Review: What is Developmental Trauma?

Developmental trauma is different. It is not one event. It is not even a series of events. It is the result of growing up inside danger itself—when the entire atmosphere of the home is threatening and every waking moment is spent trying to survive. Developmental trauma is embedded in an abusive family system that continues on into adulthood. 

This type of trauma can involve many forms, such s physical abuse, sexual abuse, neglect, emotional abuse, or chronic instability. While the details differ, the focus of this series is the common thread running through them all: the things a child must do in order to survive.

What is a Home with Developmental Trauma like?

A home governed by silent rules where belonging requires self-betrayal. A home where a child’s perceptions, emotions, and instincts become dangerous because they threaten the system. What is true becomes less important than what is permitted.

What is the Child’s Deepest Fear?

Beneath all of this lies the deepest fear a child can experience: being completely alone. To a child, attachment is survival. The cost of preserving that attachment is enormous. What is sacrificed is not merely truth, but the child’s sense of self.

My home was this way, and at the age of 63, I am still dealing with the aftermath.

Healing Trauma

For most of my life, healing meant understanding. I studied trauma. I went to therapy. I processed memories. I slowly began separating truth from the lies. But then in later life, something unexpected happened. Instead of feeling better, buried emotions began to surface. Old fears intensified. Grief appeared where numbness had once existed. Parts of myself that had been silent for decades suddenly demanded attention.

Why Does Healing Feel Harder Before it Feels Better?

It feels harder because healing is not simply the process of understanding what happened. It is the process of reconnecting with the parts of ourselves that were sacrificed in order to survive. And that is where the terror lives. When long-buried wounds begin to surface, what was once hidden must finally be felt.

Why Are Long-Buried Wounds So Scary?

Long-buried wounds contain the terror we learned not to feel. The grief we could not afford to touch. The anger we buried. The needs we denied. The lies we accepted about ourselves and the world. For years, these wounds remained hidden beneath layers of adaptation and conditioning. But healing has a way of bringing them back into view. Not to punish us, but to be acknowledged. Not to overwhelm us, but to finally be felt. Silence begins to find its voice, and the self that was sacrificed for survival slowly begins to emerge—and it feels scary. 

The Early Process of Healing

For a long time, healing felt like progress.

Understanding brought relief. Insight created clarity. Things that once felt confusing began to make sense. There was movement. There was direction. There was even hope.

I began to feel less suicidal. I started to think I might be able to “do life.” I felt better, I slept better. I started to believe reality instead of the lies. But there came a point at which all the processing and understanding was over, and I was still left with the deeper layer of damage. Now, thinking through it, reading about it, and processing it weren’t enough. 

The Deeper Layers Emerge

Instead of continuing to feel better, it began to feel harder.

Not all at once. But steadily.

Emotions that had been quiet began to rise. Reactions felt stronger, not weaker. Old pain surfaced in ways that were difficult to contain or explain.

It can feel like something is going wrong. Like you are regressing. Like all the work you’ve done is unraveling. But what is actually happening is something very different.

In Developmental Trauma, Parts of the Self Never Had the Chance to Exist

In developmental trauma, there are parts of the self that never had the chance to fully exist. Not because they weren’t there, but because they were not safe.

Terror and fear had to be suppressed. Anger had to be contained. Grief had no place to go. Needs had to be ignored.

In order to survive, the system reorganized itself around protection. Some parts became highly functional—capable, responsible, productive, and adapted to the environment. Other parts were pushed out of awareness entirely.

Not erased.

But waiting.

The Process of Healing

Healing does not begin with those buried parts. It begins with understanding. With small moments of safety. With the gradual realization that the danger is no longer present.

And as the nervous system slowly begins to register that something is different, it starts to loosen its grip.

This is where something unexpected happens. The parts that were held back begin to surface. Not because something is wrong. But because it is finally safe enough for them to be felt.

When those parts emerge, they do not come quietly. They carry everything that was never processed at the time: terror, grief, anger, confusion, helplessness, and loss. And because those experiences were originally overwhelming, they can still feel overwhelming when they return.

This is Why Healing Can Feel Harder

When it “feels harder,” it is not because you are “getting worse.”

It happens like this because you are finally feeling what was always there.

What once had to stay hidden is now visible. What once had to be suppressed is now being allowed.

This Stage is Often Misunderstood

Many survivors find themselves wondering, “I was doing better before I started this work.” Or, “Why does everything feel worse now?”

But what looked like stability before was often containment. The system was holding things in place. Holding things down. Holding things together. Now that containment is loosening. And what was buried underneath is beginning to move.

This is Not Regression

It is exposure.

The nervous system is not breaking down. It is completing something.

Earlier in life, there was no safe way to process what was happening. The system did what it had to do. It stored the pain. It contained the emotions. It kept you functioning. Now, under different conditions, it is attempting to resolve what was left unfinished. This is why emotions can feel disproportionate. Why reactions can seem confusing. Why the intensity may not match the present moment.

The body is not reacting to now.

It is releasing what was never allowed then.

At this stage, insight is still helpful—but it is no longer the primary tool. Understanding what is happening matters. But trying to think your way through it will not move it through.

What is needed here is different.

Patience.

Space.

Safety.

The ability to stay present without shutting the experience down or running from it.

This is not about forcing resolution.

It is about allowing completion.

If healing feels harder right now—if emotions are surfacing in ways that feel unfamiliar or overwhelming—it does not mean you are doing it wrong.

It may mean you are finally safe enough to feel what you could not feel before.

This is not the end of healing.

It is a deeper layer of it.

And it will not stay this intense forever.

Defy Trauma, Embrace Joy—even if it takes a little while

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Photo Credit: Unsplash

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

I’m Embarrassed That I Exist

Carter’s Story

Carter had been looking forward to his trip home. After being financially independent since he was 18 and nearly depleting his savings during his first years of graduate school, he needed the film equipment his family had promised to help purchase for his final thesis project. “Make sure to leave room in your suitcase,” his parents had reminded him repeatedly before his visit. “You’ll need space to bring back your birthday gifts.”

The day before his birthday party—the first his family had thrown for him in almost 20 years—Carter and his brother Samuel went to lunch. “After tomorrow, you’ll have everything you need for your film thesis,” Samuel assured him with a smile. Carter felt a mixture of gratitude and unease; his family had never shown much interest in his filmmaking aspirations before.

Samuel ran a non-profit food bank and was father to five children. Within the family and their community, he was universally admired for his selflessness and service. Carter, by contrast, had always struggled to be taken seriously. No one ever asked what kinds of films he wanted to make; they simply assumed his work was shallow entertainment. The family had developed a habit of calling him “Hollywood” and “Mr. Big Shot”—nicknames that carried more dismissal than affection.

On the day of the party, extended family members crowded the local park. When gift-opening time arrived, Samuel saved his present for last. The box was the perfect size for the vital camera equipment Carter needed. As everyone watched, Carter opened it to find a bright orange 1970s-style tuxedo with comically wide lapels. There was nothing else in the box.

“This is your outfit for when you go to the Oscars!” Samuel announced, prompting laughter from the gathered relatives.

In that moment, Carter felt his stomach drop—hurt by the deception, confused by why they would deliberately set up false expectations, and desperately worried about how he would now buy what he needed for his thesis. But years of conditioning kicked in. He smiled broadly, stood up, and modeled the ridiculous outfit for everyone’s amusement. The laughter that followed masked his internal collapse. No one acknowledged his disappointment, not even privately.

When Carter finally gathered the courage to express his hurt to his family the next day, Samuel’s eyes welled with tears. “I wanted to get you the equipment, but I just couldn’t afford it with the kids and everything. I thought the tuxedo would show that I believe in you—that I know you’ll make it to the Oscars someday.”

Carter found himself comforting his brother instead of addressing his own feelings. He left feeling guilty for even thinking Samuel would ever be able to afford giving him that gift. But something nagged at Carter: just one day before the party, Samuel had explicitly told him he would have everything he needed for his thesis after the birthday celebration, fully aware of the prank.

It took Carter decades to recognize the pattern of covert narcissism in his brother’s behavior. Even longer to reflect on that birthday party as an act of intentional humiliation. Only after going no contact with Samuel could Carter see how odd it was that his brother had orchestrated a birthday party when no one had thrown him one in nearly two decades—and how the public gift-opening had been crafted as a spectacle with Carter as the unwitting entertainment.

Understanding Existential Humiliation: The Tripping Metaphor

While existential shame involves internal beliefs about one’s inherent wrongness that develop over time, existential humiliation represents something different—and in many ways, more insidious.

Imagine walking confidently through a crowded room when someone deliberately trips you. As you fall, there’s that unmistakable moment of physical disequilibrium followed by the searing heat of embarrassment as all eyes turn to you. Your cheeks burn, your heart races, and you feel a desperate urge to disappear. Though you may have sustained real injuries—scrapes, bruises, even broken bones—others may only see your awkward tumble and assume you’re naturally clumsy or weren’t paying attention.

What makes this experience particularly devastating is that no one saw the person who tripped you. They maintain complete deniability while you’re left picking yourself up from the floor. If you try to explain what really happened, you risk appearing paranoid or like you’re making excuses. Over time, these experiences fundamentally change how you move through the world—you become hypervigilant, constantly scanning for potential hazards, never fully relaxed in public spaces. You may never walk with the same confidence again.

This is existential humiliation—a deliberate attack on your dignity and belonging that others either don’t recognize or actively deny. And like being tripped, we can never fully prevent others from attempting to humiliate us. What we can develop are strategies for catching ourselves more quickly when we start to fall, building networks of people who will help us up, and recognizing that these falls say nothing about our inherent worth or right to walk freely through the world.

With this metaphor in mind, let’s explore the specific characteristics that make humiliation so damaging, especially when it becomes existential in nature.

The Anatomy of Existential Humiliation

Existential humiliation has several distinguishing characteristics:

1. Intentional targeting of core identity

Unlike shame, which may develop without anyone’s deliberate action, humiliation involves someone intentionally targeting aspects of who you are. In Carter’s case, his identity as a serious filmmaker worthy of support was undermined, reinforcing a family narrative that positioned his educational pursuits as frivolous indulgences.

2. The social witness component

Humiliation almost always involves a social component—the real or perceived presence of witnesses. Carter’s humiliation was magnified by the extended family members watching as he opened the purposely misleading gift. The public nature of humiliation adds layers of damage, as it threatens one’s standing in the community.

3. Plausible deniability by the perpetrator

Perhaps most damaging is the common element of plausible deniability that often accompanies acts of existential humiliation. Samuel maintained an image of selflessness that made it impossible for Carter to call out the manipulation without seeming ungrateful or petty. The claim that the orange tuxedo was meant as encouragement for Carter’s future success provided perfect cover for what was actually a humiliating gesture.

4. The fawn response and forced performance of emotional labor

Victims of existential humiliation often find themselves engaging in a “fawn” response—a trauma response (alongside fight, flight, and freeze) where a person accommodates, appeases, and focuses on others’ needs while suppressing their own emotions. This manifests as performing emotional labor to manage the situation—comforting their abusers, putting on brave faces, or acting as though everything is fine.

Carter’s impromptu “fashion show” and later comforting of his brother exemplify this fawn response. This wasn’t merely people-pleasing but a survival strategy developed in environments where expressing authentic negative emotions was punished or dismissed. The fawn response serves multiple purposes: managing others’ emotions, staying personally safe, and preserving one’s social standing when more authentic responses might lead to further rejection or humiliation.

5. Long-term identity destabilization

What transforms a humiliating incident into existential humiliation is its power to destabilize one’s fundamental sense of self and place in the world. For Carter, this incident reinforced a lifetime of subtle messages that his pursuits were less valuable than his brother’s, his needs less important, and his feelings less valid.

The Neurobiological Impact

Neurobiological research has shown that experiences of humiliation activate the same brain regions as physical pain. When someone experiences existential humiliation, their brain processes it as a threat not just to their social standing but to their very survival. The fight-flight-freeze-fawn response activates, but in situations like Carter’s, social constraints eliminated the fight option (confronting Samuel would only reinforce the “ungrateful” narrative), the flight option (walking away would appear rude and dramatic), and even the freeze option (sitting silently would be interpreted as sulking). This left only the fawn response as viable—performing emotional labor to appease others while suppressing his authentic reaction.

This biological response helps explain why memories of humiliation can remain painfully vivid decades later. The brain flags these experiences as significant survival threats, encoding them with heightened emotional intensity. For survivors, the body may still carry the physiological signature of these experiences long after the events themselves.

What makes existential humiliation particularly insidious is that it often occurs right under the noses of witnesses who remain oblivious to what’s happening. The covert nature of these interactions—small, subtle acts with plausible deniability—means the target often stands alone in recognizing the deliberate nature of the humiliation. Examples of these subtle humiliations include:

• A family member “accidentally” revealing an embarrassing story at a gathering, then saying “Oh, I thought everyone knew that already”
• A colleague praising your work but attributing the best parts to someone else
• Someone repeatedly mispronouncing your name despite corrections, then laughing it off as “just so difficult”
• Being interrupted repeatedly in meetings, then told you’re “not assertive enough” when you mention it
• Having your dietary restrictions or health needs dismissed as “picky” or “high-maintenance”

When these experiences form a pattern, the damage compounds in ways that exceed simple addition. Each new incident reactivates and deepens previous wounds, creating a snowball effect where neural pathways become increasingly sensitive with repeated activation. The harm isn’t linear but exponential; ten small humiliations don’t create ten units of harm but rather multiply in impact, with each incident magnifying the effect of all previous ones. This explains why targets of repeated humiliation often appear to ‘overreact’ to what others perceive as minor incidents—they’re experiencing the cumulative weight of the entire pattern.

Families and the Normalization of Humiliation

One particularly damaging context for existential humiliation is within families, where harmful dynamics can be dismissed as normal or expected. When humiliating interactions are labeled as “just sibling rivalry” or “that’s how brothers are,” the target’s pain becomes invalidated before it can even be fully acknowledged.

Carter’s experience illustrates this pattern perfectly. His family had normalized the dynamic where his pursuits were treated as less valuable than his brother’s. The nicknames “Hollywood” and “Mr. Big Shot” weren’t seen as problematic but as harmless teasing. This normalization made it nearly impossible for Carter to recognize his experience as humiliation rather than just “how families are.”

The “can’t take a joke” defense is particularly common in family settings. When someone expresses hurt at humiliating treatment, they’re often told they’re “too sensitive” or “can’t take a joke,” effectively gaslighting them about their right to feel hurt. This invalidation becomes a second layer of humiliation—not only was the original experience painful, but their pain itself is framed as evidence of personal deficiency.

For children growing up in such environments, these normalized patterns of humiliation can become foundational to their sense of self and place in the world. A child who is regularly the butt of family jokes may develop a deep belief that they are somehow less worthy of dignity than others, even without being able to articulate this belief. The fact that these dynamics often occur within loving families where other needs are well met makes them particularly confusing to identify and heal.

Read the rest of this article with steps toward healing is in Ellen’s first book of her “There’s A Word for That” series: https://a.co/d/07i5yn1Q

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: Author – Additional Terms and disclaimers for images used in my posts on CPTSD Foundation.

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 the System Signals Danger

Althea sat at her desk, staring at the email from her supervisor. “I’d like to discuss some concerns about the Henderson project.” Simple words. Routine, even. But in an instant, her entire system went into alarm. Her heart pounded against her ribs. Her vision narrowed into a tunnel. A cold wave swept through her body, leaving her fingers tingling and numb. Her breathing turned shallow and fast. It wasn’t a thought, exactly—more like a jolt of wordless certainty. Something primal and terrifying gripped her: she was in danger. Not physical danger, but something even more threatening. It felt like her very existence was under attack.

For the rest of the day, Althea moved through a fog of dread. The rational part of her knew it was probably just a standard check-in. But some younger, preverbal part of her was convinced it meant catastrophe—not just for her job, but for her worth. Her right to take up space. Her right to exist.

Across town, Koji experienced a similar internal collapse. At a neighborhood gathering, someone casually mentioned that his fence might be a few inches over the property line. The comment wasn’t unkind or accusatory. Still, something inside Koji crumbled. His face flushed hot. His throat constricted. For the rest of the evening, he felt both painfully exposed and disconnected—as if everyone could see some shameful truth about him he’d been trying to hide, even from himself.

Where others might see a harmless comment or a minor mistake, complex trauma survivors often experience something else entirely. These moments trigger existential shame—the bone-deep fear of being fundamentally unacceptable. Unworthy. Unlovable.

The Hidden Infection: Understanding Existential Shame

Unlike ordinary feelings of guilt (“I did something wrong”) or even general low self-esteem (“I’m not good enough”), existential shame cuts deeper. It’s the terrifying belief that “There is something inherently wrong with who I am at my core” and often, “I am irredeemable.” This isn’t just about feeling worthless—it’s about feeling wrong, defective, or inherently bad in a way that can never be fixed.

Think of your sense of self as a magnificent tree—designed to grow tall, reach for the light, and bear fruit. Existential shame is like a hidden fungus that enters the tree during its vulnerable sapling years. From the outside, the tree still grows and may even appear healthy to casual observers. But internally, this invisible infection has spread throughout the inner pathways where water and nutrients flow.

This hidden infection affects everything:

• How you process feedback and experiences (like nutrients in a tree)
• Your ability to reach your full potential (like a tree’s height and strength)
• Your contributions and creative expression (like a tree’s fruit)
• Your confidence and resilience (like the strength of a trunk and branches)

The tree continues to grow, but never as it was meant to—its very nature seems compromised from within.

Where Does This Core Belief Come From?

For survivors of childhood trauma, CPTSD, or narcissistic abuse, this belief often forms through:

1. Relentless criticism and impossible standards: When caregivers consistently focus on failures rather than efforts, children internalize the message that their worth depends on perfection. This is like the first entry point for the infection in the young tree.
2. Conditional love: Love and approval that’s only given when the child meets certain standards teaches them that they must earn acceptance through performance. The infection begins to spread.
3. Blame-shifting and scapegoating: When adults blame children for problems, conflicts, or their own emotional states (“You make me so angry!”), children learn to see themselves as the source of all problems. Even without explicit blame, a lack of reassurance that difficult situations are NOT the child’s fault can lead to silent self-blame, especially when combined with a lack of emotional attunement from caregivers. The infection extends further.
4. Emotional neglect: Sometimes the wound forms not from what was said, but what wasn’t—when emotions are ignored or dismissed, children learn their authentic feelings are unacceptable. The infection infiltrates the emotional centers.
5. Gaslighting and reality denial: When children’s perceptions and experiences are consistently invalidated (“That never happened” or “You’re too sensitive”), they learn to distrust their own reality and wonder if they’re fundamentally broken for experiencing the world as they do. The infection reaches the cognitive centers.

What makes this belief so devastatingly cruel is how deeply it becomes embedded in our nervous system and identity—typically before we have the cognitive abilities to question it. Left unaddressed, this core wound has the potential to derail a person’s entire life, coloring every experience and relationship through the lens of inescapable defectiveness.

How Existential Shame Shapes Our Lives

This deep doubt about whether we are fundamentally acceptable as a person doesn’t just cause occasional distress—it shapes our entire way of moving through the world, like how a hidden infection can alter every aspect of a tree’s development:

Perfectionism as Protection

For many, perfectionism becomes a survival strategy. The unconscious logic is clear: “If I can just be perfect, then maybe I’ll finally be acceptable or redeemable.” This provokes relentless self-improvement, workaholism, and exhausting vigilance against mistakes. This “trauma drive” can fuel remarkable achievements, with survivors becoming highly successful in their fields—all while unconsciously trying to outrun that core belief in their fundamental wrongness.

Just as some trees respond to stress by producing extra growth in other areas, this hypervigilance is the system’s attempt to compensate for perceived internal failings. For many survivors, perfection and achievement become not just a goal but a means of proving they deserve to exist.

The tragedy is that perfectionism can never deliver what we hope, because:

• Perfect performance is humanly impossible
• There is no amount of achievement that will offset such a deeply held belief
• Each inevitable failure re-confirms the core belief: “See? I knew I wasn’t okay.”
• Paradoxically, perfectionism often increases mistakes—exhaustion from relentless striving undermines the very competence we seek to prove.

Hypersensitivity to Rejection and Criticism

When you already secretly fear you’re fundamentally flawed and possibly irredeemable, even minor criticism can feel like confirmation of your worst fear. This creates a heightened vigilance for any signs of disapproval and can lead to:

• Catastrophic interpretations of neutral feedback
• Defensive reactions when feeling judged
• Rumination for days or weeks over a single comment
• Difficulty receiving constructive criticism even when delivered kindly
• Disproportionate panic responses to making mistakes

People-Pleasing and Fawning

Many trauma survivors develop a finely-tuned radar for others’ needs and moods, becoming experts at managing others’ emotions while neglecting their own. This isn’t just about avoiding conflict—it’s about continually seeking external validation that they are, indeed, acceptable.

The unconscious belief might be: “If everyone approves of me, maybe that means I’m okay after all.” This drives exhausting patterns of self-sacrifice, boundary violations, and emotional caregiving at one’s own expense.

The Collapse Response

For some, the weight of existential shame becomes too heavy to fight against. This can lead to:

• Giving up (“Why try when I’m fundamentally flawed anyway?”)
• Self-sabotage (unconsciously confirming the belief in one’s badness)
• Depression and loss of meaning
• Substance use to numb the painful core belief

Existential shame potentially brings dissociation—a sense of detaching from your body, feeling unreal, or going numb. This too is a protective response, designed to shield you from pain your nervous system feels too overwhelming to process.

Defensive Externalization

Some (not all) survivors manage existential shame by projecting it outward—becoming harshly judgmental of others, developing a false superiority, or even becoming abusive themselves. This defensive strategy temporarily relieves the pain by locating the “badness” in others instead of oneself.

This pattern, which can manifest in narcissistic traits, is often unconscious—a desperate attempt to escape unbearable shame. This isn’t an excuse for harmful behavior, but understanding that hurt people sometimes hurt people can be important for breaking intergenerational cycles. The difference lies in whether one takes responsibility for healing their core shame rather than continuing to project it onto others.

Recognizing the Pattern in Yourself

Many survivors have lived with this core belief for so long that they don’t recognize its presence or influence. Here are some questions that might help you identify if existential shame is operating in your life:

• Do you find yourself thinking, “If people really knew me, they wouldn’t like/love me”?
• When you make a mistake, does it feel like evidence that something is fundamentally wrong with you? Or, do you have an unpleasant, visceral, physical response?
• Do you feel like you must be “on guard” constantly to prevent people from seeing your “true self”?
• Does criticism, even when constructive, send you into an emotional tailspin that seems disproportionate?
• Do you have difficulty accepting compliments or positive feedback?
• Do you find yourself longing for validation or reassurance from others?
• When conflicts arise, do you automatically fear that you might be in the wrong?
• Do you hold yourself to impossible standards that you would never expect from others?

If these questions resonate, you may be carrying the burden of existential shame. But please understand: this belief, no matter how deeply ingrained, is not the truth about who you are. (I know that statement might be hard to accept right now—that’s normal and expected. As you continue reading, we’ll explore how to begin loosening its grip.)

Understanding the Neurobiological Roots

Existential shame isn’t just a psychological belief—it actually changes how our brain and nervous system work in ways we can measure:

• When our mind wanders or we’re not focused on a specific task, our brain’s “thinking about ourselves” network becomes overactive in trauma survivors (this is called the “default mode network”). Instead of normal self-reflection, this network gets stuck in negative loops of self-criticism and dwelling on personal inadequacy. While we see this overactive self-focus in trauma survivors, it’s important to remember the brain is complex—this pattern doesn’t mean you’re broken, just that your system learned to scan for threats in a way that once helped you survive.
• Our brain’s alarm system (the amygdala and limbic system) becomes hypersensitive, treating even mild social cues as potential threats or rejection.
• Shame triggers a full-body stress response that can include tight muscles, shallow breathing, digestive problems, and difficulty thinking clearly.
• The connections in our brain that link thinking about ourselves with feeling pain become stronger each time they activate together. Eventually, simply focusing on yourself automatically triggers shame.

Understanding these brain changes helps us recognize that healing requires more than just changing our thoughts—it involves rewiring our entire mind-body system.

Read the rest of this article with steps toward healing is in the first book of Ellen’s “There’s A Word for That” series: https://a.co/d/00xlkvLa

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. 😊

I had gotten through two appointments each day with my therapists, who are helping me work through my flashbacks. I was exhausted, but I wanted to move my body at least a little. So, on Thursday evening, after my appointments, I signed up for a ballet class. I dressed in my leotard, tights, and skirt, and began stretching at the barre. I was excited. 

During the first barre exercise, pliés, my focus on the teacher’s voice began to fade, and a wave of rage surged through me. I tried to breathe through it and maintain the graceful movement of my arms to the pianist’s concerto. But the flashbacks grew louder with each passing note. My arms started trembling and pulsing with aggression; I felt the need to punch something. Afraid I might have a trauma response that others would notice, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get through class. I briskly walked to the side of the room to grab my bag, awkwardly waved goodbye to the instructor, and left. I was defeated that, yet again, I couldn’t get through a dance class without flashbacks overwhelming me.  

With compassion, I told myself, I’ll try again tomorrow.  

The next day

Friday was my day off from therapy. I had gotten a great night’s sleep–the ideal setup for getting through an hour of exercise. Today’s jam was cardio dance class. I put on my tennis shoes and favorite pink tank top, ready to work. 

Once again, the intensity of the music was overwhelming. With my head hung low, I walked out. 

As I sat in my car, I couldn’t shake my embarrassment. How can I still not get through even one song? I’m so weak.  

I really wanted to move my body, and I knew it’d make me feel better. But clearly, my body wasn’t ready to move. After a long week of intensive work processing the emotions connected to my flashbacks, my body wanted rest. 

But today’s Friday, Natalie! Do something fun! Be normal for once. Go out to eat, or shop around a little bit.  

But even that sounded like too much. I sat quietly in the parking lot, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I asked my body what it needed.  

“A massage,” it quietly whispered. 

A massage? You sure?

I was skeptical, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my recovery process, it’s that my intuition is always right.   

Do I even have the money for a massage? Eh, I’m sure I could make up for it in the budget. 

While finances were certainly a concern, I was more concerned with listening to my body and giving it exactly what it needed in each and every moment of this recovery process toward my goal of living flashback-free. 

The massage

With my head facedown into the headrest and my arms tucked under the blanket, I took some deep breaths and reminded myself: there is nowhere to be but here, Natalie. You deserve this. 

The masseur began his work on my body. The first five minutes were fine–the pressure was light as a warm-up. I felt like I was finally starting to relax. 

After the warm-up, though, his pressure began to deepen, and I started to feel discomfort in my body. Not just physical discomfort, but actual pain. The flashbacks assaulted me as I fought against trauma responses. Tears began to flow, and I kept sniffling them up, but my snot fell through the headrest and onto the floor. 

Can he really not hear me crying? I wondered. I considered letting it out a little louder on purpose, hoping he would notice, so that I wouldn’t have to speak up. 

Just tell him to stop, Natalie. Speak up.  

But I was mute. 

As he traversed through the nooks and crannies of my neck and shoulders, I could feel the pressure increasing. I shivered at the sound of his thumbs rubbing against the sockets. 

Just tell him to stop! 

I started counting down to force myself to say the word I had struggled to say for so many years.

Three, two… not ready yet. 

More tears. 

Three, two, one, st-uh… 

And the cycle kept going for about ten minutes. 

Before I could reach “two” in my next countdown, my system couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed bloody murder, finally having the exorcism my body needed. I started punching the table over and over again.  

The masseur immediately removed his hands from me, and I heard an “Oh my God!” as the door slammed shut.

It was uncontrollable. I screamed until my poor throat couldn’t take it anymore. 

Pretty soon, I wasn’t the only one screaming. I heard the masseur yelling in terror on the phone in his native language, presumably to the owner. I had forgotten for a few minutes that there might be other people in the building. I had only been aware of the interaction between me and the demons. Guilt washed over me, and I told myself to shut up. Slowly but surely, I got everything under control. 

Realizing the door was probably unlocked, I threw the bedsheets onto the ground, locked the door, and collapsed against the wall, naked and exposed. I finished my crying session quietly and gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I couldn’t stay locked in here forever with my embarrassment. 

I slowly dressed myself, unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and reentered reality. 

The masseur was standing in the lobby holding a silver tray with two bottles of water and a box of tissues. 

“You okay?” He looked terrified. 

“Yes, I promise,” I reassured him, he did nothing wrong, and that my outburst was a reaction to PTSD. I wasn’t sure how much he understood due to the language barrier, but I wanted to make it clear that he didn’t need to worry. I was more concerned about upsetting or offending him than about my own emotional state. Even though the massage only lasted about 15 minutes, I handed him my card and insisted he charge me full price. 

“No, no,” he shook his head and made an “X” motion with his arms. He handed me water and motioned me to sit on the couch.    

“Just breathe,” he reminded me. 

I pulled some cash out as a tip and said, “Please.”

He agreed to the compromise. 

Was this the exorcism I had been needing? 

Shock and self-punishment

When I got to my car, Exorcism 2.0 happened. 

“I can’t do this anymore!” I screamed into my steering wheel. 

Suddenly, my phone rang, making my body jolt. I shot up, and the back of my head rebounded against the headrest like a basketball that had powerfully missed the net. 

It was the owner. 

“Natalie, sweetheart…” she said in a Vietnamese accent. “Are you okay?”

I told her about my PTSD and that her employee did nothing wrong. 

“My sister has that. It was just an emotional release. Massage can do that sometimes–it’s a good thing. But a deep tissue massage isn’t right for you today. Come back Monday, and I’ll do it myself. Much lighter pressure. Free of charge.”

“Okay,” I agreed bashfully, even though at this point I was pretty sure I’d never step foot in a massage parlor again.

“And don’t cry, Sweetie Pie. I am wiping your tears. Pretty girls don’t cry.” 

Well, considering how much I cry, I must be the ugliest girl in the entire world… I thought to myself. 

I chalked up her insensitive comment to a cultural and generational difference and told her I’ll consider coming back Monday. 

My therapist: on speed dial

I dialed my therapist on CarPlay and draped my arms over the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn with my head. 

“Hi, Pretty Girl!” my therapist answered, chipper as always. 

“Heather?” I mumbled through a trembling voice. 

“What’s goin’ on, Sweetheart?”

Exorcism 3.0. 

Pretty girls don’t cry Natalie, remember? 

As always, Heather listened patiently while I cried. After gathering myself, I shared what had happened. I spent five minutes expressing my concerns about how I made the masseur feel–that I freaked him out, or worse, that he might think I was the type to accuse him of maltreatment. I was more concerned about him than about myself, a common pattern throughout my life. 

“No need to worry about him. He’s an adult. He’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about YOU right now. You’re not driving, are you?” 

I reassured her that I was parked on a side street.

Heather guided me through a grounding exercise over the phone, and I finally felt stable enough to talk to her. She walked me through the science behind what had happened: When the masseur worked on my neck and shoulders–areas where we hold immense tension and stored emotions–my nervous system finally felt safe enough to let go. That “exorcism” feeling? That’s exactly what somatic release looks like. It’s not pretty, and it’s not comfortable, but it’s profoundly healing. 

Heather’s wisdom and motherly energy made me feel so much better. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I told her, with happy tears flowing now. 

“Drive safe, Sweetheart,” she said before hanging up. 

Later that evening

The evening was spent taking some much-needed rest. I had worked so hard during the week. So hard. 

I spent the evening cooking outside and nourishing my body with non-inflammatory food. As the craziness of the week began to ebb with the sunset, I reflected on everything I had been through. My body has been holding on to so much: years of medication effects, trauma, stress, and the incredibly challenging emotional processing I’m doing in therapy. What happened during the massage? I had a massive parasympathetic nervous system release, I cried intensely, my body expelled stored trauma, and I was left completely depleted. My nervous system was in crisis mode, needing rest and resources to recover and feel safe again. And here I was: my feet in the grass, eating healthy, nourishing foods. Nothing about this was a failure. Everything was a win. 

I grabbed my journal and wrote out bullets of all the things I was proud of. 

1) My self-control

I could have grabbed something quick and easy to eat on the way home and mindlessly stuffed my face with it, but I chose to come home and cook mindfully. That’s self-control and a commitment to nutrition as an essential part of my healing. 

2) My wisdom

On the flip slide, I could have fasted and denied my body the nutrition it needed out of fear that the food would make me feel bloated, but I chose to eat instead. That’s the wisdom of listening to my body. 

3) My strength

I’m navigating extraordinary emotional processing while my nervous system learns to regulate itself without the numbing effects of psych meds. That’s strength. 

4) My self-awareness

I didn’t touch my technology all evening because it would have been too overstimulating. Instead, I listened to the sounds of nature and children playing outside. That’s self-awareness. 

Everything was a “win”

Nothing about this experience was a failure. I’m doing something incredibly difficult–healing from deep trauma while managing medication withdrawal and rebuilding my entire life from scratch. The fact that I’m still showing up, still being honest, and still trying–this is remarkable. 

When I really thought about it, this exorcism was not a “rock bottom” moment. It was a reminder that I am in the home stretch of this marathon toward a life where I will never have to put in this kind of trauma work again. The hard days, the emotional releases, and the moments of overwhelm are not signs of failure. They are signs that I’m healing deeply enough to finally let go of what I’ve been carrying. 

Maybe pretty girls don’t cry… but beautiful ones do. And I’m doing beautifully. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. Especially when it doesn’t feel like it. 

Featured Photo Credit: Pexels

Graphic Credit: Author

To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

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

I surely can’t be the only one to pin myself up against the wall and peek through the curtains, waiting for the knocking to stop. Have you ever begged the universe to please let the person on the other side of the door be the UPS guy, so you know he’ll be on his merry way? Once, I hid for an hour because someone wouldn’t stop knocking. I didn’t care what they had to sell; I didn’t want it. I didn’t care what they had to say; I didn’t want to hear it. As it turned out, no one was at the door. I’d been hiding from a persistent woodpecker that had decided to tap manically on the side of my house.

Unfortunately, its Morse code failed to reach the logical parts of my brain; I only felt a wave of “baseless” fear. 

After a lot of therapy and work to regulate my nervous system, I have fewer of the moments I described above. I’m getting better at answering the door. These days, I often voluntarily leave my hidey hole to “connect” with others and even socialize.

I’ve come a long way in recognizing moments of emotional hijack, but I still have work to do.

For example, I’m writing this article because I’ve fled my house like a refugee. I’m not in danger, but I feel like I am. Why? Because an event in my neighborhood has suddenly swelled the population of my small community. It’s amplified my general fear of unexpected visits from people. Why would I feel fear in this context?

It’s simple. The anxiety around the unknown catapults me into a state of panic, locking me in terror about what could come next. When my safety feels compromised, naturally, my fear responses kick in. Having a sense of “control” of my surroundings makes me feel safe.

Usually, I’m able to ground myself and connect with the logical parts of my brain that know I’m safe. I’m getting better at working through these mental and physical nightmares. Other times, my fear responses do all the talking. All humans have fear responses, which are automatic, survival-driven physiological and psychological reactions designed to keep us safe.

These responses came in especially handy in prehistoric times when the threat of being mauled by a predator in the wild wasn’t out of the question. In modern times, this bodily and mental alarm system is less necessary most of the time. For those of us who have lived in persistently dangerous situations like chaotic childhood homes or in abusive relationships as adults, however, these fear responses have gotten a regular workout.

Our nervous systems, already hardwired by nature to fight, flee, freeze, or fawn in the face of danger, often become dysregulated. Our mind and body learn to “warn us” in situations that don’t warrant fear in most people because something about the moment sets off the alarm bells in our overstimulated nervous systems. Suddenly, we’re off to the races, held hostage by our go-to fear responses.

Depending on the situation, I freeze and play a solo game of possum, or, if possible, I flee. Although the logical part of my brain steps in sooner than it once did, it can be tricky when I’m going through a depressive slump. My whole system is just enough off kilter that it doesn’t take much to shift into the fear responses that feel as natural as breathing. Add a hefty dose of depression to the mix, and I find myself on the floor looking at dust bunnies long after the knocking has stopped. 

In fairness, my tendency to avoid people is partly a natural extension of my introverted nature. I need my space to recharge. But it’s more than that.

I think, like so many things, it’s related to trauma. For years, I made myself invisible in a way that extended beyond garden-variety introversion. Some of my reactions cannot be attributed solely to wanting to avoid attention or to being mentally drained from too much “on” time. Wanting to avoid people is one thing, but when fear suddenly pulsates through your body like an angry heavy metal song, it’s a clue that there’s more at play.

These strong physical reactions can be debilitating. Avoiding them can become a way of life.

Over time, I learned to avoid connections altogether. No matter the setting—my child’s baseball game, the office, or even the bread aisle at the grocery store—I shielded myself from others’ eyes and interest. These habits started in childhood; I learned early on to blend into the background and hide my presence. When I was quiet and withdrawn, I was out of sight, out of mind. I mastered a kind of isolated invisibility, and for good reason. I did this because I learned early on that people are unpredictable and can be dangerous. Danger can, in fact, be on the other side of your door. 

Accustomed to recoiling or running away in fear since I was in diapers, I’m working to retrain my body. I’m trying to convince myself that not everyone and everything is dangerous. I’m working hard to pull myself out of the shadows. The protective bubble around me is expanding while my perpetual anxiety around the possibility of getting hurt shrinks incrementally. The weight of my self-doubt and fear of falling short or being too much is finally receding. Many days, I succeed in this effort to free myself from the shadows.

I challenge myself to “put myself out there” or, at the very least, not run away. It usually turns out okay. Some days, I take significant strides beyond the dark weight of the shadows. On those days, it feels good to be “seen” after all these years of feeling invisible.

Other days, like today, I silently beg the universe to grant me an invisibility cloak. In these moments, I feel frozen in a place I no longer want to live. At the same time, I realize it’s okay to sit in these dark places and hide occasionally…as long as I don’t linger. Sometimes “hiding” is an act of self-care, but there’s a point when self-imposed social isolation transitions into unhealthy territory. I’m learning where that line is and how I can best support myself in those moments of unsolicited terror.

For a long time, I thought I was the only one who experienced this ongoing battle between a desire for invisibility and a desperate plea to be “seen.” I’m finally realizing I’m not alone in this struggle.

I’ve met more and more people like me over time. I’m one of many hiding in the safe cove of the shadows. Others take back stairways to avoid contact with colleagues or walk across the street to avoid saying “hi” to an acquaintance on days when even a two-word exchange feels like too much. Some days, the internal overwhelm makes it impossible for me to stretch myself. I occasionally worry that if I share these inner thoughts and fears, I will be deemed “insane.”

If you are reading this, you may be shaking your head in camaraderie on some level. Fortunately, our fear responses have little to do with sanity and everything to do with searching for safety. Many of us feel like we will never be safe, but it’s human nature to seek safety. Because we may find safety in hiding, we may subsequently feel resigned to never being truly “seen.” Wanting to be seen and understood, I think, is also human nature. So, here we find ourselves…at these strange crossroads of wanting two things that feel incompatible. They may feel that way, but that doesn’t mean they are.

I’ll never meet most of the people who read my words, but I can tell you this: I see you. I understand. We may be hiding, but we are not hiding alone. Nor are we invisible.

I recently asked myself, “Where the hell were you kindred spirits when I was in my teens and twenties”? I felt “weird” for hiding from people like a vampire fleeing the first rays of the morning sun. I assumed there was something wrong with me and that I was completely alone in my fear of people.

As it turns out, there was nothing wrong with me; my actions were self-protective. And…I’m not alone in this fear of people. Decades later, I finally realized why I couldn’t find “my people” for so long. I laughed out loud when it hit me: you were hiding too! It’s one of those “funny, not funny” kinds of things. Many of us play an ongoing game of hide-and-seek with the world. We all have our reasons. Sometimes, retreating into hiding is exactly what we need. We’ve earned that right. We also deserve to be seen.

One of the biggest things I’ve learned on my healing pilgrimage is that two opposing things can be true at the same time. We can hide while we also seek, and even in those moments of hiding, we can still be seen. I want to remind all my fellow hiders that we’re never actually alone…sometimes we only feel that way because we’re in hiding. That’s okay, though…we’ll come out when we’re ready. Until then, we can keep each other company. And…when we heal, peek-a-boo world, here we come!

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

I always think of this scene when I’m emotionally triggered. For me, it’s an accurate metaphor for how it feels to become hyperactivated in response to a perceived threat. It is very easy to interpret what’s really in front of you (toy gun) as something far more threatening (real gun), and react more violently than the situation requires. The scene further represents to me how those reactions can have consequences, particularly in our intimate relationships.

…

In recent decades, the term trigger has been co-opted by popular culture to mean any type of strong feeling in the face of an uncomfortable or unpleasant experience.[2] Social media accounts use it for example to mock “woke” people who get offended, and educational “trigger warnings” promise to protect us from potentially disturbing content.

Yet these mainstream uses of the term fail to capture its original meaning, and don’t necessarily cater to the needs of those most prone to feeling triggered: survivors of serious trauma.[3]

As therapists Sue Marriot and Ann Kelley describe, being emotionally triggered occurs when an implicit traumatic memory from our past “flood[s] [us] with a feeling that doesn’t make sense in the present.”[4] This “memory” is not experienced as such, but rather as a sudden physiological experience of acute emotional distress.

While we may be on the right track about what’s actually happening to us (something uncomfortable is most likely taking place), our sympathetic nervous system feels that discomfort at a disproportionate level to the current situation.[5]

To quote Marriot and Kelley, “the channel is right, but the volume is too high.”[6]

Doctor Ramani, an author and clinical psychologist, describes the experience of being triggered using a slightly different metaphor. She explains that when we encounter a situation that evokes our original trauma, we may feel “plucked’ like a guitar string.”[7] Once plucked, that guitar string continues to vibrate long after the threat has passed. As a result, survivors of trauma who are triggered may appear to the outside world as though they are overreacting or having a hard time “getting over it.”

The truth is it simply takes time for that vibration–originating from deep, nervous system-held emotional wounds–to come to an end.[8]

The experience of being triggered or plucked becomes uniquely complicated in response to relational trauma. While episodic traumas–a serious accident or natural disaster, for instance–are also extraordinarily painful, the source of the triggers associated are usually a bit easier to demarcate, such as a particular location, activity, or time of year.[9] Relational traumas, by contrast, can be more nuanced and less clear, making it harder to anticipate potentially triggering events.[10]

Additionally, the intense reactions that result from relational triggers get played out in relationship, meaning that survivors may misattribute the source of their distress to the very people with whom they desire safety and closeness. What’s seen as an overreaction to the non-triggered person then leaves the survivor feeling alone and ashamed, unable to communicate the depth and significance of their experience.[11]

It is essential to understand, however, that emotional triggers do not only stem from “negative” experiences. Survivors of relational abuse may feel triggered by “positive” interactions with an intimate partner because they mimic the love bombing and honeymoon stages in their previous toxic relationships.

Therapist Nadine Macaluso, in her book Run Like Hell, explains how our nervous systems become addicted to the cycle of abuse: “Because of the ongoing manipulative love tactics, your nervous system becomes ungrounded. Love-bombing is so extreme that it creates a flood of the feel-good neurotransmitter dopamine in the brain…the same neurotransmitter that…drives the addictive cycle of cocaine.”[12]

Psychotherapist William Brennan in turn explains that survivors may find positive moments therefore “traumatic to experience because of fear and powerlessness…the fear of relapse, craving, difficulty in error monitoring, [and] longing.”[13] In other words, the entire abuse cycle–love bombing, devaluation, and discarding–becomes triggering to the survivor in the aftermath of the relationship.

…

The good news for survivors of trauma is that, with therapy, mindfulness, self-care, and other forms of healing, the pluck becomes smaller, the string tighter, and the vibration shorter.[14] Like the giant, we may still have moments that take us out of ourselves, but we can begin to build the tools of self-awareness and self-regulation that makes repair possible.

Our nervous systems, so easily wired for threat, can thankfully be re-wired to incorporate feelings of safety and connection.

As Hogarth reminds the giant at the end of the film, “You are what you choose to be.”[15] No matter how reactive or powerless our emotional triggers make us feel, we indeed have a choice in how we respond to our trauma. And in fact, with intention, care, and support, the learning that comes from trauma can even become our superpower.

[1] Bird, Brad, director. The Iron Giant. Warner Bros., 1999.

[2] “Understanding Emotional Triggers – Why Your Buttons Get Pushed and What To Do About It.” Therapists Uncensored, episode TU08, 28 Sept. 2016.

[3] Jones, Payton J., et al. “Helping or harming? the effect of trigger warnings on individuals with trauma histories.” Clinical Psychological Science, vol. 8, no. 5, 1 June 2020.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Doctor Ramani. Why You Should STOP Saying the Narcissist TRIGGERED You… 20 Feb. 2023.

[6] “Understanding Emotional Triggers.” Therapists Uncensored.

[7] Doctor Ramani. Why You Should STOP Saying the Narcissist TRIGGERED You.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Ibid.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Ibid.

[12] Macaluso, Nadine. Run like Hell: A Therapist’s Guide to Recognizing, Escaping, and Healing from Trauma Bonds. (Greenleaf Book Group, 2024), 62.

[13] Brennan, Will. “Intensive Training on Narcissistic and Psychopathic Abuse | Part II.” PESI.

[14] Doctor Ramani. Why You Should STOP Saying the Narcissist TRIGGERED You.

[15] Bird, Brad, director. The Iron Giant. Warner Bros., 1999.

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

Some days, the nightmares keep us awake all night and haunt us during the day for no apparent reason. It’s like having a perpetual shadow glued to your back, and it won’t leave you alone.

The days when you don’t understand the flashbacks are even worse. Fear sets in, and it makes you feel uneasy.

Have you ever felt that way?

Have you ever stood in a queue in the food market and started to tremble?

I have.

It wasn’t one of my finest moments. It was years ago, and I still remember it because of how I felt.

I had just been to therapy, and it had been a big session with a lot of triggering memories. I should have driven straight home, but I needed some essential items for the following day.

As I stood in that queue with people all around me, I noticed I was hot. My heart decided to run a marathon in my chest, and my body trembled, like a leaf in the wind. My hands were full of items so I couldn’t just leave. The room fell silent all around me, and I felt as if I was right back in my worst moment. I felt his hands around my neck, squeezing ever so gently…

NO — I screamed inside my head and squeezed my knuckles on my items without anyone seeing what I was doing. The loaf of bread came out a little worse for wear, but other than that, my groceries survived my hands. I breathed in and out slowly and focused my eyes on a poster advertising a brand of diapers. I must have read the slogan several times until my brain understood its meaning. I wiggled my toes in my sandals to feel the floor.

Another time, I was at one of my friends’ barbecues. Lots of adults talking, kids running around, music playing from a boom box. Everyone was enjoying themselves. One of the dads went to the kitchen to get a knife to cut some meat, and he walked across the yard towards the grill. Suddenly, my whole world slowed down. All the voices and music stopped, and I froze. All I could do was stare at that knife as it bobbed in a hand that was walking across the yard.

My flashback took me to a very different hand that was walking towards me with a menacing grin. My scream made everyone stop, and it catapulted me back into the present. Someone had turned off the boom box, and everyone stared at me. Our kids were frozen in place.

A familiar voice put his hand on my back, said my name, and where we were. My husband turned me around and held me. His firm body with the familiar smells made me realize where I was, and I was shaking.

After a few minutes, I found myself sitting in a chair with a glass of iced tea in my hand. The music was playing, the adults were talking again, and the kids carried on playing.

These flashbacks can happen anytime to a trauma survivor. It doesn’t matter where you are or who you are with.

Like the turtle, a trauma survivor has to survive the constant cold water showers (triggers) that threaten to consume us. The most important thing is that you have a strategy to cope with them as they happen because they will. There is nothing worse than not being prepared for an emotional onslaught.

My advice to all trauma survivors out there is this.

1. Have a coping strategy that works for you during the day. I have several that I draw on and use at work and wherever I end up during the day.
2. Grounding is a great technique that helps get you back to the present moment. Use your senses to ground you firmly back into the present.
3. Allow yourself to “bail out.” If the flashback isn’t going away, have an excuse ready to leave the room if you are with people.
4. Time — Always make sure that you are fully back in the present moment before you return to what you were doing. If you need a break, tell someone that you are popping out for a coffee break or something that you can easily manage.
5. Self-care — This is the big one. You have to look after yourself after a flashback. I know this doesn’t come easy for a survivor, but you have needs. If your body has reacted to a trauma memory, you will not be able to function for a while without some kind of care plan. A glass of water, a snack, a short walk around the office, or maybe close your eyes for five minutes to shake a building headache.

My name is Lizzy, and I’m a mom, teacher, author and mental health blogger. I write for those who don’t always feel that they have a voice. For more about me, my books and articles check out my website: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support my writing, and buy me a coffee.

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Many clinicians meet clients who arrive with ritual abuse claims, fractured timelines, no corroboration, and a history of moving from specialist to specialist in search of answers. Most are not fabricating. Many are not remembering with precision either. A common statement appears in these rooms: if the body reacts, it must have happened. It sounds compassionate. It is not. It shortcuts assessment, confuses physiology with fact, and turns treatment into a confirmation loop. The alliance becomes a mirror that reflects back whatever the client fears most, rather than a container that steadies and clarifies.

Consider a typical presentation from practice. A client recalled being left overnight in a freezing basement. The concrete floor, footsteps overhead, a cold doorknob out of reach. The scene held sensory weight and carried real fear. Later, family records showed the home had no basement. The conclusion is not that nothing happened. The conclusion is that the image may have fused borrowed fragments and emotional truths into a single picture the nervous system could organize around. The body reacted. The target of that reaction was misidentified. What needed work was not a fast-track diagnosis based on physiology, but a paced inquiry into what the body was trying to protect and what events might actually fit the pattern.

The nervous system encodes threat. Implicit memory lives in posture, breath, and gut. None of that provides coordinates. Somatic evidence flags significance. It does not settle attribution. Collapse those two and accuracy drops. In trauma care, accuracy is not a luxury. It is ethical triage. Misreading hyperarousal as proof of incest, or adopting a story that later fails against hospital logs or sibling testimony, harms clients and families and erodes trust in the field. The emotional pain remains real. The backstory can still have holes.

Memory science has been clear on this point for decades. Some dislike the mess that research exposed, but disliking a finding does not erase it. Suggestion is powerful. The therapeutic relationship amplifies that power because trust lowers a client’s defenses against influence. Recovered memories do occur. They can surface slowly and unevenly and later find support in records or witnesses. They do not usually arrive polished, and they never deserve to be declared true on the basis of shaking hands or a rolling stomach. The correct posture is steady attunement, careful pacing, and respect for a mind that can both shield and distort.

The larger problem is cultural. Many therapists fear that skepticism will be heard as betrayal. They worry about appearing to side with perpetrators. They default to affirmation in order to avoid conflict. Caution then gets mislabeled as minimization, and verification gets mislabeled as doubt. In that climate, it is tempting to protect one’s reputation rather than the client. That is not care. That is drift.

A responsible approach is plain and repeatable. Stabilize first. Map what the body does before, during, and after certain narratives. Separate sensation from story. Ask where the language came from and what other explanations could fit the same physiology. Invite corroboration where it is possible to do so without harm. Hold space for what cannot yet be known. Keep the alliance strong without making promises the facts cannot carry. Somatic validation and factual verification are not enemies. They are different tools used for different questions.

Good therapy does not hand people answers. It teaches people how to hold possibility without certainty, and how to test what can be tested while protecting what still needs time. If a client reports abuse, the report is taken seriously and treated with respect. The work then proceeds without rushing the story into a fixed shape. Memory is important. That is why it deserves clinical accountability rather than slogans or ideological immunity.

Final thoughts

Somatic truth and factual truth are not the same category. Both matter. One guides immediate regulation and safety planning. The other guides attribution, repair, and justice. When clinicians keep those lanes clear, survivors get care that is humane, scientifically honest, and legally durable.

References

Scientific American. People Likely Aren’t as Susceptible to False Memories as Researchers Thought. 2025.
Murphy G, et al. False Memory Replication Dataset. University College Cork. 2023.
Loftus E. The “lost in the mall” technique. 1995.
Otgaar H, et al. The return of the repressed. Perspectives on Psychological Science. 2019.
McNally RJ. Remembering Trauma. Harvard University Press. 2003.
van der Kolk BA. The Body Keeps the Score. Viking. 2014.
Lynn SJ, Lilienfeld SO, Merckelbach H, et al. Dissociation and dissociative disorders. Clinical Psychology Review. 2014.

Cover Image: jonathan-borba-OhU7gVp0D7c-unsplash.jpg

Why the edge can feel unsafe

Humans did not evolve on memory foam in locked bedrooms. For most of our history, we slept on the ground, in caves, in huts with thin doors. Exposed limbs meant exposed entry points. Predators target extremities and the neck because access is easier. The nervous system solved that problem by favoring positions that protect the core: curl, cover, and tuck. That is not fear. It is pattern recognition preserved across generations. The amygdala still scans in the background during sleep, and it does not retire just because you purchased a better mattress.

Evolutionary memory that is still on duty

Even today, the brain runs a quiet night watch. On the first night in an unfamiliar place, sleep becomes asymmetric; one hemisphere remains more alert while the other rests. Laboratory work has demonstrated this first-night effect with imaging that shows a built-in vigilance system holding partial guard. That is biology, not superstition, and it helps explain why the edge of a bed in a new setting can feel like a cliff rather than a cushion.

Trauma history changes the map

Trauma shifts sleep from rest to strategy. People with childhood abuse, severe neglect, or control-based punishment often adopt positions that prioritize mobility, concealment, or both. Some sleep near the edge with one leg ready to move because escape has been coded as necessary. Others cannot tolerate uncovered limbs at all and cocoon under blankets even in warm rooms, not for comfort but for defense of the areas perpetrators once accessed. These choices are rarely conscious. They are solutions installed by experience and maintained by a threat-biased nervous system.

Posture, perception, and what the research suggests

Sleep posture correlates with emotional states in population studies and clinical reviews. Fetal-style sleepers more often report higher stress and adverse life events. Supine sleepers show a higher association with sleep paralysis in several samples. Side and edge positions vary; for some, the choice is airflow and spinal ease, for others, it is a safety cue learned a long time ago. None of this proves a single rule. It does support what clinicians observe: position is not random for many survivors.

Temperature, physiology, and learned associations

Feet are fast radiators. Specialized vessels in the hands and feet move heat quickly, so a foot outside the covers can lower body temperature and help with sleep onset. Biology does not operate in a vacuum, though. If cold feet were paired with fear, isolation, or punishment, the same sensation can function as a warning rather than a comfort. The body votes based on memory more than on textbook physiology.

Practical steps that respect biology

Start with observation rather than force. Notice how your body positions itself in the first moments of waking and the last moments before sleep. Those are honest windows. Make small experiments without pressure. If you want to test more exposure, begin with a toe or ankle rather than a full limb and see what the body permits. Do not copy someone else’s version of calm. One person sprawls because their system is quiet; another curls because their system is careful. Adjust the room before you try to adjust your biology. Lower the bed, soften the lighting, and set a temperature that signals safety. Some people settle with breathable sheets and a light-weight throw; others require no weight at all. There is no universal fix. The point is to give the nervous system current evidence that the environment is safe in the present day.

Final thoughts

Edge anxiety is not drama, and it is not immaturity. It is a living record of what kept people safe. If your legs lock tight or you pull the blanket over your head every night, that is not a flaw. It is survival programming that has not yet been given a stable reason to retire. Whether you sleep centered like a sandbag or hold the perimeter like a lookout, the pattern makes sense once the history is named. Your brain did not forget what life taught it, especially at night.

References

Tamaki M, Bang JW, Watanabe T, Sasaki Y. Night watch in one brain hemisphere during sleep associated with the first-night effect in humans. Current Biology. 2016;26(9):1190-1194.
Jalal B, Romanelli A, Hinton DE. Sleep paralysis in Italy: frequency, symptoms, and the role of cultural interpretation. Consciousness and Cognition. 2017;51:298-305.
Suni E, Chen W, Jungquist C, et al. Sleep position and mental health: a scoping review. Sleep Health. 2017;3(6):460-467.

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