What actually gets passed down

Trauma can alter the expression of genes. That is epigenetics. Stress, famine, displacement, and chronic fear can leave biochemical markers on DNA packaging that change gene function without changing the genetic code. What parents and grandparents endured not only shapes family habits. It can shape how a nervous system responds to threat, attachment, and safety many decades later. In a landmark study of Holocaust families, researchers documented shifts in methylation of FKBP5, a regulator of the cortisol system, in survivors and in their children who did not live through the original events. Comparable patterns show up in other contexts as well, including families affected by war, genocide, severe discrimination, natural disasters, and refugee flight. The point is simple. When people say trauma runs in a family, it is not just a figure of speech.

Inherited trauma rarely looks like a story

What passes forward is not always a narrative or a flashback. It often looks like a survival strategy that does not match the current environment. A child grows up in a safe home, yet cannot sleep unless every curtain is closed and every door is checked. A teenager treats disagreement like a death sentence, even in a respectful household. An adult keeps pushing away secure partners because the body has learned that calm usually comes before danger. These are not quirks. They are trained reflexes. They stay invisible until someone starts asking the right questions.

You do not inherit a diagnosis. You inherit the coping

CPTSD is not handed down like eye color. Defense patterns are. Silence is. Emotional constriction is. When trauma is not processed, it leaks into parenting through control, through chaos, or through inconsistency that leaves a child sensing danger without language to name it. Children repeat what works, even if it only worked in the old house. They pass it on not because they are broken, but because they were trained by example.

When pain gets ritualized

Trauma does not always announce itself. Sometimes it hides inside rules that are treated as virtues. Do not talk about feelings. Stay productive no matter what. Outsiders cannot be trusted. Keep the family’s business inside the house. Loyalty above all. The same mechanism hides domestic violence that nobody names. It hides animal abuse that neighbors avoid reporting. It hides generational child abuse that gets rebranded as strict parenting. In some families, stints in jail become a rite of passage rather than a warning sign. From the inside, these patterns sound like culture or tradition. Trace them backward and you usually find war, forced moves, addiction, shame, betrayal, or plain neglect. When trauma is not processed, it gets ritualized. It is repackaged as rules, reinforced as identity, and handed down as survival even when the danger is long gone. Dysfunction is often inherited pain on autopilot.

Breaking a pattern requires recognition, not avoidance

Moving on without naming the pattern does not change the pattern. It extends it. Real change starts with accurate labels. Name what happened in the family line, even if it was not your direct experience. Notice the default settings that make no sense in your current life. Choose deliberate counter-moves. Rest when the old rule says grind. Set a boundary where the old rule says keep secrets. Speak where the old rule says stay quiet. This is demanding work because you are not only adjusting your mood. You are rerouting generations of survival programming. That is heavy labor, not a slogan. It is also where the leverage sits. You are not obligated to carry the pain forward because it was handed to you. The future of the pattern is not fixed.

Final thoughts

If you feel like you were born carrying grief that did not start with you, or fear that does not match your lived history, you are not defective. You may be the first one who chose to hold up the mirror. You get to decide what continues and what ends.

References

Yehuda R, Daskalakis NP, et al. Holocaust exposure induced intergenerational effects on FKBP5 methylation. Biological Psychiatry. 2016;80(5):372-380.
Dias BG, Ressler KJ. Parental olfactory experience influences behavior and neural structure in subsequent generations. Nature Neuroscience. 2014;17(1):89-96.
Serpeloni F, Radtke KM, et al. Does prenatal stress shape postnatal resilience? Epigenetics and behavior in war-exposed Syrian refugees. Translational Psychiatry. 2017;7(7):e1185.

Photo by Sangharsh Lohakare 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.

Dr. Mozelle Martin

Dr. Mozelle Martin is a retired trauma therapist and former Clinical Director of a trauma center, with extensive experience in forensic psychology, criminology, and applied ethics. A survivor of childhood and young adulthood trauma, Dr. Martin has dedicated decades to understanding the psychological and ethical complexities of trauma, crime, and accountability. Her career began as a volunteer in a women’s domestic violence shelter, then as a SA hospital advocate, later becoming a Crisis Therapist working alongside law enforcement on the streets of Phoenix. She went on to earn an AS in Psychology, a BS in Forensic Psychology, an MA in Criminology, and a PhD in Applied Ethics, ultimately working extensively in forensic mental health—providing psychological assessments, intervention, and rehabilitative support with inmates and in the community. A published author and lifelong student of life, she continues to explore the relationship and crossovers of forensic science, mental health, and ethical accountability in both historical and modern contexts.

www.InkProfiler.com

Let’s just be real: recovery from trauma isn’t linear, and it sure as hell isn’t symptom-free.

People love to pretend healing looks like morning yoga, green juice, and “letting it all go.” But most of the folks I’ve worked with wake up every day with flashbacks, anxiety, insomnia, or numbness still riding shotgun. The difference is they’ve learned how to drive anyway.

That’s what recovery is. Not erasure. Not perfection. Just getting to a point where your trauma doesn’t dictate every thought, decision, and breath.

You don’t live under it anymore.

You live with it.

Safety First—Literally

You can’t heal in chaos. You can’t unpack trauma when your nervous system is stuck in survival mode – when it thinks eviction, violence, or abandonment might be around the corner. That’s why safe housing matters. And no, not just “a roof over your head.” Safe housing means a door that locks, a space that’s quiet, affordable, and doesn’t come with verbal abuse or emotional landmines. It means being able to exhale without flinching.

Without that kind of safety, don’t expect someone to “work on themselves.” They’re too busy staying alive. According to the Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA), stable housing is one of the four key pillars of recovery alongside health, purpose, and community. Makes sense. Try healing from trauma while couch surfing, or worse, living with the same people who hurt you. You won’t.

If you’ve seen STRAW, the new Tyler Perry film, you probably saw this in action. That storyline didn’t just show stress; it showed what survival mode looks like when there’s no safe space to land. And it’s not fiction for a lot of people. It’s reality.

Until basic safety is in place, recovery can’t begin. Period

Purpose Doesn’t Have to Be Big. It Just Has to Be Real.

Not everyone’s going to write a memoir, start a nonprofit, or build a business out of their pain. That’s fine. But people do need something—a reason to get out of bed. A plant to water. A friend who texts back. A song they want to hear again tomorrow. Recovery needs anchors. I’ve seen people stabilize faster from one meaningful volunteer shift per week than from five different meds. Not because the meds didn’t help, but because meaning gives structure something to hold onto.

STOP Throwing Labels at People. START Throwing Lifelines.

I’m not against diagnosis. It can help people understand what they’re up against. But a label alone doesn’t fix anything.

Staying someone is “BPD.” “CPTSD.” “Schizoaffective.”

Okay – there. You may temporarily feel better but, now what?

You can’t label someone into wholeness. You can’t pathologize someone into recovery. Connection heals people. So does dignity. And affordable medication. And not having to pick between therapy and groceries. Most people who “can’t function” aren’t broken. They’re unsupported. They’ve been trying to survive in a system that punishes instability instead of resourcing it.

Recovery = Management, Not Elimination

There’s a dangerous myth floating around that healing means your symptoms disappear. That if you’re still triggered or anxious or dissociating now and then, you must not be doing it right.

That’s not how this works.

Recovery doesn’t mean you stop having symptoms. It means you stop letting them run your life.

You learn what sets you off – and what helps you come back.
Maybe instead of spiraling for three weeks, you spiral for three hours, then take a shower and drink some water.

• The symptoms don’t vanish. They just lose their power.
• You start recognizing patterns. You build a toolbox.
• And yeah, you take more responsibility for your stability than anyone ever took for your safety.

That’s what recovery looks like. Not perfection, just more control than chaos.

And Here’s the Hard Part: You’re 100% Responsible Now

What happened to you wasn’t your fault. But healing from it? That’s fully on you.

• You’re not responsible for the abuse.
• You’re not responsible for the neglect, the betrayal, or the systems that looked the other way.

But you are responsible for what you do with it now. How long you let it steer your decisions, dictate your relationships, or shape your future is fully your responsibility.

This isn’t about blame. It’s about ownership.
You can’t build a different life while waiting for an apology that might never come, or wait on a rescuer who isn’t on the way.

You’re it.
And yeah, that’s heavy.

But it’s also the most freeing thing you’ll ever realize.

Final Word

Recovery is messy. It’s not tidy or photogenic. It’s not always visible to others, but it’s real.

It starts the moment you decide your pain doesn’t get to tell the whole story anymore.
And it keeps going every time you show up tired, triggered, and unpolished.

Safety, structure, and purpose aren’t luxury items. They’re not “self-care.” They’re survival tools.
They are what make healing possible in the first place.

And no matter what anyone else tells you, only you decide what your healing looks like.

Not the system. Not a diagnosis. Not a social media timeline or your favorite influencer.

Just you. On your own terms.

Photo by Simone Hutsch 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.

Dr. Mozelle Martin

Dr. Mozelle Martin is a retired trauma therapist and former Clinical Director of a trauma center, with extensive experience in forensic psychology, criminology, and applied ethics. A survivor of childhood and young adulthood trauma, Dr. Martin has dedicated decades to understanding the psychological and ethical complexities of trauma, crime, and accountability. Her career began as a volunteer in a women’s domestic violence shelter, then as a SA hospital advocate, later becoming a Crisis Therapist working alongside law enforcement on the streets of Phoenix. She went on to earn an AS in Psychology, a BS in Forensic Psychology, an MA in Criminology, and a PhD in Applied Ethics, ultimately working extensively in forensic mental health—providing psychological assessments, intervention, and rehabilitative support with inmates and in the community. A published author and lifelong student of life, she continues to explore the relationship and crossovers of forensic science, mental health, and ethical accountability in both historical and modern contexts.

www.InkProfiler.com

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.

Danica Alison

Danica Alison is an optimist, deep thinker, and out-of-the-box adventurer who finds meaning in life’s chaos. She’s a writer, a healing advocate, and someone who believes healing is a journey best traveled with curiosity, humor, and a little bit of rebellious joy.
A lifelong lover of stories, both lived and told. She is passionate about exploring the messy, beautiful process of being human. Whether she’s writing, learning, or connecting with others, she brings a mix of warmth, honesty, and a refusal to fit into neat little boxes.

www.DanicaAlison.com

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.

Danica Alison

Danica Alison is an optimist, deep thinker, and out-of-the-box adventurer who finds meaning in life’s chaos. She’s a writer, a healing advocate, and someone who believes healing is a journey best traveled with curiosity, humor, and a little bit of rebellious joy.
A lifelong lover of stories, both lived and told. She is passionate about exploring the messy, beautiful process of being human. Whether she’s writing, learning, or connecting with others, she brings a mix of warmth, honesty, and a refusal to fit into neat little boxes.

www.DanicaAlison.com

Despite entering the mental health system over ten years ago, I didn’t learn about “complex trauma” or “Complex PTSD” until about three years ago. At 18, I received a PTSD diagnosis from a psychiatrist, five years after my prolonged trauma during high school had begun. This diagnosis came amid a confusing mix of various other diagnoses from different providers over the years, which further obscured an effective healing plan. Even when I worked with multiple providers who intended to collaborate, they often disagreed about my “mental illness” and the best approach to “fix” it. With all these conflicting and dehumanizing labels, I felt like a hopeless outcast in a society of “normal” people. Being burdened with nearly every possible diagnosis in the DSM resulted in a bewildering array of treatments for my “mental illness,” none of which actually addressed my root issue: trauma. There was never a need to complicate anything about it.

For years, I underwent tests, treatments, and psych meds in an attempt to alleviate my symptoms. Many times, the side effects from these treatments – especially the psych meds – were worse than the “condition” these providers were trying to cure. Unfortunately, it took me years to realize that psych medications were never the solution for my trauma-related struggles.

During most of my time in the mental health system, my mind felt very foggy. I was a disoriented, dissociated, and overmedicated young girl trying to navigate the challenges of my teenage years and young adulthood, which already come with their own drama. My experiences with misdiagnosis and overmedication will be the subject of extensive writing in the future, but for now, I’m providing context regarding the journey I’ve embarked to find answers. I have been subjected to nearly every possible treatment, all promising me peace and all ultimately failing me.

Putting the world on pause

Something had to change, and I realized that I had to spearhead that change. I embarked on a quest to understand the complexities of CPTSD. Inspired by Thoreau’s Walden, I put everything in my life on pause, moved to the countryside, and spent time in solitude. With this refreshed mindset, I immersed myself in the research and data surrounding CPTSD.

Moving to the countryside and eliminating stress naturally alleviated many of my symptoms. I had more time on my hands than I had ever had before. I focused on simple approaches to caring for my health, such as improving my nutrition, making lifestyle adjustments, exercising, and practicing breathwork and meditation. With this solid foundation in place, I felt ready to fully dedicate myself to unraveling the mystery of CPTSD while keeping my self-care as my top priority.

Stepping out into the world again

I bravely stepped out to do things I never thought I would do. Things that terrified me. I wanted to do these things, though, believing that they might bring me closer to understanding CPTSD, both for myself and for other survivors. Stepping out of my comfort zone greatly boosted my confidence. I became a guest contributor for the Complex PTSD Foundation, which gave me a voice after years of feeling unheard.

Being vulnerable in writing about my experiences has been incredibly liberating. While my pen flies, the rest of the world fades away. I allow myself to feel my emotions and let the seeds in my mind blossom into a beautiful garden on paper. I don’t have any professional writing experience beyond my school education, and I had never considered myself a “writer” before. When I write about my experiences, my thoughts can extend to about 8,000 words on just one topic – far beyond the suggested word count! This is all part of the healing process for me. I enjoy revisiting my writing, making it concise, and preparing it to present publicly. I don’t worry too much about achieving perfection; I believe that other survivors just want to hear a voice that is relatable and authentic. By the feedback I receive on my writings, I’ve come to realize that many CPTSD survivors are suffering in silence. I see that my words have offered them comfort and encouragement, letting them know that healing is possible.

Both online and in person, I’ve connected with survivor communities and engaged in one-on-one conversations with some truly extraordinary people. I have also started volunteering with local PTSD-related organizations to broaden my understanding of trauma and empathize with others whose experiences differ from mine, yet who have shared similar feelings of hopelessness, helplessness, and despair.

Through this journey, I’ve learned so much about my fellow survivors and continue to discover more daily. 

What I’ve learned about complex trauma survivors

What I’ve learned about us is that we never give up. Despite the limited and often misleading information available, we go to great lengths to find answers that help us understand why our minds, bodies, and psyches endure so much pain and how we can find relief. Unfortunately, we often find no real guidance, leaving us feeling like outsiders in this world, as if we are the only ones carrying this level of suffering.

What I’ve learned about us is that our pain can be so excruciating that we sometimes feel the only way to escape it is to end our lives. Yet somehow, we continue to hold on by a thin thread, refusing to give up hope in our search for answers.

What I’ve learned about us is that even a brief 10-second break from our suffering – just one moment of peace – can feel like a taste of heaven. However, these moments are so unfamiliar to us that when we experience them, we often feel uncomfortable, overwhelmed, and terrified. As a result, we quickly revert back to our comfort zone of constant anguish. This isn’t our fault; it is simply what we have known for far too long. 

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us entered the mental health system with good intentions and a desperate need for help, only to encounter further trauma from the very professionals who promised to protect us.

What I’ve learned about us is that many people around us – both within the medical system and outside of the system – often misunderstand our experiences due to ignorance and lack of awareness about trauma. As a result, they tend to label us as troubled, crazy, mentally ill, or disturbed, without taking the time to listen to our struggles beyond their preconceived judgments. This lack of understanding often leads us to isolate ourselves even further.

What I’ve learned about us is that many of us have always felt like we never belonged in society. We see ourselves as black sheep, lost in the crowd, never truly fitting in. This feeling stems from our uniqueness; we were never meant to conform to the masses.

What I’ve learned about us is that we look beyond the superficial aspects of life. We prioritize self-actualization and care deeply about the experiences and suffering of those around us. This profound introspection often overshadows our interest in the trivialities that others get caught up in, which is another reason we struggle to fit in. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we are detail-oriented. We notice the small things in life – the beauty of a rainbow after a storm, a lone dandelion in a vast field, or a gentle breeze brushing against our cheeks, reminding us of the freedom we once had before encountering the harsh realities of the world. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we often carry a deep sense of self-guilt, viewing ourselves as some of the most despicable people on the planet. In truth, we possess some of the purest hearts, and there was never a reason to feel guilty in the first place; we were always doing our best with the knowledge we had at the time. 

What I’ve learned about us is that we believe we’re “not normal,” but it is actually those who have harmed us who are abnormal.

What I’ve learned about us is that, regardless of how we were treated, we choose not to repeat that cycle of abuse. We don’t seek revenge for what has been done to us. Instead, we heal our pain privately and face our experiences with love and kindness when interacting with the world.

What I’ve learned about us is that we go about our daily lives – working, raising children, and managing the stressors of everyday life – while masking intense pain and pretending that nothing is wrong. We care more about the people around us than we do about ourselves. Out of this deep compassion, we neglect self-care in order to take care of others.

What I’ve learned about us is that we’re incredibly strong. In fact, the word “strong” doesn’t even begin to capture our resilience. We are impenetrable fortresses built from the mightiest oak.

As of today, I am nearing the end of my quest to understand my own suffering after more than a decade of seeking external solutions. I now live a peaceful and content life in my happy place. I have resolved most of what my body held onto for so long and am focused on rebuilding my confidence and creating the life I’ve always dreamed of.

Over the past year, I have dedicated myself entirely to healing – an endeavor that, unfortunately, has not resulted in financial compensation, but whose results are worth more than any amount of money in the entire world. I am excited to continue writing about my experiences, hoping that sharing them will help other survivors. 

If my words resonate with you, keep on fighting. I see you. I hear you. I believe you, and I believe you will conquer. If you keep working to rediscover who you are at your core and reject the lies from your past, you will achieve your beautiful dream of freedom and a peaceful life.

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

Photo by Marina Leonova: https://www.pexels.com/photo/a-woman-s-hand-over-a-map-7634232/

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.

Natalie Rose

My name is Natalie, and I am a survivor of about 13 years of absolute psychological torture from Complex PTSD symptoms. For the longest time, I thought I was inherently sick and broken beyond repair. I spent over a decade running around in circles in the medical system trying to figure out what was “wrong” with me and how to “fix” it.

♡ What is Complex PTSD? ♡

Complex PTSD symptoms come from severe, prolonged, and numerous incidents of trauma, typically of a relational nature. Symptoms can come from any type of trauma, though, and the trauma doesn’t necessarily have to stem from childhood — adults can develop CPTSD as well. Trauma can damage the brain and shrink the hippocampus, causing many of the symptoms of CPTSD. I decided to go public with my story to be a voice for the voiceless. There are too many survivors being told CPTSD is a lifelong sentence, and they are not being given the tools they need to overcome their symptoms.

♡ My Story ♡

I endured multiple types of traumas starting at around age thirteen, including numerous situations of both individual and large-group interpersonal cruelty. Some of these situations forced me to switch environments. My body couldn’t fathom what was happening, and my nervous system shut down. I saw danger everywhere, operated in a panicked survival mode, and lived in fear, anxiety, and isolation. I did my best to appear “normal” on the outside, keep a smile on my face, and control what was happening on the inside, distracting myself with extreme workaholism and doing nice things for others. I took active steps to keep branching out in confidence again, but these traumas kept piling onto each other and overlapping. I wasn’t ready to give up yet, though, because I knew my family and friends would be distraught if I did. The most difficult and heartbreaking part of my story is that the two communities I set out to seek healing in—religion and the medical system itself—caused further trauma when some religious leaders, congregation members, and medical professionals chose to take advantage of my vulnerability for their own motives. In most of these situations, I didn’t even realize I was a victim until outsiders pointed it out for me and that my vulnerability made me a target of malicious people. Each future situation of being targeted was just salt on the wound of the original incident.

♡ My Struggles to Find Answers ♡

What I went through all those years was so severe, and my symptoms and physical body reactions as a result were so excruciating that I went as far as to see a neurologist, concerned that my symptoms were the result of some sort of nervous system disorder. However, he returned with no paperwork in his hands to inform me that there was nothing wrong with me but that I was simply completely traumatized, and my body reacted accordingly. I finally realized that my symptoms were not the result of an inherent mental or physical illness and began to take a trauma-based approach to my healing after many years of believing that I was “sick” for the rest of my life. My true progress began when I finally rejected the lies that were told to me that I would have to manage my symptoms for the rest of my life and made the decision to believe that I was fully capable of healing from my excruciating pain.

♡ Finding My Own Healing ♡

I am excited to share tips for natural, somatic, and holistic healing that have helped me overcome things like dissociation, flashbacks, sleep challenges, anxiety, hypervigilance, and more. I began to pursue unique methods of healing after many years of not seeing much progress through westernized care, and this was the catalyst for fast-tracking my healing. I aim to help survivors overcome their feelings of self-guilt, blame, and humiliation and help them realize that their bodies had normal reactions to abnormal situations.

I’m so glad I didn’t give up when my pain felt unbearable. I know what I’ve survived. I know the work I’ve put in to overcome it. I am finally living a life of consistent peace and contentment, and I am sharing my story from the other side. I hope to encourage other survivors that there was never anything wrong with them to begin with and that they are capable of living healthy, happy, and fulfilled lives. I aim to live my life in love of both others and myself, understanding that everyone has a story of their own. I am grateful to the CPTSD Foundation for giving me an opportunity to share my story.

♡ Personal Blog ♡

To learn more about my healing journey, please visit my personal blog, “Little Cabin Life,” at:
littlecabinlife.com

Until bedtime, which proved to be a challenge.

Following the breeder’s advice, I attempted to “furberize” her by placing her in her crate in the kitchen, leaving the heart sound noise maker on before going to bed. At 1:30 AM, her cries woke me. I rushed her outside; she needed to poop. Back in the crate, she slept until 4:10 AM, when the crying started again. This time, she needed to pee. When I tried returning her to the crate, she had other ideas; it was playtime for her. “Sorry, Sophie, Grandma is too tired to play,” I said. Desperate for sleep, I wrapped her in a bath towel and tucked her into bed with me.

The next night, I steeled myself and tried the “let her cry it out” method again, but Sophie’s reaction was swift and intense. I walked away and waited for a while to see if she would give up and fall asleep. But instead, her plaintive howls grew louder and louder, piercing the darkness. I’d had many puppies before, but this was the saddest cry I’d ever heard. It didn’t sound right; something felt different. I worried she might have been caught in the crate and injured.

When I checked on her, she wagged her tail and appeared fine, but I intuited that she had significant separation anxiety, and forcing nighttime crate training might only exacerbate it. So, I put her in a small portable crate, placing it right next to my side of the bed within arm’s reach.

Suddenly, I was transported back 27 years to when I struggled to establish a structured sleep routine with my baby, using—and soon abandoning—the Ferber method. The sound of his cry cut through me to the core. It was too excruciating. Too traumatizing.

I heard about the Ferber method during my early motherhood years. It is a sleep training technique coined by Dr. Richard Ferber and is designed to help infants learn to self-soothe and fall asleep on their own. This approach requires gradual steps and isn’t as radical as it sounds. Proponents of this method argue that it can lead to improved sleep habits for both the baby and parents in the long-term. However, critics contend that it could be emotionally damaging to infants and may negatively impact the parent-child attachment bond.

Coming from Japan where soine (co-sleeping) is very common, the Ferber method did indeed sound radical and even counterintuitive, going against the instinct of responsive caregiving. But in my case, there seemed to be an additional factor for not being able to implement this technique. In the end, I resorted to installing an Arm’s Reach Co-Sleeper. This device functions as an extension to the parents’ bed, allowing them to safely sleep in close proximity to their baby. Although it worked as a short-term solution, it spectacularly backfired in the long run, causing both my husband and me to develop full-blown insomnia for years to come.

Undoubtedly, my intense discomfort with both my puppy’s and baby’s cries reflects hallmarks of complex trauma: hypervigilance and emotional dysregulation, manifesting in a lower threshold for stressful or emotionally charged situations.

People with complex trauma often develop a heightened sensitivity to others’ needs as a survival mechanism

Typically stemming from childhood experiences where their needs were routinely overlooked or ignored, people with complex trauma often develop a heightened sensitivity to others’ needs as a survival mechanism. This can lead to excessive people-pleasing behaviors, where they prioritize others’ needs at the expense of their own, perpetuating a cycle of self-neglect. This imbalance can lead to burnout, emotional exhaustion, and an inability to effectively care for others. It is critical, therefore, to learn how to balance sensitivity to others with proper self-care and self-preservation.

Sophie, the puppy, seems to be a light sleeper, just like my son used to be when he was a baby.

“I explored and chronicled the impacts of these difficult parenting experiences through the lens of my journey with complex trauma in my upcoming memoir, The Pond Beyond the Forest: Reflections on Childhood Trauma and Motherhood, due to be published in October 2025.

Photo credit Author

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.

Shigeko Ito

Shigeko Ito grew up in Japan and immigrated to the United States to pursue higher education. She studied early childhood education, earning a PhD in Education from Stanford University. Drawing on cross-cultural experiences and academic expertise, she explores themes of trauma, resilience, and healing, with a particular focus on childhood emotional neglect. Her work has appeared on the CPTSD Foundation blog and the Anxiety and Depression Association of America website. In 2025, she was named a semifinalist in the nonfiction category of the Tucson Festival of Books Literary Awards. She worked in Montessori preschools for many years and lives in Seattle with her husband of thirty years and beloved animals.

shigekoito.com

***

I recently read an essay by Melissa Febos, “The Heart-Work: Writing About Trauma as a Subversive Act,” from 2017, which was later expanded and now appears as the first chapter, entitled “In Praise of Navel Gazing” in her 2022 collection of essays “Body Work: The Radical Power of Personal Narrative.” I read the original article on my laptop as I ate comfort food at a wooden picnic table near the lake. I had run away for the afternoon, taking time with myself, sorting through some uncomfortable emotions, and feeling raw. As I absorbed her story, tears appeared on the horizon. I was moved both by her compelling arguments about the transformative power of the truth but also by another layer of realization of my own hard stories pulsing in my veins, chanting in the half-darkness, waiting in the wings for their moment in the sun.

***

“This is the way adults love each other.”

“This is a grown-up secret, just between you and me.”

***

I’m seventeen, and I’ve agreed to check into Long Beach Memorial Hospital for a substance abuse treatment program for teens. I see the gray melamine meal tray, complete with a wooden spork and green Jello, in my mind’s eye. I am filling out a questionnaire. “Have you ever been sexually abused?” I mark the yes box. I feel defiant and strong. I am finally telling the truth. Do I understand the true freeing power of honesty at that time? It’s not how I do today, but somewhere in me, I am so tired of keeping secrets. My adult cousin had molested me when I was about 3 or 4.

I hadn’t thought that checkmark all the way through to the avalanche effect it was about to have. I was underage. My parents had to be told. Was it going to have to be reported?

Big surprise, they weren’t surprised. They already knew. Apparently, I had told them when it happened. Why did I still feel so betrayed? What could a young child have possibly told them anyway? Did they know to ask the right questions? Why was nothing ever done? Why did I still feel so unsafe? Why was my dad still buddy-buddy with this man who did what he did to me? Why did I feel like it was my fault?

***

“Men will only ever want one thing from you.”

***

My dad told me this multiple times, starting in junior high school. There was always a “look” and a “tone” that went along with this. I assume he thought he was protecting me. In high school, he told me I looked like a prostitute once and made me change my clothes.

My dad also repeatedly told friends and family the story about the summer I was developing, and he saw me in the rear-view mirror but hadn’t seen my face, just my body, and found himself gawking at me. Internally, I cowered in shame. Why was he proud of this fact? Why did I feel so dirty? What did I do wrong?

***

“If you really knew me and all my secrets, you wouldn’t want me, love me.

You’d run screaming in the other direction.”

***

The point in my life when I finally stood in the face of the truth at last and looked eye to eye with my own alcoholism and destructive patterns, my own Jekyll and Hyde, the wasteland of my tattered soul, was the same timeframe I started writing again. Among other things, writing saved my life and resurrected my sanity. The true transformation took root; my pen and ink were soil and water. With guidance, I began to look with clear eyes at myself and question who and what I was and what the hell was I doing in my life, not to mention asking and answering the questions starting with why. I dismantled secrets, washed clean the lies (including those I told myself of what was and wasn’t ok), and turned the clean laundry back right-side-out. I had lived in an inverted reality and didn’t even know it. The shame rode so deep in me. I couldn’t look you in the eye. I most certainly couldn’t even hold my own gaze in the mirror. I was dead inside. Too many secrets. Too many lies. For far too long.

***

“I had to walk back through my most mystifying choices and excavate events for which I had been numb on the first go-round.” – Melissa Febos

***

As I laid myself bare on the table, ink drained from me like blood. I felt like I was in a detective movie, making one of those link charts of stories and suspects, causes and conditions, trying to unravel an unruly ball of tangled yarn. I spoke of all my personal unspeakables, first on paper, then out loud to another. I told the stories and mistakes. I told how I hid and lied and cheated. I told things I could barely understand the meaning or implication of at the time. I recounted what I experienced, what had been done to me, and how each unhealed trauma had deepened my predisposition for the next, how I had become so broken and bent that I didn’t and couldn’t attract anything else. I had come this far and understood at a deep and visceral level that if nothing changed, nothing would change – that if I didn’t bring absolutely everything into the sunlight, then the simple truth was that I may not be able to move forward. And I already knew what backward looked like. No longer acceptable. Hope only lay ahead, in the unknown, in the light of day.

What happened next appeared gradually, like an acorn transmuting into a sapling, eventually growing into a mighty oak. Or maybe the better analogy is the beautiful lotus flower rising up out of the muck and mud at the bottom of the pond. I no longer have secrets. I may choose to keep something private, but the chains of silence no longer bind me. There is nothing that I have experienced, thought, said, or done that at least one other human being knows about. And there is sheer freedom and joy in this. I no longer feel the need to hide. I meet my own gaze in the mirror, and I know that someday, my stories of transforming my lived experience will help others transform theirs as well. No mud, no lotus.

***

“I say that refusing to write your story can make you into a monster. Or perhaps more accurately, we are already monsters. And to deny the monstrous is to deny its beauty, its meaning, its necessary devastation.”  — Melissa Febos

***

I began to feel grateful for pieces of my story. My escape into alcohol and, later, drugs may have been killing me, but it also medicated me and kept me alive in some ways. The pain that I endured both at the hands of others as well as at my own is a touchstone to growth. I don’t necessarily want to purge my past. Purify, transform, transmute, yes, but my battle scars are well-earned and, at times, even treasured. This is the rich and fertile soil that can help others transform their own.

. ***

“Navel-gazing is not for the faint of heart. The risk of honest self-appraisal requires bravery. To place our flawed selves in the context of this magnificent, broken world is the opposite of narcissism, which is building a self-image that pleases you. For many years, I kept a quote from Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet tacked over my desk: ‘The work of the eyes is done. Go now and do the heart-work on the images imprisoned within you.’ ”  — Melissa Febos

Photo by Suzanne D. Williams 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.

Adina Lynn LeCompte

Adina Lynn LeCompte is a sixth-generation Californian. After having lived in varying parts of the US and abroad in Florence, Italy, she has come home to roost, splitting her time between the Central Coast and the Foothills of Yosemite. She holds her Bachelors of Arts from UCLA (Language & Linguistics), her Master of Arts from Middlebury College School Abroad / Universita’ di Firenze (Language & Literature), and studied 4 years in the MDiv program at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. Over the years, she founded several successful local businesses and worked as an interfaith hospital and hospice chaplain.

Adina is a working writer, an award-winning poet, and is working on her upcoming book “Spilling Ink: Write Your Way Into Healing”. Additionally, she has designed an interactive transformative workshop by the same name that uses writing as a tool for healing from trauma, especially abuse and grief. She is also co-author of several compilations of poetry with her husband, John LeCompte, who is also a writer. (“With These Words, I Thee Wed: Love Poetry” was published in 2023.)

Her most recent exciting endeavor is being a part of the Bay Path Univeristy’s MFA program in Creative Nonfiction, with an emphasis in Narrative Medicine.

writeyourwayintohealing.com

I had a weird tension in me about it

Like other techniques, we also employ the idea of a “safe place,” where he helps me anchor into safety before we do any deep work or regressions. I have always used the same safe place since I have been seeing Dr. Gabe: the beach in front of my grandma’s house, now our second home. As we began chatting at the beginning of the last session, I realized I was feeling a little hesitant about “going to my safe place” because, in reality, this was where I had broken my wrist a few weeks prior, and I had a weird tension in me about it.

So, all the things we normally do and go through to work through deep-seated trauma from the past, we went through the same process on the trauma of breaking my wrist. That was our starting point. First, I re-experienced the crack of my bone that I heard and the onset of the fear I experienced. I was scared and alone and had no way back up the small cliff I had descended to the rocky shore. (I am quite good in emergencies, and this was no exception. I simply trespassed onto a neighbor’s property, used their private staircase, and thanked them later for using it.  They have offered for me to use their stairs down any time I need to since I won’t be going down or up on the climbing rope for a while at least. It’s when the emergency subsides, and the adrenaline rush crashes that emotion tends to overwhelm me, and I cry and shake and get embarrassed at my reactions.)

As we followed my subconscious, it led me to the scene in my home when the ambulance arrived.  Fire truck, too. There must have been 15 people all congregating around me. People were sticking my veins for an IV and missing. Pandemonium. My parents happened to have just arrived at our home because we were all going out to dinner. When I called my husband, John, and told him I had broken my wrist and was coming up the neighbor’s stairs, my parents were already there. I was still somewhat in shock, and the pain was amplifying exponentially from moment to moment. I just needed a minute to process everything. I wanted to see my husband, hug him, and figure out the best thing to do. I was still evaluating how badly I had been hurt. My dad took over and called the ambulance without my knowledge or approval; he just did it. Ultimately, I am glad I went to the ER that night and that I did so in an ambulance, where they were able to administer pain medication during the hour-long drive to the hospital. But all of a sudden, I saw the pattern clearly of how my father always made “executive decisions,” as he sometimes called them, and put situations in front of me where he had already made a decision and effectively removed the element of my own choice from me. Over and over from a young age until it seemed normal.

But I have a voice today. Sometimes, I still have to speak up forcefully to get my dad back in check, and I do know he means well and cares – and I am truly grateful for that. But it was ultimately nice to recognize how pervasive that pattern had been in my life and how and why it has taken me a lifetime to speak up for myself and make my own best decisions. It still amazes me how we think that trauma is about one particular thing, and then we do the work and find all these other things mixed in and attached in ways we hadn’t ever even realized before.

And my safe place is safe again.

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.

Adina Lynn LeCompte

Adina Lynn LeCompte is a sixth-generation Californian. After having lived in varying parts of the US and abroad in Florence, Italy, she has come home to roost, splitting her time between the Central Coast and the Foothills of Yosemite. She holds her Bachelors of Arts from UCLA (Language & Linguistics), her Master of Arts from Middlebury College School Abroad / Universita’ di Firenze (Language & Literature), and studied 4 years in the MDiv program at Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. Over the years, she founded several successful local businesses and worked as an interfaith hospital and hospice chaplain.

Adina is a working writer, an award-winning poet, and is working on her upcoming book “Spilling Ink: Write Your Way Into Healing”. Additionally, she has designed an interactive transformative workshop by the same name that uses writing as a tool for healing from trauma, especially abuse and grief. She is also co-author of several compilations of poetry with her husband, John LeCompte, who is also a writer. (“With These Words, I Thee Wed: Love Poetry” was published in 2023.)

Her most recent exciting endeavor is being a part of the Bay Path Univeristy’s MFA program in Creative Nonfiction, with an emphasis in Narrative Medicine.

writeyourwayintohealing.com