time, I did so in survival mode. I couldn’t sit in anything too long. So, now, as an adult sometimes I do surrender to the pain. I’ve earned that right. And…I don’t want to stay in a place of deep pain. I don’t want the there and then of my life to dominate now. I can still honor what I survived, but I now hold the power to remove myself from the darkness. I can change the song and shift the scenery. Doing this enough times allows me to rewrite my script. 

I think that most of us who live with CPTSD have developed coping mechanisms that, over time, have crystallized into patterns. Although these coping strategies are born in efforts motivated by self-protection, they can hurt us and keep us stuck in places we don’t want to be anymore. None of us is ever going to wake up miraculously healed. Some days, it truly is a matter of just getting through the day. That piece by piece, day by day reality of healing can be excruciating and…it can be empowering. Each day is an opportunity to make small shifts that allow us to change the song and scenery. We can rewrite our script one action and one day at a time. We are the writers and directors of our lives now. 

Photo by Hannah Olinger on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul

In previous rounds of therapy, after the crisis or crises had settled, I never stuck around long enough to dig too deeply into the still-hot cinders. Usually, with the flames barely contained, I walked away from the embers, the pain invisibly burning holes in my soul. But…a few things were different this time. For one, my therapist responded to my rage with what I would later learn is the most powerful resource of all, and we all possess it; her compassionate state of “Self” hit me with the intensity of a firehose on full blast. Her soothing nature, ability to bring clarity to chaos, and courage to remain calm amid my meltdowns ignited my curiosity. Trained to conceal my feelings, I couldn’t understand how she didn’t admonish me for my uncharacteristic, dramatic display of emotions. I was so intrigued that I decided not to ghost her after she helped me extinguish the blow of the most recent inferno.

In hindsight, my foray into feelings in those early sessions suggests that something in me was tired of my lifelong pattern of skimming the surface of my problems. Instead of retreating after smothering the flames, I paused long enough to survey the ravaged landscape around me. Devastated by what I saw, I knew I didn’t want to pass this world on to my kids. Exhausted and defeated, I was sick of choking on the smoke of the past and crawling from one fire to another. I was tired of fighting fires alone, and I finally had a therapist who seemed to see through the smoke and flames. She recognized that beneath my molten lava rage lay the embers of one compounded (largely ignored) trauma after another.

Realizing I had an ally to help lead me out of this fiery hellscape, I began resurrecting myself from the still-smoldering ashes of the past. I turned inward and began exploring the sources of my internal “fires.” Without the flames dancing around me, I finally had the mental capacity to learn skills that could not only help me deal with the present chaos but also give me the stability to dive deeper into past traumatic experiences. With an Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs) score of 9.5 out of 10 (because I stubbornly refuse to accept full “points” for two of the criteria), it’s been an odyssey through hell. Although the healing process started with a firehose, the efforts to dampen the scorch of long-neglected trauma have been gradual, but productive. Over the past year and a half, I’ve sometimes extinguished one fire only for another to start. Through all of this, I have persevered in a renewed effort to inspect my “faulty wiring” and to assess the hostile conditions that sparked the fires. The initial lag of this work finally freed me from the shackles of survival mode.

And…just when I began to feel the blossoming fruition of unfettered joy, everything began to sour and darken. After four decades of moving from one fire to the next, the slow, painful excavation and examination of my long-held maladaptive beliefs incinerated my newly found sense of peace. Much of this anxious awareness has risen to the surface since starting Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing (EMDR) therapy a month ago. It’s working. Almost too well. EMDR can be a highly effective treatment, but it can come with unpleasant physical effects and provide insight into things that previously hid in the dark. Add to this new-to-me therapy, severe seasonal depression, and the reignition of an old fire (or rather, a fresh perspective of an ongoing problem), and I am suddenly finding myself once again gasping for breath. Almost overnight, a fresh wave of depression has pulled me below the surface. The colors and sounds of the world are suddenly too much and I struggle to draw myself out of bed each morning. I gag on the “truths” I’m discovering about how I view myself and the world. I am devastated to discover that despite my beautiful family and my accomplishments, I am crippled by the belief that I am alone and I am terrified of abandonment. Somewhere along the way (pretty early in life), I became convinced that people are dangerous, feelings are unsafe, and I am worthless. With these painful discoveries, the sunlight within has withered into pungent decay.

This decay, however, will eventually give life to new growth. I, like so many of you, am a survivor and a little darkness (okay, fine, sometimes pitch blackness) will not scare me from this path. I am fighting with everything I have to not just pull myself from this darkness, but to revive my commitment to my healing journey. I am strong-willed and appreciate a good challenge, no matter how painful. Sometimes the pain propels me to dig my heels in even deeper. I will accept the next leg of this journey, even if it is filled with fatigue and a choking sense of claustrophobia. Tempted to escape the intensity of each sound and sight by retreating to the sweet and silent shelter of dissociation, I will continue to face life’s “fires” that I long suppressed. I feel like I have a sunburn and the world is clawing my tender skin, but I will not retreat into the shadows.

Like last time and unlike all the times before, I will stay put to move forward. I have already made it through so much, and I will not stop fighting for freedom from this pain, though I doubt I’ll ever be wholly emancipated from the shadows of my past. Still, I continue building the resources, strength, and support I need to wake from the nightmares of yesterday and get through future crises.

Thanks to decades of experience with depression, I know that eventually the pendulum will swing the other way. With that shift, like always, I will carry the lessons learned in pain to the other side. This time, I will also carry the lessons of healing. I have accepted that the road to healing is not linear, nor is it static. A healed version of ourselves does not lie positioned at the apex of a mountain. Life, whether filled with trauma or not, has its natural highs and lows; I’m riding a low at the moment. The shadows that dampen the light within will not stay. No matter how strongly the fires around me rage, they cannot extinguish the glow of the fire within me. I am a fighter, and I will keep fighting for freedom from the maladaptive beliefs that threaten to suffocate me. I will not suspend my ongoing efforts to tend to the gaping attachment wounds that leave me hollow. I will continue to persevere, just as I always have. This time, armed with more resources, support, and strength than I’ve ever had, I’m fighting fire with fire.

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

It’s a powerhouse of possibility,  and it’s also a paradox. It keeps us alive. Helps us create. Love. Imagine. It’s where the best parts of us live–the cleverness, the humor, the wild creativity, the gut instincts, and the empathy.

But it’s also where the trauma lives.
Where the fear lives.
Where the ghosts of what we survived are still pacing the halls.

A Hypervigilant Command Center

If you live with CPTSD, then you know that it’s not just a brain. It’s a hypervigilant command center. Always alert. Always scanning. Always assuming the next bad thing is just around the corner–even when life is calm.

When you walk into a room, you don’t just enter. You calculate. You assess. You map out the exits, read every face, and listen for tone shifts. You don’t even realize you’re doing it; it’s automatic.
Learned from years of needing to be ready, just in case.

Emotional Hijacking: When the Past Invades the Present

Then someone says something. Maybe it’s nothing–a joke, a pause, or a look that lingers a second too long. Boom, your body’s gone tight, your stomach drops, and your thoughts scatter.

Suddenly, you’re back in a memory you never meant to revisit.
Not fully reliving it, but emotionally hijacked by it.
The fear, the shame, the worthlessness.
All of it, flooding in as if it never left.

Ruminating in the Ruins

Your brain starts looping.
Was it me?
Did I mess up again?
Are they mad?
Am I too much? Not enough?
What did I do?

You start ruminating.
You replay the conversation.
You pick apart every word, every silence.
You fill in blanks with worst-case scenarios.

And you don’t even want to be doing it; it just happens.

You know it’s happening. You see it happening.
But knowing doesn’t stop it.

It’s as though your own inner monologue is unraveling you in real time.
And you’re powerless to stop the unraveling.

This Is What CPTSD Can Look Like

Not always flashbacks.
Sometimes, it’s a slow, invisible spiral that pulls you under with nothing dramatic on the surface.
Just a brain quietly trying to protect you… in all the wrong ways.

The Whispered Lies in the Dark

And sometimes, yeah, the thoughts get dark. Not always suicidal. But heavy. Bone-deep exhausted. The kind of dark where you lie in bed and feel like a failure for simply existing.
The kind where your brain whispers:

“You’ll never get better.”
“This is just who you are.”
“People only tolerate you.”
“You’re too much.”
“You’re alone in this.”

And if you’re tired or overwhelmed–or just raw that day–you believe it.

Even though you know it’s the trauma talking.
Even though you’ve done the therapy.
Even though you’ve read the books, taken the meds, and journaled your guts out.
You still believe the lie your brain is screaming at you.

The Hardest Fight: Your Own Mind

That’s what makes healing so hard.
You don’t just fight symptoms.
You fight your own mind.

And it’s not because you’re weak.
It’s because your brain adapted perfectly to survive what happened to you.
It just doesn’t know you’re safe now.
It doesn’t know the war ended years ago.

What I’m Holding Onto

But here’s the part I’m learning, what I try to hold onto when it all feels too much: This brain, this chaotic, overworked, trauma-stamped brain of mine… It’s still trying and still showing up and still learning.

It laughs.
It makes art.
It remembers weird 90s trivia.
It falls in love.
It gets back up, even when it swears it’s done.

It is, somehow, still mine, and still beautiful.
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it keeps going.

Tender. Tired. Trying.

Beautifully magnificent. And also:

Tender.
Tired.
Trying.

Maybe that’s the point. Healing doesn’t erase the trauma. It means we learn how to live with a brain that’s been through hell, and that we choose, every day, to love it anyway.

Photo by Camila Quintero Franco on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Consider the fireflies shining into the darkness in the picture above. Let their lights shine the way throughout this reading.

In today’s post, I’m going to tackle depression.

Yeah, it’s a heavy word, with not such great connotations… You sigh and attempt to click away. Your finger hovers over the button because you want to avoid this topic. No one likes this word.

Hang on a minute. Give me a moment to explain my take on this word.

Depression.

When depression rears its ugly head, it’s hard to see anything positive. When we are stuck in the middle of a bad day, we see everything negatively. It’s a downward spiral that pulls us down like a vacuum, sucking us into darkness.

It doesn’t have to be that way.

Let me explain…

My name is Lizzy, and I have been where you are. I have had many bad days, weeks, months, and even years. I’ve got the BAD T-shirt and I don’t ever want to go back there. My childhood was full of pain and suffering, but I left that world and started again.

In my new world, I have worked to build a life away from trauma and abuse. I’ve created a world of positive influences, and I am surrounded by people who share my vision.

Depression still grabs me from time to time, and triggers drag me back to my horrific childhood. Some of these experiences draw me into days of lasting depression, including foggy brain and sluggishness. Yeah, I’ve been there.

Therapy has helped me understand why I feel the way I do after a trigger. I was hurt, but that’s in the past. Things that are difficult today are nothing compared to where I have been.

In the great scheme of things, I recognize that life is not inherently bad. I see glimmers of hope everywhere I go.

Here is the kicker: we don’t have to stay in “bad day” mode. There are tools we can use to feel better.

This is what I do when I’m having a bad day:

• Breathe — A few deep breaths will help detox our system and replenish the air in our lungs.
• Mindfulness–Think about the moment you are in, the here and now. What do you need right now? Clarity helps when we are feeling down.
• Take a comfort break–If you cannot get away from your busy schedule, do something to calm yourself down. Splash some water on your face, or grab a coffee. The change of temperature will help you reset for a minute.
• Go for a walk–If it’s the end of the day, don’t go straight home. Go for a walk in the park and notice the leaves in the trees. Hear the birds exchanging avian gossip and notice the crickets playing their serenades. Feel your surroundings and let your heartbeat match. Nature does wonders to help us feel calm.

When you get home, don’t focus your mind on what has happened; instead, look at the next moments with open eyes.

Look for the glimmers of hope. When we open our minds beyond the pain of the moment, we see that those glimmers exist and are within reach.

When I am having a rough day, a glimmer might appear as any of the following:

• The sun stretches its rays over our driveway. A bumblebee settles inside one of the pink flower buds of a bush.
• My youngest is coming to greet me at the door and show me his latest model made by Legos. His beaming face says it all.
• My oldest has tidied his bedroom and found his long-lost favorite toy. Excited, he wants to share with me his newfound treasure.
• My husband is in the kitchen stirring the cheese sauce for a mac & cheese dinner. He turns around to smile at me, and I see that he has flour smeared on his cheek.

Life is not perfect, nor is it easy. But when we stop to notice beauty and simplicity, we feel better.

Maybe you had a bad day today. Can you find some glimmers of hope that reassure you that life is actually pretty good?

In the dark of the night, we suddenly see glowing fireflies!

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

If you enjoyed reading this post, I invite you to follow me:

www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

Photo by Renaud Confavreux on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

I have faced many traumas in my life and experienced repeated betrayal, often from those we are told we can trust—family.

An Existential Identity Crisis

I consider myself a quirk of fate; by some macabre twist, I was launched into a profoundly dysfunctional family. I grew up fatherless in a middle-class Roman Catholic household in a small South Indian town. My older sister Melanie and I were raised by our young, widowed mother in our maternal grandparents’ home, where we lived with an extended joint family.

I discovered that my father passed away from a heart attack just months after my mother conceived me, so I never knew him. Growing up without a father left me feeling empty, which may have influenced my tendency to form fleeting connections with abusive relationships and toxic friendships. The absence of pictures of my dad was heartbreaking, as it felt like all memories of him had been erased. I understand my mother likely acted out of her own grief, but it was painful that she didn’t encourage us to talk about him, leaving many questions unanswered.

Becoming a Social Outcast

At first, my mother worked hard as a teacher at our school until my soon-to-be stepfather, a medical student seven years younger, came into the picture. In the conservative town we lived in, rumors about the teacher and the young man quickly spread, and all hell broke loose at my grandparents’ home. The entire family was upset with her new relationship, but my mother was so in love that she didn’t care.

The school was even worse; we became social outcasts overnight, facing snide comments from classmates and family friends who labeled us as “the daughters” of the “flighty widow.” The reputation stuck.

As a grown woman, I understand that my widowed mother had the right to move on and lead her life. However, at age five, I only felt the loss of friends. Back then, single mothers dating wasn’t common in rural India, and my mother was blissfully unaware, caught up in her new romance as she traipsed around town in love-infested bliss.

The Birth of the Fear of Abandonment

When I was in third grade, she finally married and a few years later moved to the Middle East with her new doctor husband, leaving behind two lonely kids and a controversial reputation.

At every family event, we were seen as the “orphan Annies” and “oddballs,” garnering pity or scorn from others. In that conservative town, we stood out, burdened by a reputation we longed to escape. This likely fueled my craving for love and contributed to  ADHD and borderline personality disorder, which I discovered many years later.

Meanwhile, my childhood became a series of moves between relatives, amplifying feelings of abandonment. We were treated as unnecessary baggage, and the meager food we received was often rationed. Name-calling and forced chores made us feel like maidservants, whether cleaning the house, doing laundry, cooking, or babysitting. I was not yet 13, and I often went to bed hungry.

With each move, my sister and I faced a new set of accusations. In hindsight, I believe this wasn’t because we lacked virtue, but rather because our relatives were tired of bearing the burden of my mother. This was their way of “passing the buck” to someone else. Meanwhile, our mother hardly contributed to our expenses or sent money to those who took care of us.

Though Mom would visit us occasionally, her relationship with us, her daughters, changed dramatically. She refused to believe what we had endured and the ongoing criticism from our “overburdened” relatives. Instead, she relied only on hearsay, choosing to accept the narrative that portrayed us as the problem.

Walking Away From Abuse

At a relative’s home, life became so chaotic that we went from being poor, abandoned orphans to harassed teens overnight. The saddest part was that no one, especially our mother, wanted to believe us. They preferred to sweep everything under the rug rather than face the discomfort of the truth. I realized they chose not to support us because it allowed them to avoid their responsibilities.

As a result, in an effort to protect ourselves, two vulnerable girls walked away from a highly volatile situation and sought help from strangers. We felt unsafe among our own family.

Believe it or not, since then, we have mostly been estranged from our mother and socially isolated from our relatives. Aside from the odd occasion, I haven’t spent time with my relatives or mom in decades. Mom systematically and deliberately cut us off from any contact with the family.

 There is bullying, and then there is bullying of the worst kind; it’s called “social isolation,” the kind that was perpetuated by my dysfunctional family and also by friends at school.

This is the kind of bullying where “the strong” band together and trample “the defenseless” because there is strength in numbers—often aided by money, peer pressure, or the seniority that comes with age.

Rising from the Ashes

As a teenager, I found myself alone and began working hard to support myself. Life took a difficult turn; I met many people from whom I learned valuable lessons. I made numerous mistakes due to poor judgment and misplaced trust, but I’ve always managed to rise from them. While I regret those lapses, I would live my life the same way again because my past has shaped who I am today.

My career choice allowed me to meet many people. Early on, I took various odd jobs, each helping me develop new skills and fueling my ambition for success. I was open to any challenge, adapting and learning as I went. Eventually, I spent several years in the hospitality industry.

Final Thoughts: Know Thyself and Thou Shall Know Thy God

Along the way, I made friends and learned that everyone is unique; no one is perfect; certainly not people with the “pointy fingers.” Nevertheless, I noticed that most people focus on four basic needs: food, money, power, and sex—but not necessarily in that order. Whereas for me it has always been like Freddy Mercury sang that “crazy little thing called LOVE.“ But when we go through abuse, neglect, and trauma and don’t find love, we settle for mediocrity or less. Trauma comes in many forms, but it’s our choice whether to continue the cycle of family karma or to break it. The buck stops with you.

Whichever way it goes, childhood trauma makes you do the thing you’ve been “conditioned” to do all your life. I understand how challenging it can be to navigate through trauma, and I want to share what has helped me along the way: love, friendships, books, music, and spirituality. Healing is not a straight path, and I certainly don’t consider myself an expert. I’ve experienced the many faces of depression, including a recent episode of panic and anxiety, which I know can feel overwhelming. If you’re struggling, please remember that you don’t have to go through it alone. Reach out to your loved ones and consider seeking therapy. It’s so important to take that step and not delay getting the support you need. If you are like me, you deserve to find peace and healing.

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

Research has shown that excessive exposure to social media can contribute to mental health issues and dissatisfaction with body image, which each fuel one another. 

With billions of social media users worldwide, the effects of these platforms and technology on our mental health can be felt on a global scale. 

The positives we can take from social media

First, the positives—social media can positively impact our body image, with millions of fitness, food, and wellness accounts providing inspiration and aspirational content. Through these lenses, users can maintain their healthy lifestyles and take a positive view of their bodies. 

With an increasing number of body-positive accounts to follow who will advocate for a healthier perspective on how we look, social media users can benefit from a different perspective on their body image. 

Platforms such as Instagram and TikTok have the potential to empower people to stay healthy. Since most platforms have made eating-disorder-specific keywords such as “anorexia”, “bulimia”, and “thinspiration” unsearchable, helping to provide a healthier representation. 

By their very design, social channels are online communities where people can engage with other like-minded people and share ideas or opinions, fostering a diverse conversation on topics such as mental health and body image. 

How social media can influence poor mental health

Unfortunately, excessive consumption of seemingly perfect bodies and unfaltering diets can take its toll on our mental health and even lead to disordered eating. 

Social media can impact our emotions in various ways, making us feel anxious or depressed, angry or frustrated at the lives of people we see on social media channels. 

Over time, this can lead to unrealistic expectations of how our bodies should look and this can cause unhealthy eating habits. “You might have obsessive thoughts about food or reach for a certain type of meal when you’re feeling sad or unsure of something. For some, unhealthy eating behaviors are focused more on weight and body image than the feelings associated with eating”, says Olivia Marcellino, VP of Research at Recovery.com. 

It’s important to remember that social media is filled with people presenting a highlight reel of their lives, and this includes the way they present images of themselves. 

Photoshop, filters, and editing tools make it possible to completely reinvent ourselves into perfect images, which can make for impossible standards to reach and feel as though we’re in a constant state of comparison. 

Social media can make us feel as though we have a personal connection to the people we follow, and it can make it much easier to be influenced by the content we view every day.

This continual state of dissatisfaction can impact our mental health in other ways, too, lowering our self-esteem and increasing the likelihood of depression. 

Studies have even shown that increased use of social media can influence poor sleep quality and higher levels of anxiety and depression in young adults, as well as feelings of loneliness and isolation. The price paid for access to social media, in many cases, is our mental health and an unhealthy view of our own body image. 

Combatting the effects of social media on mental health

By taking a proactive approach to how we use social media, it is possible to counteract the negative effects it can have on our body image and mental health. As with anything in life, balance is key. 

Take a break from social media for a while so you can refocus and rid your mind of the negative feelings scrolling through accounts can have. This might be for a few hours when you notice your emotions are dipping, or it might be stepping back for a few weeks to gain perspective and regroup. 

It’s also important to regularly assess who you’re following and why. Do you notice that after viewing content from a certain account, you feel angry, upset, or envious? It could be that these types of accounts aren’t having a positive effect, and it’s time to unfollow them. 

Social media should be fun and uplifting, so make a habit of going through your accounts every so often to ensure that the people you’re following are producing content that’s inspiring you and putting you in a better mood, not bringing you down. 

We’re social beings and we want to forge connections with others, so use social media for the purpose it was intended and find a community that supports you. 

Follow body-positive accounts, get involved with conversations online that promote positive mental health and join groups that support one another and lift people up. It can help to shift your mindset of what an ‘ideal’ body type can look like and do wonders for making you feel good about yourself and those around you.

Sometimes, it’s not possible to alleviate the impact social media can have without professional help, particularly if the outcome of negative social media usage has resulted in disordered eating. When our mental health has been poor for some time, getting out of that mindset can be tough. But there are options, from counselling and therapy sessions to prescription medication and more, which can help us get back to a healthier perspective. 

Final thoughts

Social media certainly has its plus points – it can help us foster connections with people from all over the world and view issues and topics from different perspectives. But it has a dark side, and we need to be cautious of how we use social media channels and how often in order to protect our mental health and stave off issues. 

Whether it’s being careful who we follow, paying attention to how long we’re scrolling every day, or seeking help and support when we can feel our mental health slipping, there are ways to combat the negative impact that social media can have and focus on the positives instead.

Photo via Unsplash: Becca Tapert

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