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

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The Aftershocks of Childhood Shame: A Guide for Survivors

[Content Warning: This article discusses childhood trauma, emotional abuse, animal harm, and shame experiences. Please engage at your own pace and practice self-care while reading.]

Eliana closed her office door and leaned against it, suddenly breathless. Her presentation had gone perfectly—the client was impressed, her boss had praised her work in front of everyone, and the project was greenlit with an increased budget. By all accounts, this was a professional triumph.

Yet here she was, eyes closed, whispering, “I’m so tired,” as the memory flooded back without warning: She was nine, proudly showing her teacher the extra credit project she’d spent the weekend creating. The teacher had smiled, praised her work, and then asked her to present it to the class. Twenty-five years later, she couldn’t remember what happened next, only the crushing feeling that she’d done something terribly wrong by being proud of her work.

This memory, like dozens of others, would ambush Eliana throughout her days—while grocery shopping, during meetings, even when laughing with friends. Each one brought a physical wave of shame so intense it felt like her body was trying to collapse in on itself, along with an exhaustion that went beyond physical tiredness—a soul-level weariness that made her want to simply disappear.

If this sounds familiar, you’re not alone. This experience—these ghosts of childhood shame that haunt adult survivors of complex trauma and narcissistic abuse—has a name: “shame flashbacks.” But knowing the term doesn’t ease the burden. What might help is understanding why you should never feel embarrassed about the things you did as a child, and learning how to finally put these ghosts to rest.

The Trauma Earthquake and Its Aftershocks

Childhood trauma like an earthquake—a devastating event or series of events that shakes the very foundation upon which you were building your life. The immediate impacts are obvious and catastrophic, but the damage goes deeper than what’s immediately visible:

• The foundation is compromised: Your developing brain, identity, and nervous system are altered by the experience.
• The supporting structures are damaged: Your sense of safety, trust, and self-worth develop cracks that may not be apparent until weight is placed upon them.
• The architecture becomes adaptive: As you continue to grow, you build your life around these compromised structures—developing strategies and beliefs designed to prevent further collapse.

The shame flashbacks you experience decades later are the aftershocks—seemingly random, unpredictable tremors that can suddenly destabilize you long after the original earthquake. Just as geological aftershocks can continue for years following a major earthquake, these emotional aftershocks can persist long into adulthood.

What makes these aftershocks particularly disorienting is that they often occur when everything seems stable. You’ve built a good life, you’re functioning well, and then suddenly—a memory, a gesture, a comment triggers an aftershock, and you’re plunged back into the feeling of the original earthquake, despite being far from the original danger.

Understanding shame as aftershocks helps explain why:

• The intensity feels disproportionate to the trigger
• The timing seems random and unpredictable
• The sensations are profoundly physical, not just emotional
• The experience can be as disruptive as the original trauma

Throughout this article, we’ll return to this metaphor to help explain both why these shame responses persist and how healing works—not by ignoring the damage, but by carefully reinforcing your foundation and retrofitting your emotional architecture to withstand these ongoing tremors.

Understanding the Roots of Shame: Psychological Frameworks

Before diving into the specific reasons you should never feel embarrassed about your childhood behaviors, it’s helpful to understand several psychological frameworks that explain why these shame responses persist long after childhood:

Complex PTSD and Chronic Shame

Many survivors of narcissistic abuse and childhood trauma develop what trauma expert Pete Walker describes as Complex PTSD (CPTSD). Unlike PTSD from a single traumatic event, CPTSD results from prolonged exposure to relational trauma, and one of its hallmark symptoms is a pervasive sense of shame. This isn’t just occasional embarrassment—it’s a deep, persistent belief that there is something fundamentally wrong with you.

Attachment and Shame

Our earliest attachment relationships shape how we view ourselves in relation to others. Secure attachment develops when caregivers consistently respond to a child’s needs with attunement and care. However, when these attachments are disrupted by narcissistic, neglectful, or abusive parenting, children often develop insecure attachment styles:

• Anxious attachment: Characterized by fear of abandonment and a tendency to seek excessive reassurance
• Avoidant attachment: Marked by emotional distance and difficulty trusting others
• Disorganized attachment: Involving contradictory approaches to relationships, often stemming from caregivers who were both sources of comfort and fear

Each of these attachment patterns intertwines with shame in unique ways, creating relationship patterns where either vulnerability feels dangerous (avoidant) or rejection feels catastrophic (anxious).

The Neurobiology of Shame

Your brain physically changed in response to chronic shame experiences. The neural pathways for shame became well-worn highways in your nervous system, activating automatically at the slightest trigger. However—and this is crucial—neuroplasticity means these pathways can be rewired. Your brain can create new, healthier response patterns with consistent practice and support.

11 Reasons You Should Never Feel Embarrassed About Things You Did As A Child

1. Your brain wasn’t fully developed

As a child, your prefrontal cortex—the part of your brain responsible for decision-making, impulse control, and understanding consequences—wasn’t fully developed. It doesn’t reach maturity until your mid-twenties. You literally didn’t have the brain capacity to respond “better” to many situations. You were doing the best you could with a brain that was still under construction.

2. You processed the world through a child’s perception and modeled what you saw

Children naturally see themselves as the center of their universe—not out of selfishness, but because that’s how developing minds work. When bad things happen around them, they assume they must be the cause. If a parent was angry, depressed, or abusive, you likely internalized that as “I made them feel this way” or “I deserve this treatment.”

This wasn’t your failure—it was a normal developmental response to abnormal circumstances. Similarly, you simply didn’t know there were other ways to be. Your environment was your entire world. If you grew up in chaos, chaos seemed normal. If love was conditional, conditional love seemed normal.

Children learn primarily through observation and imitation. If you behaved in ways that now make you cringe—being manipulative, passive-aggressive, people-pleasing, overly dramatic, or emotionally withdrawn—you were likely mirroring the behaviors that were modeled to you. You can’t blame a child for speaking the “language” they were taught.

3. You were programmed to maintain attachment at all costs

Human children are biologically wired to maintain connection with caregivers—it’s a survival mechanism. When faced with the choice between being authentic and keeping parental love and protection, your instinct for survival kicked in. If you abandoned your true self to maintain attachment, you were following the most basic human programming. This wasn’t weakness; it was your body’s way of keeping you alive.

4. You were taught the wrong lessons about your worth

If you grew up with narcissistic or emotionally immature caregivers, you were likely taught that your worth was conditional—based on achievement, appearance, behavior, or usefulness to others. Children believe what they’re told and shown, especially about themselves. The shame you feel isn’t evidence of your inadequacy; it’s evidence of what you were wrongly taught.

The Unpredictable Spotlight of Shame

Many survivors can recall moments when they were simply existing—playing, daydreaming, or just being a child—when suddenly an adult’s negative attention would spotlight them, often with humiliating comments: “Stop acting like the village idiot,” or “Do you have to be so embarrassing?”

These moments were particularly confusing and damaging because:

• You weren’t self-conscious until that moment—you were simply being yourself
• The criticism came without warning or explanation
• You couldn’t identify what you’d done “wrong”
• It was often performed in front of others, adding public humiliation
• The behavior being criticized was often just normal childhood existence

This pattern taught you that your natural state of being was somehow shameful, that you could be enjoying life one moment and be humiliated the next without understanding why. Over time, this created a hypervigilance about simply existing in the world—a constant background anxiety that at any moment, your very way of being might be deemed unacceptable.

When narcissistic parents use these tactics, they’re rarely actually responding to anything inappropriate in the child’s behavior. Instead, they’re often:

• Using the child as a prop in their social performance
• Attempting to get approval or laughs from other adults
• Asserting control and dominance
• Projecting their own insecurities
• Maintaining their role as the judge of all behavior

The result? A child who learns that existing authentically in the world is dangerous and that shame can strike at any moment, for no comprehensible reason.

5. You didn’t know you were allowed to have needs

Many trauma survivors learned early that having needs—for comfort, attention, help, or even basic care—was somehow wrong or burdensome. You may have been praised for being “so independent” or “such a little adult” when in reality, you were being neglected. Children are supposed to have needs. That’s normal, not shameful.

6. You were responding to impossible situations

Children in traumatic environments often face no-win scenarios: If you spoke up, you were punished; if you stayed silent, you felt guilty. If you showed emotion, you were “too sensitive”; if you didn’t, you were “cold.” The “wrong” behaviors you feel ashamed of were often your attempts to navigate impossible situations with the limited tools you had.

7. You had to become a different person to survive

Many trauma survivors developed a “false self” to please caregivers or avoid abuse. This might have involved being unnaturally quiet, overly agreeable, high-achieving, or taking on caretaking roles. If you feel embarrassed about being “fake” or “performing” as a child, remember that this was a sophisticated survival strategy—evidence of your resilience, not your weakness.

For many, this shift from authentic existence to self-monitoring happened suddenly and repeatedly. One moment you were happily playing, lost in your own imagination or joy, the next moment you were jolted into painful self-awareness by a parent’s cutting remark or dismissive comment. These moments teach children to subconsciously toggle between states: the freedom of unselfconscious being versus the constraint of being constantly on guard against criticism. Over time, many survivors learned to abandon the former entirely, living in a perpetual state of self-monitoring and performance. And much of the time they have no idea they’re doing this.

8. You didn’t know healthy boundaries existed

If your boundaries were repeatedly violated, or if you witnessed unhealthy relationships, you had no model for appropriate boundaries. The times you may have been “too agreeable,” let others take advantage of you, or conversely, when you lashed out to protect yourself—these weren’t character flaws but symptoms of never being taught healthy boundary-setting.

9. Your emotional education was neglected

Children don’t inherently know how to identify, process, or express emotions—they need to be taught. If your caregivers dismissed your feelings (“Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about”), punished emotional expression, or were emotionally volatile themselves, you never received this crucial education. Emotional difficulties weren’t your fault; they were the result of emotional neglect.

10. You were dealing with an adult-sized burden with child-sized shoulders

Many children of dysfunctional families become parentified—taking care of siblings, managing household responsibilities, or emotionally supporting adults. If you feel embarrassed about times you failed at these tasks, remember that no child should have been given those responsibilities in the first place. The failure was in the adults who burdened you, not in your inability to carry that weight.

11. You were reacting to trauma, not choosing behavior

What adults may have labeled as “bad behavior” was often trauma response: hypervigilance, dissociation, emotional dysregulation, or fight/flight/freeze/fawn reactions. These weren’t choices; they were your nervous system’s automatic attempts to protect you from perceived threats. Your body was doing exactly what it was designed to do under threat.

The Body’s Response: Shame Lives in Your Physical Self

Shame isn’t just a psychological experience—it lives in your body. As psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk explains in his groundbreaking work “The Body Keeps the Score,” trauma and chronic shame create lasting physical effects:

Somatic Expressions of Chronic Shame

• Immune System Impact: Research from the ACEs (Adverse Childhood Experiences) study shows clear links between childhood trauma and physical health problems in adulthood, including autoimmune disorders and chronic inflammation
• Physical Tension Patterns: Many survivors develop characteristic tension in the neck, shoulders, or gut—physical armor against perceived judgment
• Pain Syndromes: Conditions like fibromyalgia, chronic fatigue, and unexplained pain disorders often have connections to trauma histories
• Your Body’s Alarm System: Shame triggers can send your nervous system into fight/flight/freeze/fawn states, affecting digestion, sleep, and energy levels

These physical manifestations aren’t “all in your head”—they’re real physiological responses to your experiences. The exhaustion Eliana feels when shame hits isn’t just emotional fatigue; it’s her body responding to a perceived threat with the same intensity as if she were facing physical danger.

Understanding this somatic component is crucial because healing often needs to involve both the body and mind. Practices like trauma-informed yoga, somatic experiencing therapy, or even simple grounding exercises can help recalibrate a nervous system stuck in shame response.

Try This: When shame hits, place one hand on your heart and one on your belly. Take three slow breaths while silently saying, “This feeling is old and was never about me. My body is responding to the past, not the present.” Notice any shift in your physical tension as you acknowledge the source of these sensations.

When Shame Has No Memory: Understanding Implicit Trauma

Not all shame comes with a clear memory attached. Sometimes, you might experience sudden waves of overwhelming shame without knowing why—a formless, nameless feeling that you’ve done something terribly wrong or that there’s something fundamentally flawed about you. This is often connected to implicit memory—experiences that were stored in your body and emotional systems before you had the verbal or cognitive capacity to form explicit memories.

These might include:

Pre-verbal Experiences

Some of our most profound shame can originate from our earliest years, before we could form narrative memories. The infant who cried and wasn’t soothed, the toddler whose excitement was repeatedly met with irritation—these experiences don’t become stories we can recall, but they become feelings embedded in our nervous system.

Atmospheric Trauma

Sometimes it wasn’t a specific incident but the persistent atmosphere of your childhood home. If you grew up with a pervasive sense that you were a burden, unwanted, or somehow “too much,” this might not be attached to any particular memory but was communicated through countless subtle interactions.

Body-based Shame

Many survivors experience shame as a purely physical sensation—a hollowness in the chest, a burning face, a desire to disappear—without a connected narrative. This can be your body remembering what your mind cannot explicitly recall.

The Shame of Existing

Perhaps the most profound form is what some therapists call “existence shame”—the deep sense that your very being, your taking up space in the world, is somehow wrong. This rarely connects to specific memories because it wasn’t created by a single event but by a persistent message that your authentic self was unacceptable.

How to Work with Implicit Shame

When shame arises without memory:

• Acknowledge the feeling without demanding a reason. “I’m feeling shame right now. I don’t need to know why to respond with compassion.”
  Attend to the body sensation. Place a hand where you feel the shame in your body. Breathe into that space with gentle awareness.
• Speak to the feeling directly. “This shame was never about me. It was about the environment I was in and the treatment I received. This feeling is old and doesn’t reflect the truth of who I am or who I’ve always been.”
• Create containment. Visualize the feeling as having boundaries—it is a part of your experience, not the totality of who you are. Imagine putting it into a golden bubble and letting it float up to the sky.
• Remember context. Even without specific memories, you can recognize: “These feelings were formed when I was vulnerable and dependent, in circumstances I didn’t choose.”

This formless shame can be the most difficult to address precisely because it lacks a narrative you can reframe. Yet by acknowledging its existence and responding with the same compassion you would offer to your remembered child self, you can gradually create new implicit memories—ones of being met with understanding rather than judgment.

When Children Harm: Understanding and Healing from Your Most Shameful Actions

Among the most painful shame experiences survivors carry are memories of times when, as children, they harmed others—perhaps another child, an animal, or themselves. These memories often carry the heaviest burden of shame because they seem to confirm the deepest fear: “I really was bad.”

A man in his sixties shared that his most persistent shame came from a memory of killing a turtle when he was six years old—an act he has carried as evidence of his inherent badness for over five decades. What he revealed later was that at the time, he was being sexually trafficked by his parents from infancy. This context changes everything about how we understand his childhood action.

The Neurobiology of Re-enactment

When children experience severe trauma, especially ongoing abuse, their developing brains and nervous systems are profoundly impacted. Children who harm others or animals are often:

• Re-enacting their own victimization: Attempting to process overwhelming experiences by shifting from the powerless position to the powerful one
• Responding from a dysregulated nervous system: Acting from fight/flight activation rather than from the higher reasoning centers of the brain
• Expressing unspeakable emotions: Using behavior to communicate feelings they have no words for and no safe person to tell
• Seeking a sense of control: Trying to gain some agency in a life where they have none

The “Identification with the Aggressor” Defense

Psychologists recognize that children sometimes psychologically identify with their abusers as a survival mechanism. This doesn’t mean they become like their abusers in character, but rather that they may temporarily adopt behaviors they’ve experienced as a way of making sense of their trauma or trying to master their fear.

Contextualizing, Not Excusing

Understanding the context of harmful actions you took as a child doesn’t mean excusing them or suggesting they didn’t matter. Rather, it means recognizing that:

• A child acting from trauma is fundamentally different from an adult choosing to harm
• Your actions emerged from your circumstances, not your character
• What you did then reflects what was done to you, not who you inherently are
• Children have extremely limited tools for processing severe trauma

Healing from Your Most Shameful Actions

If you carry shame about something harmful you did as a child:

1. Recognize your complete context. Don’t isolate the behavior from the full circumstances of your childhood. What else was happening to you? What were you being exposed to? What resources for processing emotions were available to you?
2. Apply developmental understanding. Children at different ages have different capacities for impulse control, emotional regulation, empathy, and understanding consequences. Your action needs to be viewed through the lens of your developmental stage at the time.
3. Practice fierce compassion. Imagine watching another child with your exact history do what you did. Would you condemn them as inherently bad, or would you recognize their pain and need for help?
4. Allow for grief alongside shame. Many survivors find that beneath their shame is profound grief—for the animal or person they harmed, but also for the child they were who was so desperate and alone that this action seemed necessary.
5. Consider symbolic amends. While you can’t undo the past, many survivors find healing in making contributions to related causes—supporting animal welfare organizations, child protection agencies, or other efforts that help prevent similar suffering.

Remember: One action, even a harmful one, taken by a traumatized child does not define their character or worth. It is a symptom of their circumstances, not their soul. That child—you—deserved help, not condemnation.

When Good Deeds Feel Shameful: The Paradox of Trauma-Induced Shame

One of the most confusing aspects of shame flashbacks is that they can attach to positive memories as easily as negative ones. Many survivors share the bewildering experience of feeling intense shame when remembering acts of kindness or generosity they performed—organizing charity events, helping others, sharing gifts, or expressing care.

A survivor might recall organizing a care package project for people serving overseas, only to be flooded with embarrassment rather than pride. Another might remember publicly thanking someone who helped them, and feel overwhelming shame at the memory. Despite having done something objectively good, the emotional response is pure, visceral shame.

This happens for several interconnected reasons:

The Distorted Mirror of Visibility

For those raised in environments where being seen was dangerous, memories of being visible—even for positive reasons—can trigger delayed shame responses. While a part of you genuinely wanted to contribute or express care (by organizing the care packages, for example), another part—the protective part shaped by trauma—later responds with alarm: ‘You’ve made yourself visible. You’ve taken up space. This is dangerous.’

This explains the confusing experience of feeling genuinely motivated to do something meaningful, only to be ambushed by shame afterward. The shame isn’t about what you did, but about the perceived danger of having been noticed at all, which might lead to unfair judgement—a danger that was very real in your childhood. Just for existing.

The Contamination of Small Mistakes

When a small mistake or misunderstanding occurs within an otherwise positive action (like stumbling over words during a thank-you speech or forgetting to acknowledge someone important), the trauma brain magnifies this detail until it consumes the entire memory. This is because in abusive environments, tiny imperfections were often used as justification for disproportionate punishment or criticism.

The Discomfort of Positive Regard

Many survivors were conditioned to feel uncomfortable with positive attention or appreciation. If doing good things led to being singled out for praise, and praise was followed by heightened expectations or eventual disappointment, your nervous system might have learned to associate even positive attention with danger. And simultaneously, you may crave affirmation as reassurance against your deepest fears.

The “Who Do You Think You Are?” Effect

In narcissistic family systems, taking initiative often triggered the narcissist’s insecurity. A child demonstrating competence, leadership, or generosity might have been met with comments like “Who do you think you are?” or “Look who thinks they’re so special.” This teaches you that stepping into your power is somehow arrogant or wrong. Societal forces (e.g., school shaming, religious guilt, cultural hierarchies) often compound personal shame, making it harder to unravel. Especially in systems where:

• perfectionism is rewarded,
• self-worth is tied to productivity,
• self-criticism is mistaken for humility.

Healing This Particular Wound

This specific type of shame—shame for good deeds—can be particularly persistent because it’s so irrational, and yet so visceral. Here are approaches that can help:

1. Practice the “Both/And” perspective: “I both made a small mistake AND did something genuinely kind and worthwhile.”
2. Document objective feedback: Keep a record of the actual responses you received for your actions, not just the shame response your brain generated later.
3. Challenge the ownership of shame: When shame arises around a positive memory, ask “Whose voice is this? Who benefits from me feeling ashamed of my kindness?”
4. Reframe visibility: Practice saying “It’s safe for me to be seen doing good things” when these memories arise.
5. Honor your younger self’s courage: Recognize that any act of generosity or leadership requires you to overcome the very conditioning that now generates shame about it.

For many survivors, this shame diminishes over time with healing work, but it can persist for decades. The good news is that recognizing this pattern as a trauma response rather than legitimate shame is itself a significant step toward freedom. Your rational mind recognizing the irrationality of the shame is the beginning of its power diminishing.

Righteous Anger: The Path Through Shame

For many trauma survivors, there’s a crucial emotion that’s often missing in their healing journey: healthy anger. Survivors of narcissistic abuse were frequently punished for showing anger or taught that their anger was inappropriate, selfish, or dangerous. As a result, many survivors skip the anger phase of healing and default to self-blame and shame.

Why Anger Matters in Healing

Righteous anger—anger in response to genuine mistreatment—serves several important functions:

• It establishes boundaries: Anger signals “This treatment is not acceptable”
• It reallocates responsibility: Anger says “This wasn’t my fault; it was wrong what they did”
• It provides energy: Anger can mobilize you out of the paralysis of shame
• It honors your worth: Anger confirms “I deserved better than what I received”

The Shame-Anger Connection

Shame and anger are often two sides of the same coin. What looks like shame (“I’m terrible”) may actually be anger turned inward (“They treated me terribly”) because directing anger outward felt too dangerous in your childhood environment.

Accessing Healthy Anger

If you find yourself drowning in shame about past experiences, try these approaches:

1. Witness your child self: Imagine watching what happened to you happening to another child. What would you feel toward the adults in that scenario?
2. Write an unsent letter: Express all the anger you weren’t allowed to show then. No one needs to see this—it’s about accessing the emotion.
3. Use physical release: Punch pillows, scream in your car, or engage in intense exercise to help move the energy of anger through your body safely.
4. Validate the anger: Tell yourself “I have every right to be angry about how I was treated.”

Remember that healthy anger doesn’t mean acting aggressively or holding onto bitterness—it means acknowledging the natural emotional response to mistreatment as part of your healing process. For many survivors, allowing themselves to feel angry about their mistreatment creates space for the shame to finally begin dissolving.

When Present Becomes Past: Adult Shame Flashbacks

Thus far, we’ve primarily addressed shame related to childhood experiences or memories. But one of the most insidious aspects of trauma-based shame is how it infiltrates your adult experiences, creating new shame flashbacks about current events in your life.

Eliana’s experience at the beginning of this article illustrates this perfectly—her professional triumph triggered a shame response not because she did anything wrong in the present, but because the situation shared elements with past experiences where being visible led to painful consequences.

Why Adult Experiences Trigger Old Shame

Several mechanisms explain why perfectly ordinary—or even positive—adult experiences can trigger profound shame responses:

1. Pattern Recognition Gone Awry

Your brain is constantly scanning for patterns based on past experiences. When it detects elements that share features with earlier trauma (even subtly), it can activate the same emotional and physiological responses:

• A boss’s neutral feedback might trigger the shame response originally connected to a critical parent
• Receiving appreciation might activate the shame originally tied to moments when praise preceded disappointment
• Making a minor mistake might trigger the shame response from when mistakes led to humiliation

2. Emotional Time Travel

Trauma can create what therapists call “emotional flashbacks”—where you emotionally time-travel back to how you felt during traumatic periods, even without specific memories. During these states:

• Your emotional age regresses to how old you felt during the original trauma
• Your perspective narrows to match the limited understanding you had then
• Your body responds with the same physiological stress reaction
• Your beliefs temporarily revert to the negative core beliefs formed then

3. Nervous System Conditioning

Your nervous system developed conditioned responses to certain types of situations. When similar contexts arise in adulthood, your body responds automatically before your conscious mind has time to evaluate the present reality:

• Physical sensations of shame (face flushing, chest tightening, stomach dropping)
• Urges to hide, disappear, or apologize excessively
• Overwhelming fatigue or sudden disconnection from others
• Harsh self-criticism that seems to arise from nowhere

How to Distinguish Healthy Remorse from Trauma-Based Shame

Not all negative feelings about your actions are trauma responses. Healthy adults experience appropriate regret, remorse, and accountability. Here’s how to tell the difference:

Healthy Remorse:

• Is proportional to the actual impact of your actions
• Leads to specific behavioral change and repair
• Passes with time and corrective action
• Feels clean and clear, not toxic and overwhelming
• Focuses on the behavior, not your worth as a person
• Empowers you to do better

Trauma-Based Shame:

• Feels disproportionate and catastrophic
• Leads to global self-condemnation (“I’m terrible”)
• Persists despite evidence or reassurance
• Creates physical symptoms and exhaustion
• Attacks your fundamental worth and right to exist
• Paralyzes rather than motivates change

Breaking the Adult Shame Cycle

When you find yourself experiencing shame about current experiences:

1. Name the time travel: “I’m having an emotional flashback. This overwhelming shame is from my past, not my present. This shame was never truly about me.”
2. Orient to now: Identify specific ways your current situation is different from your childhood—the power you have now, the resources available, the people who support you.
3. Address the younger part: “The part of me feeling this shame is young and scared. That makes sense given my history, but I’m an adult now and can respond differently.”
4. Check external reality: Seek perspective from trusted others about whether your action warrants the intensity of shame you’re feeling. Often, what feels catastrophic to you appears minor to others.
5. Practice exposure with support: Gradually increase your tolerance for situations that trigger shame (like visibility, making mistakes, or receiving praise) while maintaining compassion for your responses.

Remember that these adult shame flashbacks are aftershocks—they don’t reflect your current reality but rather the continued reverberation of past events through your nervous system. With practice, you can learn to recognize them as such, reducing their power to define your present experience.

When Shame Feels Protective: Why We Resist Letting Go

One of the most surprising aspects of healing from shame is encountering our own resistance to letting it go. Even as the rational mind understands that these shame responses are irrational and harmful, a deeper part often clings to shame as if it were vital for survival. This isn’t a failure of healing—it’s a normal part of the process that needs to be approached with understanding.

How Shame Became a Protection Strategy

In trauma-informed approaches like Internal Family Systems (IFS), these resistant parts are understood as “protectors” that developed for good reasons. Your shame response may have originally served essential functions:

• Prevention of further harm: “If I feel ashamed enough, I’ll prevent myself from ever taking a risk that could lead to criticism.”
• Connection maintenance: “Feeling shame when I stand out keeps me from threatening relationships with caregivers who were threatened by my achievements.”
• Identity coherence: “This shame has been with me so long that it feels like part of who I am—who would I be without it?”
• Moral compass: “My shame proves I care about doing the right thing and prevents me from making mistakes.”
• Control illusion: “If I blame and shame myself, I maintain the illusion that I could have controlled what happened to me.”

Signs You’re Resisting Shame Release

You might be experiencing protective resistance if you notice:

• Intellectually understanding shame concepts but not feeling any emotional shift
• Finding yourself arguing with supportive messages (“That’s not true in my case”)
• Physical tension when trying shame-release exercises
• Feeling anxious or unsafe when imagining life without shame
• Worrying that without shame, you’d become selfish or careless

Building a Relationship with Your Protective Shame

Rather than fighting against this resistance, try approaching it with curiosity:

1. Acknowledge the protective intent: “I understand this shame feels necessary for my safety or identity.”
2. Dialoguing with shame: Ask your shame, “What are you afraid would happen if you weren’t here?” Listen for the answer without judgment.
3. Gradual release negotiation: “What would you need to feel safe enough to let me feel less shame in just one specific situation?”
4. Establish new protections: “Instead of shame, I can use discernment, boundaries, and values to guide my actions.”
5. Honor the service: “Thank you for trying to protect me all these years when I had few other resources.”

Building this relationship with your protective “shame parts” creates space for them to trust that you’ll remain safe as you gradually release their grip on your life. This is definitely not something to “power through.” This approach honors the wisdom of your whole self—including the parts that developed these strategies in response to genuinely difficult circumstances.

Breaking Free: Moving Beyond Childhood Shame

Understanding intellectually that you shouldn’t feel embarrassed about your childhood self is one thing. Actually releasing that shame is another. Here are some practices that can help transform these painful shame flashbacks:

Recognize the Flashback

When a memory ambushes you and that wave of shame hits, name what’s happening: “This is a shame flashback. This is my past, not my present.” Simply recognizing the process can help break its power.

Meet Your Younger Self with Compassion

When a memory surfaces, try this exercise: Visualize yourself at that age, in that moment. Now approach this child as the adult you are today. What would you say to them? How would you comfort them? Would you judge them harshly, or would you offer understanding? Practice directing the compassion you’d show to any vulnerable child toward your own younger self.

Challenge the Shame Narrative

For each memory that brings shame, ask yourself:

• What did I believe this said about me as a person?
• Who taught me to interpret it this way?
• How would I interpret this same behavior in a child I love?
• What context or understanding am I missing from my adult perspective?

Create a Reparative Witness

Many shame flashbacks persist because your child self needed a protective, supportive adult who wasn’t there. Now, you can be that person. When memories arise, practice saying (either silently or aloud): “I see you. This wasn’t your fault. You were doing your best. I’m here now.”

Practice Physical Grounding

Shame flashbacks often trigger the body’s stress response. When one hits, try:

• Placing a hand on your heart and one on your stomach
• Feeling your feet firmly on the ground
• Taking five slow, deep breaths
• Naming five things you can see in your present environment

This helps return your nervous system to the present, where you are safe.

Share Selectively

Shame thrives in isolation. Consider sharing your experience with a trusted person or trauma-informed therapist. Often, speaking our shame aloud in a safe space can diminish its power.

Develop a Mantra

Create a brief phrase you can repeat when shame flashbacks occur: “That was then, this is now.” “I was a child doing my best.” “I release all shame that was never about me, and isn’t mine to carry.”

The Self-Compassion Hurdle: When Kindness Feels Wrong

For many survivors, one of the most challenging aspects of healing is the practice of self-compassion. Despite intellectually understanding the concepts we’ve discussed, you might find that treating yourself with kindness feels:

• Fake or inauthentic
• Undeserved or unearned
• Selfish or self-indulgent
• Vulnerable or dangerous
• Foreign or uncomfortable

This resistance isn’t a character flaw or a sign that you’re “doing it wrong”—it’s a natural response when self-criticism was either modeled to you or became a survival strategy.

Why Self-Compassion Feels Threatening

According to self-compassion researcher Dr. Kristin Neff, there are several reasons why survivors struggle with self-kindness:

1. Familiarity with criticism: Harsh self-judgment feels normal because it mimics how you were treated
2. The drive for control: Self-criticism creates the illusion that you can prevent future mistakes or rejection
3. Identity concerns: If self-criticism has been part of your identity, compassion can feel like losing yourself
4. Misunderstanding compassion: Many survivors confuse self-compassion with self-pity or letting yourself “off the hook”
5. Fear of vulnerability: Self-compassion requires acknowledging pain, which can feel frightening

Easing Into Self-Compassion

Rather than forcing self-compassion (which often increases resistance), try these gentler approaches:

• Start with compassion for others: Practice kindness toward others, then toward your younger self, before attempting it for your current self
• Use the “good friend” perspective: Ask what you would say to a dear friend in your situation
• Begin with permission: “I’m allowed to be kind to myself about this specific thing”
• Acknowledge the discomfort: “It feels strange to be kind to myself, and that’s okay”
• Try physical self-compassion: A gentle hand on your heart can convey kindness even when words feel impossible
• Start with neutrality: If kindness feels impossible, begin with “I don’t have to condemn myself for this”

Remember that self-compassion is a skill that develops with practice. The discomfort you feel is not evidence that you’re undeserving of kindness—it’s evidence of how deeply you were taught that you were undeserving. And that teaching was wrong.

Rebuilding Your Foundation: Long-Term Healing from Shame

Returning to our earthquake metaphor, healing from chronic shame isn’t about pretending the damage never happened. It’s about carefully assessing the structural damage to your foundation and systematically reinforcing it to withstand future aftershocks.

Understanding Structural Damage

Just as structural engineers assess buildings after earthquakes, trauma-informed therapy helps identify where your psychological foundation has been compromised:

• Connection circuits: Your brain’s capacity for safe relationships
• Regulation systems: Your nervous system’s ability to maintain equilibrium
• Identity structures: Your core beliefs about yourself and your worth
• Agency architecture: Your sense of control and efficacy in your life

The Rebuilding Process

Healing involves reinforcing these damaged areas:

1. Foundation stabilization: Developing basic emotional regulation skills and safety practices
2. Structural assessment: Identifying the core beliefs and nervous system patterns that were damaged
3. Reinforcement: Gradually introducing new experiences and perspectives that strengthen your capacity to withstand shame triggers
4. Architectural upgrades: Building new response patterns that allow you to respond to shame triggers with compassion rather than collapse
5. Regular maintenance: Ongoing practices that continue to strengthen your resilience and self-relationship

Living in a Rebuilt Structure

A fully retrofitted building doesn’t look damaged anymore, but it has been fundamentally changed by the experience of the earthquake. Similarly, healing from chronic shame doesn’t mean returning to some imagined state of “never having been traumatized.” Instead, it means:

• You recognize aftershocks when they happen, but they no longer destabilize your whole structure
• Your foundation has been reinforced with compassion and understanding
• You’ve built beautiful new rooms in your life that weren’t part of the original blueprint
• You understand the engineering of trauma in a way that helps you support others
• You appreciate the resilience of your structure in a way others might never understand

This is why many survivors, once sufficiently healed, speak of being grateful for aspects of their journey—not for the original earthquake, but for the person they became through the process of rebuilding.

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

Photo Credit: Author, Substack

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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.

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

Do I tell my parents?
Do they deserve to know what happened to me?
Would they believe me?
Would they hold it with care, or would it break me all over again?

If you’re here, standing in that in-between place, you’re not alone. This is one of the hardest crossroads survivors face. For some, the decision feels clear. For others, like me, it’s layered and ongoing.

Sometimes the abuse happened under your parents’ roof.
Sometimes it was hidden in plain sight.
And sometimes, you don’t even know if they know.

You might find yourself circling questions like:

• Do I owe them this truth?
• Will it bring healing or harm?
• What if they can’t hold it? What if they say the wrong thing, or nothing at all?
• What if I speak it and everything changes—or worse, nothing does?

The truth is, sharing your story with a parent is not required for healing. It is a choice. And like all sacred choices, it deserves time, care, and safety.

Ask Yourself These Questions First

Before deciding to disclose, here are a few grounding questions to sit with:

1. Why do I want to share this?
Is it for connection? Clarity? Validation? To reclaim power? To draw a boundary?
There is no wrong reason, but knowing your why can anchor you.

2. What do I hope will happen? What do I fear might happen?
Give yourself permission to answer both. Hope and fear can live side by side.

3. Have I processed this enough to hold steady if their response is hurtful, shocked, or dismissive?
If not, that’s okay. It may not be time yet.

4. Do I have support ready, a friend, therapist, or coach to debrief with afterward?
You are not meant to carry this alone, no matter how strong you are.

If You Do Choose to Share, Prepare Yourself First

Here are a few things that can help:

• Write down what you want to say.
  It can be a letter, a few bullet points, or a full narrative. Organizing your thoughts helps you stay grounded.
• Practice.
  Talk it through with someone you trust. Let your nervous system rehearse what it feels like to be witnessed.
• Set boundaries before the conversation.
  Say things like, “I just need you to listen right now,” or “I’m not looking for advice or debate.”
• Prepare for all outcomes.
  They may meet you with compassion, or they may not. Your truth is still valid.
• Have a plan for how to step away if needed.
  If things get overwhelming, you get to pause, end, or redirect the conversation.

And If You Decide Not to Tell Them? That’s Valid Too.

You do not owe anyone your story. Not even your family.

You can be deeply healing and wildly brave without ever telling your parents what happened.

Not telling doesn’t mean you’re hiding. It means you are choosing what is safest, kindest, and most aligned for you right now.

And if your answer changes later? That’s okay. This journey is not linear.

Final Thoughts

This part of your story, the telling, the not telling, the wondering, still belongs to you.

You don’t have to rush. You don’t need anyone’s permission. You get to honor your truth in whatever way feels right. You are not broken. You are becoming. And that is powerful.

As for me, I still haven’t shared my story with my parents.
They can’t even hold my warm memories without minimizing them, so I’ve chosen not to interrupt my peace just to be met with silence or dismissal. I may never get the response I would hope for, and that’s a grief I’ve learned to hold gently. For now, protecting my healing matters more than being understood by people who never truly saw me.

And maybe that’s the bravest choice of all.

Photo by Ioann-Mark Kuznietsov 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.

But the grief is still there. Quiet. Confusing. All-consuming. It lingers in the silence. It whispers in the questions. It pulses through the ache of “what could have been” and “what should have been.” And the hardest part? Much of this grief doesn’t have a clear source, an ending, or even a name.

This kind of grief is often called ambiguous loss. It’s what Dr. Pauline Boss describes as a loss that’s unclear, without closure. For those of us healing from complex trauma and childhood abuse, ambiguous loss is everywhere. We grieve things that are hard to define, like the version of ourselves we never got to be, the family we pretended we had, or the safety we told ourselves existed. It’s the pain of losing something that may not have ever truly been there.

There’s the grief of the childhood you didn’t get. Maybe you’ve spent years trying to convince yourself it “wasn’t that bad” or that others “had it worse.” But at some point, in healing, you start to see the cracks. You begin to understand what should have been. You realize that while other kids were being nurtured, protected, and celebrated, you were surviving. That grief runs deep. It’s mourning the little you who was robbed of joy and innocence, without ever realizing it at the time.

Then there’s the grief of the dreams you used to have. Maybe you imagined a life full of love, or a version of success that made it all feel worth it. And now? Now you’re sorting through the wreckage of expectations that were built on survival. You’re letting go of the hope that healing would look a certain way, or that life would one day “make sense.” The grief of unmet dreams isn’t dramatic or cinematic. It’s often quiet. A slow unraveling. A daily reckoning with reality.

And finally, there’s the grief of rebuilding. Starting over, not from scratch, but from scar tissue. Piecing together a new identity after realizing the one you had was shaped by trauma. There’s grief in that too. Grief in the loss of illusion. In the loneliness of transformation. In the deep fatigue that comes from carrying your story and choosing to heal anyway.

So, how do we heal grief like this?

First, we name it. You can’t grieve what you haven’t acknowledged. Maybe it feels silly to mourn something that “wasn’t real” but your body remembers the absence. Your heart knows what it needed and didn’t get. Naming that loss validates it.

Then, we give ourselves permission to mourn. Really mourn. Cry, write, rage, go quiet. There’s no right way to grieve. No rule book. Grief is not a problem to solve. It’s a process to move through with care.

Ritual can help too. It might feel awkward at first, but creating space to honor what’s been lost matters. Light a candle for your inner child. Write a goodbye letter to the version of you that stayed silent. Say out loud the dream you thought would save you. It doesn’t need to be grand. It just needs to be honest.

As we grieve, we start to reimagine who we are becoming. This part is slow and fragile and fierce all at once. We learn to build an identity rooted in truth, not survival. We stop asking who others want us to be and begin asking, “Who do I want to become now?”

And maybe most importantly, we find others who get it. The kind of grief that comes with trauma is lonely. But it doesn’t have to stay that way. When we share our stories, something shifts. We are no longer invisible. We are seen. And when we’re seen, we heal a little more.

Grief isn’t always loud. Sometimes it shows up as exhaustion. Or numbness. Or the quiet ache of realizing that the past cannot be changed, but the future is still yours to shape.

If you are grieving a childhood, you never got…
If you are mourning a dream that never came true…
If you are piecing your life back together, one scarred fragment at a time…

You’re not broken. You’re in process. And that, dear friend, is brave, meaningful work.

A Personal Note:
I didn’t fully understand this kind of grief until I was in it. Until I found myself mourning things I couldn’t even name. If you’re in that space too, I just want you to know that you are not alone. This isn’t the kind of grief most people talk about, but it’s real. And it deserves tenderness. You are worthy of healing, of rebuilding, and of a life that feels like it finally belongs to you. Take your time. Hold your heart gently. You’re doing work that matters.

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.

What people don’t understand is how exhausting healing actually is. We have to face many demons. Often revisiting painful memories and emotions. Tapping into things we have done and are ashamed of. It requires immense courage to confront these aspects of ourselves, and a lot of self-reflection.

It can often be difficult to do because when we have moments of dissociation, it’s as if our brains go offline. For me, I didn’t want to be in my own body. Looking at myself reminded me of the abuse. Seeing my reflection in the mirror, all I saw was a stranger looking back. Someone I couldn’t connect with or understand. Someone I didn’t want to even exist.

There is so much work that goes into the concept of finding it acceptable to exist exactly how we are. To take up space and to make noise. It takes active practice and it is a lot of work.

I wish for so much change

I strive to be a lighthouse and shine my own light. To be the change I wish I saw in the world I grew up in. I try to show as much kindness as possible because growing up I wasn’t shown it by my abuser. I have learned that compassion can heal wounds that seemed impossible to mend. By extending empathy to others, but it’s hard when we aren’t given it in return. It takes a lot to understand that people can only meet you where they are capable of doing so.

It took me a while to realize that focusing on things I can’t control saps my energy to focus on things I can. But I still have moments where I forget and go into full-blown control mode. It’s a survival instinct where being in control prepares me for anything that may harm me. But it’s not sustainable. I have carried the weight of the world on my shoulders due to my trauma for decades, and I am tired of feeling so heavy.

I’ve been learning to let go, to release the burden, and to find peace within myself. But I know it doesn’t go away overnight. I often wish I wasn’t abused. That I had a normal childhood. But I was, and I didn’t. These were the cards that life dealt me, and all I can do is make amends for the things I have done in my past, learn to forgive myself, and continue working on my self-acceptance.

Making peace with ourselves takes time.

Our minds are programmed to pay attention to the problem, and anxiety and trauma make that even more pronounced. I have had a lot of difficulty reconciling that I cannot fix everything, and that’s okay.

On my healing journey, I have learned just how sensitive I am to the world and the people around me. The actions and the words said by others. Removing the barrier I had to protect myself has opened me up to a lot of emotional turmoil. I went through a long period of not feeling anything in particular about my trauma, and now that I have been unpacking and dealing with strong, unresolved issues that have been stuffed very deep down, it often makes me question everything I knew.

While healing, we deal with a form of intense grief, and what helps is strong emotional bonds. But sometimes those bonds are broken, and it makes things more difficult because, in a way, more grief sets in. It’s like being on a merry-go-round, and round and round we go. In some instances, it can even feel like chronic emotional pain.

Having cPTSD means calm environments equal inner chaos and chaotic environments equal inner calmness, or it helps drown out the turmoil we have inside our heads. When we feel calm and safe, it can often feel too much. We have a habit of gravitating towards chaos and stress because it feels like home. It’s unlearning that pattern that requires a lot of patience and understanding.

It’s all a process, and I am learning to make peace with myself. To endure all the darkness so I can find the light and be my own lighthouse. I am deep in healing, and I was never prepared for just how hard it actually is.

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.

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You’re Not Alone

The GRACE Model

• Tracing the Family Dynamic
• The Necessity of Self-Care
• Exploring Narcissistic Abuse
• Gaslighting
• Trauma-Bonding
• The Loss of a Living Child

Even now, I miss you with a fierceness that makes me want to jump into the afterlife and beat the crap out of you for leaving

Rational? No.

No, but if there is one thing I’ve learned, grief isn’t rational or delicate. It’s snot-slinging, messy, headache and heartache, forgetting to eat, not caring about anything through a painful moment of years that binds trauma and emotions to… well, everything.

When the cancer was first diagnosed, I felt like it was a big joke; someone would jump out from behind the proverbial curtain and say, “Ha! Just kidding. I won’t take her. She’s too precious to many people. Her light can’t be dimmed. It’s just the way it is. She is so much more than this stupid disease.”

Watching you waste away eight years ago with double pneumonia — as a result of chemo — and on a ventilator made no sense. Four days after you got off the ventilator, my family moved across the country. I will never forget standing in your parents’ driveway, tears streaming down both of us, your Dad and my son, prying our grasping arms apart from each other.

And then you beat it.

After watching the chemo almost take you first, a clean bill of health seemed like a win that could be revoked at any second. We celebrated quietly at first, like oh, don’t get comfortable here, but as time went on, we became more and more set in the space of “it’s gone,” we can relax.

And we did. Little did we realize the clock was still ticking.

We returned to being the best kind of besties: supportive, loving, you-are-my-person besties. We took vacations together, made the trek across the country to visit, talked, and texted all the time, and each time we saw each other, it was as if no time had passed; we knew all was right with our world. When one had a work issue, or a friend issue, or a boy issue, any issue, it was worked through by communicating to that one person who was so completely safe and protective. It was just that way with us from the minute we met decades ago.

The parking lot was pretty full, I’d never eaten here, but meeting friends for a coffee, late 90’s time-frame. Unfolding from the car, stretching after a long drive, the first weekend ever where I left my kids with my mother-in-law, and while I was nervous, I knew I needed a break. Walking in, the bored hostess greeted me, and I waved past her as I saw my group sitting in a cracked booth. I walked up, enveloped in hugs, and saw a woman smiling at me. Something energetic and profound passed between us. I sat across from her, and we introduced ourselves. It was like a cheesy romance novel only on a bestie plane: we instantly connected, and those bonds never faded. I can still see your smile and hear your laughter.

It’s strange as I sift through the thousands of memories of your ready smile, warm hugs, and generous heart that when we met through mutual friends all those years ago, it was like no one else existed. We sat at the table at a coffee and donuts place and felt like we had come home.

You used to say frequently that we would outlive the men in our lives and be little old ladies, cussing up a storm, sitting on the porch in rockers at night, looking out at the mountains, cackling at the stars over inside jokes.

Remember that time when I was heartbroken because my ex cheated, leaving me with two little ones to raise, and you were ready to commit murder and instead opted to concoct a plan to put cranberry juice in the gas tank of his motorcycle? And, when we got to the house where he was living with my ex-friend, we suddenly couldn’t do it, the dictates of your sobriety, decades strong, said “Turn around and think about this.” And you said, “Dammit! I’d have to make amends.” I recovered, of course, from that broken heart with your support, but I love that story because it’s the crux of who you were. Even though you were so angry and protective and watching me barely hold it together, you couldn’t harm him. You held me as I sobbed, and you said, “There is life after him.” Once again, you were right.

When my Mom died by suicide, when your ex also cheated when your Dad passed, when I went back to school in my 40s and started on a new career trajectory, when we lost multiple fur babies, when other friends faded, when when, when… We’ve been together through all the barbed wire, high-tree-sitting, confrontational, horrifying, appalling, bloody, joyous, traumatic, complex moments, years, and lifetimes for and with each other.

When I needed to sober up after my mom died, you told me that I was skating on the edge of the pond and pretty soon I was going to fall through the ice and that if I didn’t stop it, I stood to lose everything I’d worked for. You walked through the insanity of early recovery, helped me, bit your tongue, and never gave up on me. Every year on my dry date, you would blow up my phone, badly sing “Happy Birthday,” and say, “I’m so proud of you.”

You would remember, even when I would forget and judge myself, how hard it was for me as a child growing up in the dysfunction and abuse. When my career turned in this direction to help others, you were my biggest cheerleader and support. When you decided to quit corporate and work with animals, we walked through what that looked like, and I held your hand and sat in fear. You were so freaking strong, and you didn’t always know it. I told you every chance I got.

You had this amazing humility and humor. You were there for and with my kids every birthday, every milestone, and every hug. One Christmas Eve when they were little and my son was worried that Santa wouldn’t be able to get to our Christmas tree because we didn’t have a fireplace, you stood outside their bedroom window and rang bells on a freezing cold night, and when they didn’t wake up to hear them but snored through it, you kept ringing those bells until you were frozen through. We laughed and put baby powder and boot prints on the floor next to the laundry chute to simulate Santa stomping around: “Plan B,” you said.

Our master plan was this: my son finishes college and we move to the mountains, have houses next door to each other, and we live out our days, you helping animals and me helping other developmental trauma survivors. We hike and bike and see live music. Dance with our hearts. “That’s my Bestie!” you would always chime. We were two halves of the same whole.

My heart is heavy with my pain. There are so many layers, complicated, nuanced, HARD pieces, and I’ve barely scratched the surface. All the people you touched in your sobriety and helped on that journey. All the families whose beloved fur babies you helped transition. All the goofy things we did, all the laughter. Your joy when I talked you into kayaking the first time, and you loved it, just like I do, skimming the surface of the water, splashing me, your laughter echoing and racing away. Those moments were the best.

How many times did we hike mountains in Colorado, on vacation from our lives? Standing on the peak, knowing all was right in the world just because we were each other’s foundation. You would always joke and say it was too bad we were heterosexual, as we would have been the most amazing couple. I would respond that we were in love with each other’s souls.

That isn’t to say we didn’t argue; we most certainly did. When you have two stubborn, independent women who may get stuck in an agenda, it happens. The great thing about it, though, was that after a time out, we would come back and talk it out, usually ending up teasing each other and laughing.

In October of last year, when I was super-stressed with work and had taken on too much, you said, “Okay, that’s it. I’m getting on a flight: my Bestie is too stressed.” You came for five days, and it was like it always was. Little did we know it would be the last time you would feel good. You got back and had a scan, and they found a tumor next to your spine. You would never call my phone during the work day, so my heart dropped to my feet when it rang.

It was back. It progressed and raged like a forest fire through your body.

After getting a call from your oncologist nurse on a Wednesday in early December, saying you were having brain surgery on Friday and that your spinal fluid was filled with cancer cells and saturating your brain, I caught a flight on Friday. I walked into the hospital room Saturday morning with my son. You opened your eyes and said “Hi,” like we had just seen you the day before, and then you realized you hadn’t. With a squeak, you held out your hands, gripping my cold ones, and tears rolled from your beautiful brown eyes.

After seeing you in December, after the brain surgery, when the doctors said you couldn’t beat this, after my denial period was over, my inner mantra very quickly became “Please take her sooner rather than later, she’s suffering so much.” It’s beyond painful to watch someone you love, now a shell of their former vibrant self tormented in physical misery.

In January, we went up to see you again.

You were so skinny. Everything hurt and it was hard for you to hold a conversation, you’d fade in and out. I sat by your bed and held your hand, fed you, and brushed your teeth while I talked endlessly about our lives, how entwined we were, and how much love we had.

The powerlessness I felt watching you navigate the cancer, the pain you were in, the harsh drugs, and all of the bi-products of pouring poison into the body will forever be etched on my heart. Holding your head up so you could take a sip of water, you said once, “You didn’t sign up for this,” and I said, “Yes, I did.” Didn’t matter what was needed, whatever light and love I could give you, it was my honor to do it.

Your humor never left. At one point, someone passed gas, and you opened one eye and said, “Ewww… whoever did that needs a toilet.” My son and I cracked up and I heard your laughter one last time.

Leaving to come home from that trip was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, knowing that I wouldn’t be back before you passed.

You slipped away peacefully in your sleep; we weren’t there with you, and I know you wanted that—a beautiful butterfly flitting into the next realm.

When our important people pass, it feels like the world should stop and take a moment, but that doesn’t happen. People get up, go to work, write articles, and live their lives. Part of me just wanted to yell, “STOP! You don’t get it, she’s gone; how does this thing called life even work now?”

My pain comes in waves: it’s tangible, suffocating, and overwhelming. And yet, I would do it all again, knowing the outcome. I wouldn’t give up one second of being your Bestie. I will be immobile in my heart, trying to shake off the concrete shoes of this grief for a long time.

That’s okay. It sucks to feel this way, to miss you so much. I can’t breathe sometimes, and I honor that in myself. It means I’ve loved with my whole heart, and unexpected love is such a rare, true gift.

So! Bestie, if you are listening today, know I’m continuing with our plan, moving to the mountains, and helping others. My son is graduating college this year and is coming with me. I’m fulfilling our dream.

It doesn’t mean it’s easy to go on without you. You imprinted yourself upon me in a way no other relationship ever has. Your unwavering courage in the face of such a horrible disease and treatment is a lesson I will never take for granted. Missing you — missing us — is part of my heartbeat today.

But you’d be the first to say, “You have to keep going, move on, take our dream, and run with it. Keep helping others, staying authentic, bring yourself to the table, no matter whose table you are eating at.”

So I am. Some days are easier than others. Grief has a way of expanding your soul to encompass the intensity and break down any barriers and expectations you think you have as a human being.

I’ll see you on the hikes, Bestie, and around the porch in the evenings.

There was no blood, just a strong gas smell from the lawnmower. A tarp is placed strategically on the concrete floor. Maybe it was covering up the blood? But she was lying on top of it. Where was the blood where?! The gun was next to her stiff form; her fingers curled up grotesquely, sparkly rings flashing merrily in the artificial light, but no blood. I could just see her face, frozen in her last moments; her makeup looked painted on. The magenta fabric bunched up in derisive ruffles. The air was so heavy in the room and oppressive as if it were July instead of October. I could smell the taint of something rancid, and when I realized it was my own vomit on my favorite pair of shoes, I felt surprised, shocked even because I didn’t remember throwing up.

Once upon a time, a little girl tried to be everything her Mama wanted her to be: perfect in her dresses, pristine, and calm. But she could never get it right. She was always making mistakes, climbing a tree and ripping her dress or laughing too loud.

Her Mama said she had to be punished, and so it began…a cycle of emotional, physical, and narcissistic abuse that would last her whole life until her Mama decided she’d had enough of this world and ended it all one rainy night.

After the final act is completed, there are so many questions, so much grief, so much shame, could I have done more, how did I not see it had escalated to this? Did I see it and ignore the signs? What kind of monster am I not to save her? I didn’t know how to feel; she was so abusive, but she was my Mom.

So many unanswered loops played on auto-repeat. The grief when an abuser dies is unlike any other. There is a missing, but not of the person; more of a core knowledge of any chance for repair is completely obliterated. I didn’t know how to feel, and what I felt seemed false and wrong.

For me, my Mom’s suicide was the culmination of years of enduring painful emotional abuse and narcissism. She lived her life like a steamroller, flattening anyone in her path who got in her way, including her children and especially her daughter.

The trauma of her suicide was two-fold: the actual event of the shooting and the subsequent love-hate shame & grief bind, which fractured my hard-earned sense of self.

I wanted to say so many things. Everything was trapped inside, within a voiceless soul. Why wouldn’t you get help? The shame was magnified by the realization that my life was easier with her gone. Then there was the shame of why I hadn’t acted more strongly, forcing her to get evaluated. Was it my fault? Layer upon layer of blame, grief, shame, and hurt.

Breathe. In. Out. Feel your lungs expand and hold. The walls aren’t really closing in. Breathe slowly out as if you are exhaling through a straw. The heavy weight of the stares of the other people in the room watching you fall apart, they don’t matter. It’s okay. At least they aren’t mocking you, right? That’s what she did when someone was suffering. Maybe they think it’s my fault too. I still can’t see any blood, but I do see the gun shot wound, it’s smaller than I think it should be. I mean, if it takes someone from alive one minute to dead the next, shouldn’t it be huge, a monumental hole that took life away?

People act differently with suicide. Plastic pauses and judgment. Human beings want to be able to help someone in heavy grief, and when it’s natural causes, there is nothing that really can be said to comfort them, but they try.

When someone dies by suicide, there are lots of side-eye glances, statements of ‘I don’t know what to say,’ which is actually better than people who say, ‘well at least she’s out of pain now,’ or ‘she’s in a better place.’

Those statements from well-meaning friends and family slew my rawness. How could suicide be better than staying here and dealing with your trauma, shame, and pain? Why are we so afraid to say, ‘I’m messed up?’ We would rather take the most drastic action of suicide, rather than face our own emotional chaos.

As sick and dysfunctional as it was, I realized in a frozen moment of time that I had no one. I began to sleep less, drink more, and work harder not to feel my feelings. I was still a Mom, even though I didn’t have one. I had to work and support and smile through homework questions and teeth-brushing. The tremendous weight of the loss was a dark cloak that shifted my lens of perspective from I’m working to be the better version of me to Nothing matters anymore, my hope was stripped away, and I was, once again, invisible.

It was a total reset, as I had spent two decades finding my voice and working in therapy, several stints of EMDR, and reading books on emotional, physical, and narcissistic abuse, but none of the healing I had worked so hard on seemed evident anymore. Traumas revitalized, and I was on top of the roller coaster again.

Oh god, I woke myself up again screaming and crying; the nightmares are so vivid. Drowning in the sheets, someone is dragging hot pokers across my whimpering skin, I can’t stop shaking, panting. Just a dream, not real. It’s the same one, I’m standing in the garage and she stands up, holding her bright blouse to her chest and saying, it’s your fault, you did this to me. I try to talk, scream, yell, but I can’t. I put my fingers on my lips, except I have no mouth, nothing to open to let the words escape. I sink to my knees and onto the frigid floor as she stands over me laughing…you will never forget now, will you, she says. She is right.

I was at ground zero, everything I had learned didn’t apply because every day the loop was on repeat: I let my Mom die. The sound of my heart breaking was not actually a sonic boom, it was more like a gentle plink of glass splintering, the devastating cracks created gaping holes.

The services were a joke. These people didn’t know her, crying and sobbing about what a beautiful, loving person she was. What a crock. She was mean and foul on a good day. She only acted like she loved you when she wanted something. I held my son on my lap, and my daughter clung to my hand. Never would I do this to them. They didn’t even know her; she hadn’t wanted to spend time with them when she was alive. How could she do it? She wrote my name and number on a Post-it note and left it on the kitchen table before calling 911. I listened to the tape of her call, she sounded so calm, detached. Her decision was final.

During the years of heavy grief and shame, my heart felt awkward in my chest. Its shriveled form sharply didn’t fit anymore. Grief is hard enough to navigate when you love someone who passes. In the death event of your biggest abuser, the grief is so complicated and murky that you can feel like you are literally drowning in emotions.

Fragments of shame, loss, and bleakness filled my heart and mind. I truly felt I was responsible. Her suicide had made the already long struggle of dealing with my abuse into a vast and empty wasteland where nothing ever felt right. I missed her, I didn’t. I hated her for how she had treated me, but I loved her and wanted her love. It was a spiraling quagmire of despair, laden with questioning my worth with no end in sight, and the vision of her lying on the cold concrete was bleached into my mind.

She loved the holidays. Our house always looked like something out of a Christmas card, with carols playing in the background. She wrapped up empty presents and placed them under the tree with care. Once, when my son was little, and we were invited over, he saw them and yelled, ‘Santa came!’ and took off running. She screamed at him to stop and I’ll never forget the look on his face, the beautiful, kissable cheeks as tears welled up in his eyes, I don’t think anyone had ever screamed at him like that before. She said, ‘The presents are empty, they are just for show, get away from them!’ We stared at her, and all I could think was what a metaphor for her life.

I had someone say to me once, almost a year after it happened, you just have to let it go. It happened; how long are you going to hold onto it? I was enraged. How can you judge when you haven’t walked in my shoes? I didn’t have an answer; I just knew that if anything were going to change, it would not be on a timeline I could dictate. I was so tired of feeling like I had the wrong emotions.

People start to steer clear of you when you have grieved for ‘too long.’ Shame surfaced again and again, as I couldn’t just ‘get over it,’ I knew it was more than just her death; it was also the chaos and pain because of a million unresolved splinters of trauma from my childhood, as well as her final act. I kept asking my therapist, how do I not go under with this? How do I survive? Her answer is one foot in front of the other, and when you can’t move anymore, stop for the day. It will take time, but you will survive. You have all along.

It was a joke, I think. Not sure who I was listening to or if I caught part, as I was back to dissociating constantly. It’s one of those not-really-funny moments that just seem so funny. Someone said a play on words, maybe a cheese pun and I felt it in my chest, a little flutter and it was directly connected to my face, it had to have been, because I smiled. I smiled a real smile for the first time in I don’t know how long. Thought rushed in, the shame roared instantly, do I deserve to smile? My inner critic said no. My kind inner coach, who was growing louder all the time due to my therapist, who kept pounding home that this wasn’t my fault, said YES.

Today, as I reflect back, I can’t pinpoint exactly when I laughed again or didn’t end the day in tears. I just know that a little burbling of laughter bubbled up one day. It was unexpected, and I felt like I wanted to turn around and say who did that? Who made that sound?

And it was me.

The healing started to glimmer through the fissures in my heart in fits and starts. I began to heal through other people who cared, held space with me, saw me, and didn’t walk away when I couldn’t ‘just let go.’ My beautiful, shattered heart began to beat again.

Healing after the loss was agonizingly slow. Watching the rest of the world continue on felt unfair. I would look at others talking about their problems and feel angry—what does this matter? Don’t you know how fast it can all go? Why are you worrying about trivial things?

The healing of a grief & shame bind is complicated, there are a million moments when sadness overwhelms and shame rushes to the surface. Navigating the rocky terrain, holding onto hope when you have none, and just going through the motions of daily life feels so futile. It feels wrong somehow, to still be standing, breathing, functioning, in the face of such despair.

As I kept trudging the long road of mending a fragmented heart, regulating my nervous system, which was in a state of constant hypervigilance, and learning to love myself, relief from the pain was incremental. It was minute pieces at a time; my inner critic was loud, demanding, and boisterous.

I would stop when my head was spinning, look at the thoughts, and say, ‘That is a lie and not who I am.’ Little shifts were happening inside of me when I would have success, even if no one else termed it as that. I would smile inwardly and feel my heart expand. Sometimes, I could take a deep breath. I got a taste of empowerment and wanted more. My strength was starting to shiver up through the cracks in my heart, and the darkness was slowly receding.

I planted tulips for years in the fall, around the anniversary of her death. They were a tribute to a life unfulfilled, mental illness, and hope. They were a celebration of mine, and I survived. They are such happy flowers, the bright colors resonating. I hope she is at peace.

I wasn’t to blame for her choices or her undiagnosed mental illness. There was no shame in not being the perfect daughter of a narcissist. The thought is laughable, I could never have lived up to her ever-changing expectations of perfection. I wasn’t alone, even though I felt alone. I mattered, even when it didn’t occur to me to think I should. The grief was overwhelming until it released a little at a time. The shame could tank me, take me down for days.

Today, I think of my Mom and feel sadness for her, the nature of her mental illness, a never-ending whirl of emotions. I feel sadness for myself, too; I couldn’t have done it any differently than I did, coming out of my family with toxic/pervasive shame, addiction, and codependency as the safeguards of protection my brain used. Giving in and going numb was my response to the threat. I don’t live in shame or blame myself as much. The question of whether I miss her in my life is a complicated one. I remember times when she was happy and seemed to like me and her life, but those are limited, surreal memories. Mostly, I know how I could never please her and how often it usually ended in pain.

The transformation from a toxic, pervasive shame bind with grief is tremendously liberating and hard freaking work. The nature of shame is to hide and be invisible, and I believe it saved my life today. Its agenda is to protect, and it doesn’t care if my feelings get hurt in the process. The inner critic is the voice of toxic shame, but it is a process that grows with us.

For me, it mirrored the things my parents and brother said and did to me, especially my Mom, and became internalized quickly, so it felt like who I was as an adult. But because shame is the master emotion, and it binds with other primary emotions, I was an adult with multiple shame binds. The toxicity gave no compassion for the standards the binds demanded, and it was my baseline.

In my case, shame turned toxic because of chronic abuse and emotional neglect. My protection was self-abandonment. If I didn’t talk back, just agreed with what was going on, then maybe it wouldn’t escalate even more. The solution then became the problem, as I believed their version of me. When she died by suicide, of course it was my fault, there was no other explanation. But I couldn’t have done it any differently.

The beautiful differences between toxic/pervasive shame and healthy shame can show us that we are not at fault for everything happening around us. It helps me to accept limitations and know that I’m good at some things and not good at others, and that’s okay. Healthy shame is always going to be a ‘work-in-process’ for me because, with the death of a primary caregiver who was abusive and the tragic way she died, it’s layer upon layer, like the preverbal onion peeling back.

I can have healthy sadness, healthy anger, and healthy grief; we had a complex relationship, but the grief is not bound up in shame, for the most part. The help I received from professionals, the caring, attunement, and understanding without judgment, holding a safe container for me to walk through all my emotions, was intrinsic to the healing I’ve done. Without the help of professionals and the caring tribe of friends I have, I don’t think I would be in the place I am today.

And that is truly one of the finest gifts I’ve ever earned as a human being struggling to do the best I can.

Each day is a place I’ve never been before. The nightmare comes every so often, the thoughts of ‘what if…’ but I don’t stay there as long. I have dedicated myself to helping other trauma survivors deal with the hand they were dealt. Aside from my children, there is nothing more rewarding in my life. We get to look through the lies abuse teaches us, through the blame others project onto us while taking responsibility for ourselves. I am able to look in the mirror today and know I am a worthy human being who survived terrible atrocities and lived to advocate for other invisible ones. There is absolutely no shame in what was done to us. I see you every time I look in that mirror, and your heart is beautiful, too. Please don’t go under like I thought I would. You can do this: survive and thrive, give and receive. I believe in you.

If you are struggling with suicide loss, I encourage reaching out, even when it hurts so much you don’t know if you can breathe one more second. Lean on others who love and support you, and discern who is safe. Find what tools work for you, manage the shame spirals, and hold onto them fiercely.

My heart is heavy for anyone in the place of utter desolate despair. There are no words sometimes. It took me over two years to write and finish this article, the layers are so deep, the grief so keening and the healing so profound. Please know some days are harder than others, but there are others who have been there too, and you aren’t alone. You matter.

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.

Many people think of grief as a reaction to the loss of a person, relationship, pet, or job. Grieving is a whole-body experience; both the body and the mind are involved. People may cry or feel sad, or they may become incredibly angry and moody. They may lose their appetite or eat too much. They may have issues with sleeping, either too much or not enough. They may sigh often and find that they cannot concentrate. They also may begin to cling to other people or animals, fearing that these will be taken away as well. They may lose the will to live.

Complications of Grief Combined with CPTSD:

Living with PTSD and CPTSD is like watching the reality of your life suddenly and unexpectedly tossed up into the air repeatedly. The reality shatters like a puzzle. Then the puzzle pieces fall all around, and you do not know how to put the picture back together again. Life seems like you are trying to navigate a minefield in the dark with the brain constantly screaming “Danger! Danger!”

To repair the picture, you must deal with pain, sometimes pain that feels enormous and even unbearable. When a person has been rejected or is feeling emotional pain from other issues, the same part of the brain that is activated during physical pain becomes triggered. That is why it hurts so much. People who are survivors of severe trauma, especially developmental trauma from childhood may have more intense grief reactions. CPTSD causes people to have trouble regulating their emotions and feelings may seem more intense and unmanageable.

Examples of Triggers to Grief:

Many people do not realize that grief is not only about actual loss but is also about what you did not have a chance to have in your life. The loss of health, for example, a common issue with CPTSD survivors can cause grief. Not being able to do the things you used to do, can feel devastating at times.

Another common concern is betrayal trauma. This happens when a child or adult has been betrayed by someone that they trusted. A frequent occurrence is when a parent does not protect a child or refuses to believe when a child reports abuse or molestation. This form of trauma can happen to an adult when a loved one or another trusted person deceives them and harms them. Lies and deceit by people you care about can destroy confidence. It can cause damaged faith in other people and yourself. This can increase CPTSD symptoms.

The Death of an Abusive Parent:

When you do not have the love and support of a parent(s), or a normal childhood it can be more difficult to cope when an abusive parent dies. Many people do not understand why they may feel sad when an abusive parent dies.

This is caused by the loss of hope, the loss of a dream that the parent(s) will change and love and accept the person or will apologize and make amends. When a person dissociates and is learning not to, the whole situation may feel intolerable. The same thing may occur when a person is learning to cope with life without substances or using other addictions. The temptation to return to old unhealthy coping skills may be almost impossible to resist.

People must listen to their inner voice, the higher, wiser self before acting. This takes practice and confidence in yourself. Everyone grieves differently and for different lengths of time. Tuning into your own needs and permitting yourself to use self-care can help to relieve the hurt and confusion.

Using Grief as a Stepping Stone for Healing:

Any unresolved loss can also trigger a person if a new loss happens. Holistically people heal in layers, top to bottom, inside to out, newer things heal more quickly, and older things take longer to heal. Things can also come back for healing on a deeper level and the person may then have a “relapse” which is just a recycling. Old symptoms may return and present symptoms may grow worse temporarily.

If you visualize healing as a spiral staircase, you may think you have gone back to the beginning again, but you are up a level. No one is ever back at the beginning although it feels that way at times.

It takes enormous courage and discernment to continue to heal old layers and live your present-day life at the same time. Giving yourself credit for how far you have come is essential and helps to repair damaged self-esteem and self-confidence.

It can be helpful to listen to yourself and allow triggers to be a sign that further work is necessary. Many survivors have huge problems with permitting themselves to practice self-care. Being gentle with yourself is healthier than self-medicating with food, substances, relationships, or self-harm. Identifying and labeling feelings is a way of making them more manageable and reducing the need to self-medicate.

A step up on the spiral staircase is learning to be your own best friend and advocate while honoring and respecting yourself. This can assist in healing the layers of scars in the body, mind, and soul.

Resources:

The following are links to my three books. The first two books have tools that can be used for healing. The last one, a novel, is the first in a trilogy. The titles are: Unlocking the Puzzle of PTSD, Restoring the Broken Threads and Cry for the Children.

https://www.amazon.com/Unlocking-Puzzle-PTSD-Holistic-Restoring/dp/B08KYPDL8B

https://www.amazon.com/Religion-Spirituality-Susan-Pollard-MS-Books/s?rh=n%3A22%2Cp_27%3ASusan+Pollard+MS

https://www.amazon.com/s?k=9798377318118&i=stripbooks&linkCode=qs

Thank you for taking the time to read this article.

Susan Pollard, MS

https://www.facebook.com/susanpollardlifecoach susanp113@gmail.com

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.