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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

Trauma comes in different forms. Physical trauma refers to a person suffering a sudden injury caused by an accident, such as a car crash. Physical trauma heals over time. Bones can be reset in the theatre and will heal again. Bruises and cuts can be nasty, but most heal in time with medical attention.

Psychological or emotional trauma is a different kind of trauma where a person has been in a highly stressful situation that causes a reaction. It can be from witnessing a horrific event or experience where the individual was subjected to harm in some way: for example, being frightened, under threat or abused, ridiculed, harassed, or even rejected without any power to stop it.

Trauma can be caused by witnessing someone being harmed and be powerless to stop it.

Trauma can be caused by living for a long time in a traumatic environment, such as being a prisoner of war or living in an abusive home.

There is also racial trauma where an individual is subjected to racism for whatever reason, which causes a person mental or physical harm.

Our world is troubled, and trauma is a word we hear all around us. It’s on the news every day in some form. Go online or turn on your TV, and there will be a distressing event reported almost immediately from somewhere in the world. Trauma is everywhere, and our world is hurting or in shock over events.

In all this negativity that surrounds us, we must focus on the good that is happening in our lives; otherwise, we will feel overwhelmed.

I’m a survivor of Child Sexual Abuse and witnessed horrific trauma from several sex-related murders. I suffered from most of the different types of traumas I describe in this post before I reached puberty.

My childhood was anything but a childhood, and yet somehow, I’m still alive. I survived where most people would not, and even though my childhood is still haunting me at times, I’m doing okay most of the time.

I’m not afraid to admit that I also have periods when I’m not okay. It’s completely okay to be hurt sometimes when you have suffered child abuse and trauma.

It’s important if you’re a survivor like me and hurting, that you try and seek professional help. A counselor, therapist, or psychiatrist can help and guide you through your trauma reactions.

A Word of Caution

A professional must be a good fit for you to be able to disclose very personal memories. Trauma from child abuse is something that is deeply distressing to talk about, and when you do, you need to feel that the person you choose to reveal your trauma to will comfort you. They need to have the professional ability to make you feel better or give you a way out of the proverbial “woods” and reach the sunshine.

I have a very skilled psychiatrist who specializes in trauma. I went through a lot of different mental health professionals before I found her. Once we met and discussed what I wanted from her, I knew from her responses that she was the right person for me to reveal my past.

It’s not rude to ask a professional to tell you, their credentials.

Those Pesky Feelings

There are times when I have been in the “not okay” phase due to being triggered by trauma memories from my childhood. My therapist collaborates with me through the triggers that caused the way I’m feeling.

One of the first things she says to me is that all feelings are okay. All survivors react differently to traumatic events but it’s vital that we feel them to get rid of them.

Sometimes we lose sight of who we are when we’re triggered, and we go to grounding techniques and breathing. Those work very well when traumatic events are something we have visited before. Our bodies can shrug those away within hours.

Grounding helps to take the immediate sting out of an emotionally charged trauma memory. Sometimes, a reaction is not as simple as that, and we stay traumatized for days and weeks after. The hurt is just too deep to simply go away by itself.

This is when you need professional help to work through that pain and find a way to move back to your equilibrium.

The problem with being in “survival mode” becomes even more pronounced with everything happening around us as we go about our daily lives. Once triggered and feeling traumatized, a second and third trigger will make it so much more difficult to get back on your feet again.

Sometimes, a survivor needs to accept that the pain must come out. So, let it do just that. Let those tears come out and release the floodgates.

I know what I’m asking and yes, it’s gonna hurt A LOT. That big “stone” called grief you keep trying to swallow in your throat will not go away without those complex emotions being released.

Trust me, I know it because I spent years trying not to feel anything.

If those tears won’t come easily as is often the case, then do something real physical like boxing, running or circuits — something that will get that heart pumping until you can do no more! That is sure to get those tears flowing as the adrenaline stops flowing with your body relaxing. It works for me every time. No matter how I feel, I manage to sob my heart out once I’ve exercised until I can do no more.

There is a song by the band: R.E.M, called “Everybody Hurts.” Music is very personal and can bring lots of mixed feelings. For me, this song is an extremely sad song, but it’s full of hope too. It tells the listener to “hold on” and that is a message I want to say to all survivors.

No matter how much you are hurting right now, there is hope and you are not alone. Just like the song dictates “you are not alone.” The song repeats this line.

When I’m triggered and feeling emotionally weak, my brain keeps telling me that I’m alone. That is far from the truth, and I’m sure if you are reading this, that is the case for you as well.

I chose to cut my bio- family out of my life but since I left, I have made so many friends on the way. I have met people that have shaped me into the person that I am today. I have good memories and happiness to draw on when I’m triggered. I’m sure you have too.

Use these happy memories.

My advice is this: No matter how much you are hurting right now, life will get better. Like the song by R.E.M, I want you to hold on because you are not alone. You are in fact incredibly strong to have come as far as you have. You are so much stronger than most people.

You are a survivor.

So, hang in there, hold on and find someone to whom you can talk. Life is for living and being happy.

My revenge on the people that abused me is that I’m still alive in this world. I’m no longer a sex toy to be used and ridiculed. I’m someone who matters to a lot of people.

I’ve always lived by the motto: “Follow your heart and be happy” and “a simple smile can make a huge difference to someone’s life.”

As survivors, we need to hold our heads up high and recognize that we’re good enough just the way we are. We’re strong enough to carry on, and life does get better as we heal.

There’s a new sunrise every day, and with that morning glow comes endless possibilities for a happy day. That starts with you thinking and focusing on what to make of it. Grab that opportunity with both hands and go out there, happy!

You have come a long way. Hold on and remember that you are not alone.

You’ve got this.

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

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

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

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Photo Credit: Unsplash

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

By adulthood, many trauma survivors no longer recognize the difference between who they are and who they had to become.

Complex PTSD is often discussed through clinical symptoms: emotional dysregulation, negative self-concept, relationship difficulty, avoidance, hypervigilance, intrusive memory, shame, dissociation, and impaired trust. That is important because it gives clinicians a shared vocabulary and helps researchers measure what prolonged trauma can do to the nervous system, the body, the self, and the capacity for connection.

In real life though, survivors speak a different language.

“I was always the responsible one.”
“I kept everyone calm.”
“I never asked for anything.”
“I had to be perfect.”
“I knew when to disappear.”
“I raised myself.”
“I became whoever they needed me to be.”

Those statements are not diagnoses – they are field notes from childhood.

The roles below are descriptive rather than clinical categories, so they will not appear in a diagnostic manual as formal types. During my years as a trauma therapist, I learned early that people rarely organize themselves into neat categories. As a trauma survivor, I learned the same thing from the inside. We may carry three or four of these roles at once, depending on the room, the relationship, the threat, and the age at which the role first became necessary.

The same person can be the overachiever at school, the peacemaker at home, the silent one during conflict, and the abandoned one in intimate relationships. Trauma rarely assigns a single role because it teaches a child to become whatever survival requires at that time.

1. The Loyal Child

The loyal child protects the family from the truth. This is the child who explains, excuses, minimizes, defends, covers, and absorbs. They may grow up inside a home where loyalty is demanded, honesty is punished, and family reputation sits above the child’s welfare. The child learns that naming harm creates more danger than enduring it. Later, this survivor may still feel disloyal when speaking accurately about what happened. They may try to sugarcoat every account with disclaimers. They may make excuses for the parent saying she or he “had a rough life,” “did the best they could,” or “wasn’t always bad,” even when the harm was severe enough to alter the course of the child’s life.

There can be truth in those statements because harmful people can also be funny, generous, charming, wounded, ill, overworked, or beloved by others. That mixed record is often why survivors struggle to tell the story at all. The loyal child learned that love required editing the facts. In adulthood, the loyal child may need years to understand that accuracy is not cruelty, speaking about harm is not revenge, and refusing to protect an abusive family system is not the same as abandoning the family. A child who had to preserve the family image may later have to learn how to preserve the self.

2. The Peacemaker

The peacemaker becomes fluent in emotional weather. This child notices everything: the sound of keys in the door, the pace of footsteps, the set of a jaw, the change in breathing, the bottle level, the sudden silence, the kind of laugh that means trouble is being disguised. They may not have the vocabulary for threat assessment, but their body learns it anyway. The peacemaker interrupts conflict before it erupts, change the subject, soothe the angry parent, distract the unstable sibling, make jokes, clean the kitchen, apologize for things they did not do, and try to lower the temperature of a room they were never responsible for heating.

Adults often praise this child as mature, sensitive, helpful, easy, and wise beyond their years but that praise can hide the cost associated with it. Many peacemakers grow into adults who feel panic when someone is displeased. They may mistake tension for danger and disagreement for abandonment, and believe they are responsible for every mood in the room because childhood trained them to act before the explosion. The adult work is not becoming cold or uncaring – it’s learning that another person’s anger does not automatically create an assignment. Peace that requires self-erasure is only another form of control.

3. The Perfectionist

The perfectionist learned that mistakes were unsafe. This role often forms in homes where children were criticized, mocked, compared, overcorrected, punished, or loved most reliably when they performed well. The child learns to scan for flaws before anyone else finds them. Homework, appearance, chores, tone, grades, obedience, athletic performance, religious behavior, manners — anything can become a site of inspection. Perfection gives the child a false sense of control. If nothing is wrong, maybe no one will yell. If the grade is high enough, maybe someone will notice. If the room is clean enough, maybe the parent will stay calm. If the child becomes impressive enough, maybe love will feel less conditional.

The adult perfectionist can look very functional and be respected, productive, credentialed, organized, and reliable. Inside, they may live under a private audit that never closes. A perfectionist does not always fear failure because they are vain, often, they fear the emotional consequences attached to failure before they had any power to defend themselves. Healing requires more than “letting go” but that is difficult for a nervous system trained by humiliation, punishment, or conditional affection.

4. The Abandoned One

The abandoned child carries the injury of being left alone with too much. Sometimes abandonment is visible. A parent leaves, dies, disappears, chooses addiction, is incarcerated, starts another family, or fails to protect the child from a known threat. Other forms are quieter and often more confusing. A parent may remain physically present while emotionally absent, the child is fed but not known, housed but not protected, corrected but not comforted, watched but not understood, and the parent may be depressed, intoxicated, self-absorbed, volatile, chronically ill, dissociated, immature, or so consumed by their own trauma that the child’s inner life never enters the room.

The abandoned one may grow into an adult who expects people to leave. They may scan text messages for tone, panic over delayed replies, overattach to unavailable people, or end relationships early to avoid being left first. They may feel ashamed of their own need for reassurance because childhood taught them that need was either ignored or used against them. Some abandoned survivors cling, some detach, and some alternate between the two. Their relationship behavior is an old survival injury trying to prevent a repeat wound. The abandoned one does not need to be shamed for needing consistency. They need relationships where care is not a performance, attention is not rationed as a reward, and leaving is not used as a weapon.

5. The People Pleaser

The people pleaser learned that agreement could reduce danger. This child becomes skilled at reading what others want and delivering it quickly. They say yes before they know what they feel, apologize before blame is assigned, laugh at jokes that hurt, and accept treatment they dislike because refusal once carried consequences. People pleasing can be mistaken for kindness because many survivors are deeply compassionate, generous, and socially aware. The injury begins when kindness requires the survivor to disappear in order to keep connection, avoid conflict, or remain acceptable. A child trained this way may grow into an adult who struggles with preference. Where do you want to eat? What do you want to do? Are you comfortable with this? Simple questions can feel strangely loaded because wanting something once created risk. Wanting could inconvenience someone and inconveniencing someone could lead to anger. Anger could then lead to rejection, punishment, ridicule, or violence.

This is where the fawn response gives useful language. I’ve written about fawning before. Fawning is appeasement under perceived threat – the nervous system trying to stay safe by becoming agreeable, useful, flattering, compliant, or emotionally low-maintenance. The adult people pleaser often has to learn that honesty is not aggression, saying no is not cruelty, disappointing someone is not the same as harming them, and needing to be liked by everyone is a poor substitute for being safe with the right people.

6. The Overachiever

The overachiever tries to outrun the wound. This child may discover that achievement brings the closest thing to safety available. Good grades, awards, trophies, leadership roles, scholarships, credentials, promotions, public praise — these become proof that the child has value. Achievement becomes armor, and armor can become identity. The overachiever is often admired. They are the one who “made something” of themselves. They may be the first in the family to graduate, the dependable worker, the high performer, the professional who never drops the ball, the person everyone assumes is fine because their résumé looks intact. Yet, the private cost can be severe. Rest may feel like laziness, mistakes may feel like exposure, and a quiet weekend may bring dread because productivity has been regulating the nervous system for years. Achievement can become a socially rewarded flight response, with the survivor running from shame while everyone applauds the pace.

The overachiever should not stop achieving because some achievements are earned and worth keeping. The injury appears when accomplishment becomes the only permitted form of worth and when identity is tied to a professional title or workload. A survivor can build an extraordinary life and still be operating under childhood terms: prove yourself, stay useful, do not slow down, do not need anything, do not become a burden. Those terms need to be renegotiated in adulthood, preferably before the body starts enforcing the much-needed rest the survivor refused to take.

7. The Strong One

The strong one learned there was no reliable rescue. This child may have protected siblings, defended a parent, endured violence, managed crises, kept secrets, handled adult responsibilities, or survived in a home where vulnerability attracted contempt. They learned not to cry where anyone could see, and to fight, endure, carry, and keep moving forward. People often admire the strong one without asking what created that strength. Strength is real but often, it is forced adaptation. A child who had no safe place to fall may become an adult who cannot receive care without suspicion. Help feels dangerous, dependence feels humiliating, and softness feels like an exposed artery.

The strong one may become protective, blunt, capable, and hard to intimidate. They may also be exhausted in ways nobody sees because everyone assumes they can handle more. Families often keep loading the strongest person because that person has a history of surviving the load. Healing does not require the strong one to become fragile, it requires access to care without contempt attached to it.

8. The Silent One

The silent child learned that speaking made things worse. Maybe they were mocked, punished, or told they were lying, dramatic, disrespectful, ungrateful, too sensitive, or confused. Maybe every attempt to tell the truth was turned back on them, and maybe the adults in the home preferred denial because denial kept the house functioning. So the child stopped speaking. Silence can look passive from the outside, but it is often highly active inside. The silent child studies the room, tracks contradictions, stores details, and become witnesses without a courtroom, and historians without permission. They are children carrying testimony that nobody is willing to hear.

In adulthood, silence may appear during conflict, grief, intimacy, therapy, medical appointments, legal settings, or family confrontation. The survivor may know exactly what happened and still feel their throat close when asked to say it. The body remembers that speech once made danger worse. The silent one does not need to become loud to heal — volume is not the goal, ownership is. The voice can be quiet and still belong fully to the survivor.

9. The Parentified Child

The parentified child became the adult before childhood was finished. I’ve written about this too. This child manages what adults fail to manage. They care for siblings, soothe a parent, monitor bills, cook meals, mediate fights, translate adult emotions, keep secrets, or become the emotional partner of a lonely, unstable, addicted, overwhelmed, or immature caregiver. People may call this child mature, and he child may even feel proud of being trusted. That pride can coexist with injury because a child can be competent and still be burdened beyond their developmental capacity. Parentification often creates adults who feel responsible for everyone. They may become rescuers, therapists without a license in their own families, managers of chaos, unpaid emotional staff, or the person everyone calls during crisis but nobody checks on afterward.

They may also resent the very role they keep performing. That resentment can bring guilt because caretaking became tied to identity and love. If they stop carrying everyone, who are they? If they let someone fail, are they cruel? If they ask for help, will anyone come? The parentified child needs more than rest, they need the right to be younger than their responsibilities made them. Sometimes that means play, sometimes grief, sometimes anger, and sometimes learning to let other adults experience the consequences of their own choices.

10. The Scapegoat

The scapegoat becomes the container for the family’s denied problems. In many dysfunctional homes, the child who reacts to dysfunction is treated as more troublesome than the dysfunction itself. The child who refuses the family lie becomes “difficult.” The child who names abuse becomes “dramatic.” The child who resists control becomes “rebellious.” The child who shows symptoms becomes the identified problem. The scapegoat may be punished for seeing too much. This role can follow a survivor for decades. They may enter adulthood already carrying a false file: selfish, unstable, angry, disrespectful, impossible, ungrateful. Once a family assigns that role, every reaction can be used to confirm it. If the survivor cries, they are manipulative. If they get angry, they are abusive. If they leave, they are abandoning the family. If they speak calmly, they are cold.

The scapegoat often has a complicated relationship with anger. Their anger may be valid, but it has also been used against them so often that they distrust it or overuse it. Some become defensive before anyone attacks. Some expect to be blamed even in safe rooms. Some keep trying to prove their goodness to people invested in their guilt. The adult work begins with separating accusation from identity. Being blamed is an event — not a complete biography.

11. The Invisible Child

The invisible child survived by needing almost nothing. This child learned not to interrupt, not to ask, not to cry too loudly, not to want too much, not to take up space. They may have lived in a house dominated by addiction, violence, illness, poverty, marital conflict, a favored sibling, a high-needs sibling, or an adult who took all available emotional oxygen. The invisible child may have been praised for being “no trouble.” In some homes, “no trouble” means neglected in a socially acceptable way.

Adults who carried this role may feel uncomfortable being noticed. Compliments may feel suspicious, attention may feel like exposure, and asking for help may bring shame. They may enter rooms already assuming they are forgettable, then choose relationships that confirm the old expectation. Invisibility can become a skill. The survivor may be observant, low-maintenance, independent, and careful. Those traits can serve them well until they become a prison. A child who survived by disappearing may have to learn, slowly and awkwardly, how to occupy space without apologizing for the square footage.

12. The Caretaker / Rescuer

The caretaker learned that love meant saving people. This survivor may be drawn to people in crisis: addicted, wounded, volatile, dependent, unavailable, self-destructive, chronically victimized, or emotionally immature. They may confuse being needed with being loved because childhood taught them that usefulness was the safest form of attachment. Caretakers often have real empathy because they can sense pain in others quickly. They know how to step in, organize, calm, advise, pay, drive, defend, explain, and rescue. Many become excellent helpers in professional settings because they learned crisis response early.

The danger comes when compassion for others turns into self-abandonment. The caretaker may remain in harmful relationships because leaving feels like cruelty, may believe their love can heal someone who refuses responsibility, and may keep giving chances because they understand the person’s trauma, addiction, childhood, diagnosis, fear, grief, or shame. Understanding someone’s wound does not obligate a survivor to live under the behavior that comes from it. Caretakers often need to learn a form of compassion that includes limits, consequences, and self-protection. Otherwise, the rescue mission continues until the rescuer becomes another casualty.

13. The Performer

The performer learned to manage the room. This child may become funny, charming, talented, entertaining, impressive, seductive, dramatic in presentation, or emotionally useful. Performance becomes a way to control risk. If people are laughing, maybe they are not fighting. If adults are impressed, maybe they are less likely to reject. If the child can become interesting enough, maybe someone will stay engaged. The performer may grow into an adult who knows how to hold attention but struggles to feel known. People may know the stories, the jokes, the achievements, the persona, the timing, the public confidence, but they may not know the fear underneath all that competence.

Performance can be adaptive, humor can save a life, talent can create opportunity, and charm can help a child move through rooms that might otherwise be hostile. The injury begins when the survivor feels lovable only while entertaining, impressive, attractive, productive, or emotionally convenient. Healing requires private spaces where the survivor can stop managing the room and still remain connected. No applause, no act, and no costume — just presence without having to earn it every few minutes.

14. The Rebel

The rebel survived by refusing submission. This child pushes back, questions rules, challenges hypocrisy or authority, and refuses to comply with control disguised as discipline. In an abusive home, rebellion may be the only remaining evidence that the child still has a self. Adults may label this child defiant, oppositional, disrespectful, difficult, or unmanageable. Obviously some of that behavior can create real consequences, but the label often misses the surrounding conditions. A child resisting domination is not the same as a child rejecting healthy authority. The rebel role can preserve dignity, but it also keeps the nervous system on permanent alert.

The adult rebel may experience every request as control, every correction as humiliation, every rule as a threat, and every authority figure as an enemy waiting to be exposed. The work is discernment, not submission. Some limits are abusive, and some are healthy. Some authority figures are dangerous, and some are competent. Some conflicts require refusal, and some require negotiation. Trauma can make all of those feel the same at first. The rebel does not need to surrender their fire, they need enough safety and discernment to decide where that fire belongs.

15. The Numb One

The numb survivor learned to disconnect. When escape is impossible and pain exceeds capacity, the mind may create distance. This can look like emotional detachment, memory gaps, dissociation, chronic distraction, shutdown, or the sense of watching life through glass. Other people may misread this as indifference and that misread can add another layer of harm. A survivor may already feel broken because they did not react the way they think a victim is supposed to react. They may ask why they did not scream, fight, cry, leave, tell, or remember everything in order. The body’s emergency responses are not moral choices. Numbness can be the nervous system’s way of reducing injury when no better option exists. It may allow the child to sit at the dinner table, go to school, answer questions, survive the next day, and keep functioning inside circumstances that should never have been required of them.

In adulthood, numbness may interfere with intimacy, pleasure, grief, sexuality, parenting, friendship, faith, work, and self-recognition. The survivor may know something was terrible and still feel detached while saying it. That detachment deserves care, not contempt. It was once protection, but now it may need patient and skilled help so the survivor can return to the body at a tolerable pace.

16. The Watcher

The watcher learned that observation could prevent harm. This child studies people, learns micro-changes in mood, posture, pacing, language, volume, and silence. They may sit near exits, track who has been drinking, monitor who is irritated, and notice details other people miss. The watcher can grow into a highly perceptive adult. In some professions, this becomes useful: forensics, investigation, therapy, law enforcement, emergency work, advocacy, crisis response, teaching, medicine, journalism, behavioral analysis. The same skill that once protected the child can later serve real work even though hyper-observation also extracts a cost.

The watcher may struggle to relax because the room always feels unfinished. They may scan faces during conversations, read threat into ambiguity, and feel responsible for predicting what others will do next. Quiet environments may not feel peaceful. They may feel like the pause before impact. The watcher’s skill is real. but so is the exhaustion. Healing may involve learning when observation is needed and when the room can simply be a room.

17. The Fixer

The fixer learned to repair what adults kept breaking. This child steps into practical problems. They clean up messes, calm arguments, solve logistics, cover for adults, smooth over embarrassment, manage younger children, or repair emotional damage after someone else loses control. The fixer becomes useful because usefulness reduces danger and sometimes brings praise. In adulthood, the fixer may respond to pain with action. Someone mentions a problem, and the fixer begins solving. Someone cries, and the fixer searches for the cause. Someone is upset, and the fixer tries to make it stop. They may struggle to sit with discomfort because childhood taught them that unresolved discomfort meant danger was still active.

Fixers often become competent people. They know how to make calls, file forms, organize chaos, handle emergencies, and get things done while others are still processing. That competence has value in the everyday world. The injury appears when the fixer cannot stop fixing, especially when nobody asked or when the problem belongs to someone else. They may feel anxious around grief, anger, illness, or silence because those states cannot always be repaired on command. Some pain needs witnessing before intervention, some people need responsibility more than rescue, and some situations are not the survivor’s job, even if they know exactly how to handle them.

18. The Lost Child

The lost child escapes inward. This child may retreat into books, animals, fantasy, music, nature, religion, school, imaginary worlds, online spaces, private rituals, or long periods alone. Withdrawal becomes safer than engagement. If the family is chaotic, the inner world may be the only place with order. The lost child is sometimes confused with the invisible child, but the emphasis is different. The invisible child tries not to take up space. The lost child relocates the self somewhere else. This role can create creativity, depth, spiritual sensitivity, intellectual independence, and an unusual capacity for solitude.

It can also leave the adult survivor feeling detached from social life, unsure how to belong, and more comfortable observing connection than participating in it. The lost child may have learned to expect little from people and a great deal from private worlds. That adaptation may have saved them, but it may also leave them lonely in adulthood, especially when the old escape routes no longer provide enough relief. Healing may begin with safe return, not forced social performance or sudden exposure. A gradual return to selected people, selected rooms, selected forms of connection where the survivor does not have to abandon the inner world in order to join the outer one.

When the Role Outlives the Danger

Survival roles are intelligent — they form for reasons.

The loyal child protected attachment.
The peacemaker reduced conflict.
The perfectionist lowered criticism.
The abandoned one prepared for loss.
The people pleaser avoided retaliation.
The overachiever built escape routes.
The strong one endured what nobody stopped.
The silent one preserved truth internally when truth was unsafe externally.
The parentified child kept the household functioning.
The scapegoat carried what the family refused to face.
The invisible child avoided becoming a target.
The caretaker maintained connection through usefulness.
The performer controlled attention.
The rebel protected dignity.
The numb one reduced overwhelm.
The watcher tracked threat.
The fixer repaired instability.
The lost child found refuge inside.

A survivor may leave the abusive home and still live as if every room has the same rules. They may marry, work, parent, lead, advocate, study, teach, investigate, heal others, and still carry the old assignment underneath. Be useful. Be quiet. Be perfect. Be entertaining. Be loyal. Be strong. Be invisible. Be ready.

Complex trauma often turns adaptation into identity. The survivor may believe they are “just like this,” as if the role was temperament rather than training. Some of it may have become temperament by now. Repetition changes people, but learning how something formed gives the adult more room to choose what stays. Healing does not require contempt for the role, that role helped the child survive. The deeper task is reviewing the old assignment with adult authority.

The loyal child may keep devotion but release secrecy.
The peacemaker may keep sensitivity but stop absorbing every conflict.
The perfectionist may keep excellence but release terror of mistakes.
The abandoned one may keep tenderness without expecting every love to leave.
The people pleaser may keep kindness with an honest no available.
The overachiever may keep ambition without using achievement as anesthesia.
The strong one may keep endurance while learning to receive help.
The silent one may keep observation while reclaiming speech.
The parentified child may keep competence without raising every adult in the room.
The scapegoat may keep truth-telling without carrying assigned shame.
The invisible child may keep privacy without disappearing.
The caretaker may keep compassion without volunteering for collapse.
The performer may keep humor and talent without earning every connection.
The rebel may keep fire with better aim.
The numb one may keep pacing while returning to feeling gradually.
The watcher may keep perception without living on patrol.
The fixer may keep skill without repairing what others refuse to own.
The lost child may keep the inner world while allowing carefully chosen people near the door.

None of this happens because somebody reads a list and decides to be different by Tuesday.

These roles are held in the body, in relational memory, in the stress response, in shame, in family training, in spiritual injury, in grief, and in the private bargains children make when they have no power. Good therapy can help. So can stable relationships, trauma-informed medical care, recovery communities, writing, faith, animals, movement, grief work, and the slow practice of telling the truth without collapsing afterward.

A numbered list cannot heal complex trauma, but it can give a survivor a map of the rooms they keep entering. For some, the first step is recognizing the role. For others, it is grieving the age at which the role began. And for many, it is finally asking a question childhood never allowed: Who was I before survival assigned me a role?

The answer may not arrive quickly. It may come in fragments — a preference, a memory, a refusal, a new tolerance for rest, a sentence spoken without apology, a relationship that does not require performance, a day when the body finally believes the old danger is no longer in the room.

The role did its job — the adult is allowed to review the assignment now.

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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

Sources

American Psychiatric Association. (2022). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed., text rev.). American Psychiatric Association Publishing.

Brewin, C. R., Cloitre, M., Hyland, P., Shevlin, M., Maercker, A., Bryant, R. A., Humayun, A., Jones, L. M., Kagee, A., Rousseau, C., Somasundaram, D., Suzuki, Y., Wessely, S., van Ommeren, M., & Reed, G. M. (2017). A review of current evidence regarding the ICD-11 proposals for diagnosing PTSD and complex PTSD. Clinical Psychology Review, 58, 1–15.

Cloitre, M., Hyland, P., Bisson, J. I., Brewin, C. R., Roberts, N. P., Karatzias, T., & Shevlin, M. (2019). ICD-11 posttraumatic stress disorder and complex posttraumatic stress disorder in the United States: A population-based study. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 32(6), 833–842.

Herman, J. L. (1992). Complex PTSD: A syndrome in survivors of prolonged and repeated trauma. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 5(3), 377–391.

Herman, J. L. (2015). Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence—from domestic abuse to political terror (2nd ed.). Basic Books.

Karatzias, T., Shevlin, M., Fyvie, C., Hyland, P., Efthymiadou, E., Wilson, D., Roberts, N., Bisson, J. I., Brewin, C. R., & Cloitre, M. (2017). Evidence of distinct profiles of posttraumatic stress disorder and complex posttraumatic stress disorder based on the new ICD-11 trauma questionnaire. Journal of Affective Disorders, 207, 181–187.

Larsen, S. E. (2025). Complex PTSD: History and definitions. U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD.

World Health Organization. (2026). International classification of diseases for mortality and morbidity statistics (11th rev.). World Health Organization.

I sound like a horrible daughter, don’t I? Maybe. Maybe not. I’m one of three daughters who don’t talk to or only very rarely talk to my mom. I won’t speak for my sisters, but I have many reasons for hoarding my words and time. As the eldest, and only 18 years younger than my mom, I filled her “best friend” role for most of my life.  As an adult, that role sometimes translated to positive experiences together, but other times, in not-so-healthy ways, like becoming drinking buddies.

When I was a kid, Mom most often called me her best friend when she sobbed in my arms. I remember one time, when I was about 12 or 13 years old, wrapping her in my arms on the kitchen floor. She cried heavy, barking sobs into my chest. As I sat on the floor in the middle of the night, helpless and confused, Mom insisted again that I was her best friend. I’d just wrestled a kitchen knife out of her hands that she’d threatened to stab herself with. (This might explain why I also long struggled in the friendship department–it took me a while to learn what true friendship looks like.)

Now, at only 61 years old, my mom has been put into assisted living. She can’t take care of herself anymore. In my opinion, she never has…taken care of herself, I mean. Despite this, I feel profound grief for her situation. All our situations, really. Because my mom is more than alcoholism, mental illness, and a disease ultimately created through the combination of those things. My mom was also one of the smartest, sharpest, and most tenacious people I’ve ever met. Many of the good things I value in myself wouldn’t have flourished if not for her. In some ways, those things grew in me because she planted and nurtured the seeds in ways she could. In other ways, I thrived just to prove I could, and because I was determined to never need anyone the way she needed me. I didn’t want to drain anyone of their vitality the way I felt stripped of mine.

I’m writing this article because it really pisses me off when people assume that children who cut off parents do so with ease and callousness. There is nothing easy about this. I love my mom. I care about her. I have compassion for her. And…I just can’t do it anymore. As I heal, the emotion that rises to the top again and again and again is grief.  I’ve mourned my mom from many angles, many times, in many ways. I’ve mourned for a childhood where I felt safe and loved without conditions. I mourned for a relationship with my mom where I didn’t have to also calculate the cost of her affection and attention.

I’ve mourned on her behalf for all the things she missed out on because she couldn’t be present in the ways we–and she—deserved. Now I mourn a future she will never have because the chains of the past have permanently bound her.

Like me, Mom grew up in someone else’s nightmare. She never escaped but instead created new scenes. Not all of them were horrific or tragic. Some of them were heroic. She got her GED a few years after dropping out of high school, pregnant with me. In her early twenties, with four kids under the age of seven, she started college. She was the first in her family to earn a college degree. She did it with honors.

In some ways, she set solid examples and, at times, I truly did feel her love in strong and powerful ways. In other moments where I offered consolation and comfort, I felt a profound sadness and the deepest well of hopelessness one can imagine emanating from her. I know my mom did not want these things for herself. Or her kids.

She always said, “I want to do better for you than was done for me.” I think she succeeded and failed because here we are, repeating the same cycle. Throughout most of my childhood, my mom didn’t talk to her mom. When we mentioned Grandma, Mom shut us down and couldn’t conceal her strong negative feelings. Eventually, they reconciled, but Mom rejected her mom throughout most of her adult life. I wish it were not this way, but I feel like the only way I can make sure that this isn’t repeated with my daughter is for me to heal. I can’t heal when I’m locked in caretaker mode. My mom doesn’t know how to see me any other way. The only way to resign from that role was to walk away completely. So, I did.

I’m afraid to watch someone I once saw such tenacity and intelligence in flounder to perform basic daily functions. I don’t want to see her that way, which is interesting because, in some ways, that intelligence and willpower allowed her to manipulate me and situations in ways that crushed me. I don’t know who she is without them in her arsenal. As much as those parts of her hurt me, I’m sad that she lost the things that gave her some sense of control in a chaotic life. I understand why she wielded them; they were self-protective. And…they tended to hurt those in her wake, me included.

My mom’s mental decline happened to coincide with the long-overdue resurrection of myself. I’ve been in therapy for over two years, and sometimes, between individual, couples, and group therapy, I attend up to five hours of therapy a week. I work hard between sessions to practice new coping strategies, assert boundaries, and engage in self-care. It’s working because I’m working so hard to heal. Sometimes it pisses me off that I have to bust my ass to come out the other end of this thing and that I can’t have the kind of relationship with my mom that I longed for.  I’m enraged that I have to work this hard to feel safe, secure, and happy.

This self-restoration has brought piping red, long-submerged anger to the surface, but there’s more than that.  I’m devastated for her. As much as I know it was out of her control–essentially two diseases, alcoholism and mental illness, paved the way to another disease, WKS–I’m so angry that it took her down. I’m furious with her for not fighting harder. I’m pissed at myself for not “saving” her. Sometimes I don’t know where to put all that anger.

I don’t want to fight my mom because it’s not a fair battle. Once again, there’s an unbalanced power dynamic. This time I’m in “power.” I could potentially use it to pulverize the final shreds of her. I don’t want to. Not even a little bit. So, I’m going to keep walking the other way. The anger, for now, keeps me safe.

Beyond the anger, though, I’m so damn sad. I don’t want to see my mom suffer. That young child in me, who soothed her so many times, wishes she could save Mom just one more time. But that little girl in me can’t. I can’t. So, my mom’s house stands vacant and for sale. I never visited. Not once. Now, she lives somewhere where strangers will do the things that I can’t. Not because I don’t want to, but because I just can’t. Not anymore. This choice doesn’t feel like a choice at all, but it’s what I must do for now. I must continue to move on.

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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

When Your Nervous System Needs a Moment

Bellamy wiped down another table, trying to ignore the growing tightness in their chest. The lunch rush at the diner had been particularly chaotic today—too many sounds, too many demands, a customer who reminded them of someone from their past. The familiar buzzing sensation started spreading through their limbs.

Not now. Please not now.

Their coworker Maylyn noticed their hands trembling slightly as they stacked plates.

“Hey, I’ve got this section. Take five if you need it,” she whispered.

Bellamy nodded gratefully and headed toward the bathroom, their safe haven during shifts when everything became too much. Once inside a stall, they leaned against the cool tile wall and took a shaky breath.

It’s happening again. I’m not in danger. My body is trying to protect me.

Working With, Not Against Your Nervous System

What Bellamy is experiencing isn’t weakness—it’s their nervous system doing exactly what it was designed to do: protect them. For people with Complex PTSD, the brain’s alarm system has been calibrated through painful experiences to be extra vigilant.

Your body isn’t broken when it responds this way. It’s actually trying to keep you safe based on what it’s learned from the past. The key isn’t fighting against these responses or powering through them—it’s working with your nervous system, acknowledging its efforts to protect you, and gently guiding it back to a state where you can function.

When These Techniques Are Most Helpful

These techniques are first-aid tools for your nervous system – they’re not replacements for long-term therapy but can help you function in the moment. They’re especially helpful for:

Non-specific anxiety or panic: When your nervous system is overactivated but there isn’t an immediate concrete threat that needs addressing.

Trauma-related distress: When you’re experiencing flashbacks, emotional flooding, or body sensations that are connected to past trauma rather than present danger. These are situations where your body is responding as if you’re in danger even when you’re currently safe.

If you’re experiencing dissociation or feeling numb: Start with gentle touch (e.g., rubbing your palms together or tracing your arm) before trying colder or stronger sensations. Grounding techniques that provide gentle sensory input are usually most helpful when feeling disconnected.

For situations involving concrete present concerns (waiting for important test results, preparing for a difficult conversation, facing potential job loss, or dealing with relationship issues), these techniques can still help regulate your nervous system so you can think more clearly. However, they aren’t meant to replace addressing the actual situation. In these cases:

1. Use these techniques first to calm your physiological response
2. Once regulated, you can then engage in problem-solving, decision-making, or seeking support for the actual situation
3. Remember that anxiety about real-life concerns is valid and sometimes appropriate

If negative self-beliefs are dominant (thoughts like “I’m worthless,” “I’m a failure,” “No one cares about me”), combine regulation techniques with gentle reality testing once you’re calmer. Ask yourself: “What evidence supports or contradicts this belief?” and “How would I respond to a friend who felt this way?”

Important note: If any technique feels activating or increases your distress, simply stop and try another. We all respond differently, and what works today might not work tomorrow.

The techniques below are arranged in order of what your body can typically respond to first when in distress. Physical and sensory techniques come before cognitive ones because your thinking brain often can’t fully engage until your body feels safer. If you have physical limitations, adapt techniques: use your breath instead of tapping, or visualize sensations instead of physical pressure.

Download Printable PDF

15 Quick Bathroom Stall Resets

Physical Regulation First

1. Cold Water Facial Reset

What it is: Splashing cold water specifically on your forehead, around your eyes, and cheeks.

Why it works: This triggers your mammalian dive reflex—an automatic response that quickly slows your heart rate, reduces breathing rate, and shifts your nervous system from fight-or-flight toward rest-and-digest. It’s like hitting a biological reset button.

How to do it: Cup cold water in your hands and press it against your face, especially around your eyes and cheeks, for 15-30 seconds. If you’re in a stall without immediate access to a sink, you can use a cold water bottle pressed against these areas, or take several paper towels, wet them with cold water before entering the stall, and press them against your face, focusing on the areas around your eyes, forehead, and cheeks. While not as effective as running water, the coolness can still help activate the calming response.

2. Vagus Nerve Stimulation

What it is: Simple exercises that activate your vagus nerve—the superhighway of your parasympathetic (“rest and digest”) nervous system.

Why it works: Your vagus nerve helps regulate many bodily functions including heart rate and stress response. Stimulating it sends calming signals throughout your body.

How to do it:

• Hum softly to yourself for 30 seconds (feel the vibration in your throat)
• Make the same motion and muscle engagement as if you were gargling water, but without liquid – just the throat movement and gentle vibration
• At the back of your head where your skull meets your neck (about 2 inches up from where your neck begins), use your thumbs or index and middle fingers to press gently for 30-60 seconds on either side of your spine, applying gentle pressure and small circular motions

Download Printable PDF

3. Butterfly Hug

What it is: A self-administered form of bilateral stimulation (moving attention back and forth between sides of the body).

Why it works: This technique, inspired by EMDR therapy, helps integrate emotional processing by engaging both brain hemispheres and provides gentle, rhythmic self-touch that can be grounding.

How to do it: Cross your arms over your chest, hands on opposite shoulders. Alternate gentle taps on each shoulder while taking slow breaths. Tap at a slow, steady rhythm – about one tap per second or slightly slower. This isn’t rapid tapping but a deliberate, rhythmic movement that allows you to feel each tap fully. Even just 30 seconds can be helpful if you’re short on time.

4. Starfish Breathing

What it is: A visual breathing technique using your hand.

Why it works: The combination of touch, visual focus, and controlled breathing accesses multiple sensory channels, giving your overwhelmed brain something concrete to focus on while naturally slowing your breath.

How to do it: Hold one hand up with fingers spread. Using your other hand’s index finger, trace up your thumb as you inhale, down as you exhale. Continue around each finger, syncing breath with the movement. Imagine you’re tracing the outline of your hand on paper – going up the outside of each finger as you inhale, and down the inside of the finger as you exhale.

5. Progressive Muscle Relaxation (Quick Version)

What it is: A rapid tension-and-release exercise moving through major muscle groups.

Why it works: Muscle tension is a physical component of anxiety. By deliberately tensing and releasing muscles, you break the physical anxiety cycle and send safety signals to your brain.

How to do it: Tense and release these areas for 5 seconds each: feet, calves, thighs, buttocks, stomach, hands, arms, shoulders, neck, and face. For your face, scrunch up all facial muscles tightly – furrow your brow, squeeze your eyes shut, purse your lips, and clench your jaw – hold for 5 seconds, then release completely, feeling the tension melt away.

6. Hair Tugging/Scalp Massage

What it is: Gentle stimulation of the scalp through light pulling or massage.

Why it works: Your scalp has many nerve endings, and stimulating them can reduce muscle tension while providing sensory input that draws you back into your body when you’re starting to disconnect.

How to do it: Using your fingertips, apply firm pressure to your scalp and make small circular motions. Or gently grasp sections of hair near the roots and apply slight tension for a few seconds.

7. Acupressure Points

What it is: Applying pressure to specific points on your body that can help reduce stress and anxiety.

Why it works: These points connect to meridians (energy pathways) in traditional medicine and stimulating them may influence your nervous system and trigger relaxation responses.

How to do it: These two points are particularly effective and easy to find:

• Press the point between your eyebrows (at the center, sometimes called the ‘third eye’ point) with your index or middle finger, applying firm pressure for 30-60 seconds
• Press the spot between your thumb and index finger (the webbing) using the thumb and index finger of your opposite hand for 30-60 seconds

Optional additional points if you have time:

• Press the center of your palm with the thumb of your opposite hand for 30-60 seconds
• Press the point three finger-widths below your belly button with gentle pressure for 30-60 seconds

8. EFT Tapping Sequence

What it is: A simplified version of Emotional Freedom Techniques that involves tapping on specific meridian points.

Why it works: The physical tapping sends activating signals to the amygdala (your brain’s alarm center) while you’re in a safe environment, helping to recalibrate its threat response.

How to do it: Begin by tapping the “karate chop” point (the outer edge of your hand, below your little finger) while saying a setup phrase that acknowledges your feelings: “Even though I’m feeling [anxious/overwhelmed/scared], I deeply and completely accept myself.” Repeat this three times, then while taking slow breaths, use your fingertips to tap these points 5-7 times each, briefly naming the feeling (“this anxiety,” “this overwhelm”) as you tap:

• Top of the head
• Eyebrow (inner edge)
• Side of the eye
• Under the eye
• Under the nose
• Chin
• Collarbone
• Under the arm (about 4 inches down from armpit)
• Inside of wrists

9. Donna Eden’s Celtic Weave

What it is: A movement that crosses energy over the midline of your body.

Why it works: This technique helps reorganize your body’s energy systems, particularly when they feel scattered or fragmented during distress.

How to do it: The complete Celtic Weave involves:

1. Cross your hands in front of you at the wrists
2. Interlace your fingers
3. Roll your hands inward toward your body and up under your chin
4. Continue lifting until your interlaced fingers rest on your chest
5. Take a deep breath
6. On the exhale, separate your hands and sweep them out and around your body as if tracing your energy field

A simplified version: Stand and cross your arms in front of you, hands on opposite shoulders. Then open your arms wide. Repeat this crossing and opening motion 5-7 times, breathing deeply.

For a complete demonstration, searching “Donna Eden Celtic Weave” on YouTube will provide visual guidance. Even the simplified crossing motion can be helpful when a full demonstration isn’t available.

Moving Toward Mental Regulation

10. Quick Sensory Grounding (5-4-3-2-1)

What it is: A technique that uses your five senses to anchor you to the present moment.

Why it works: When panic or flashbacks hijack your brain, sensory awareness redirects neural activity to the present instead of past trauma or future fears.

How to do it: Name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell (or like to smell), and 1 thing you can taste (or like to taste).

11. Box Breathing

What it is: A simple, structured breathing pattern.

Why it works: Controlling your breath directly influences your autonomic nervous system, telling your body it’s safe to relax. The counting gives your mind something to focus on besides fear.

How to do it: Inhale for a count of 4, hold for 4, exhale for 4, hold for 4. Repeat for at least 4 cycles.

12. Body Boundary Reinforcement

What it is: Physically reinforcing awareness of where your body begins and ends.

Why it works: During dissociation, your sense of physical boundary can blur. This exercise reestablishes those boundaries through touch and attention.

How to do it: Starting at your head, firmly trace the outline of your body with your hands. Apply pressure as you move down your face, neck, shoulders, arms, torso, legs, and feet. Say internally: “This is me. This is where I begin and end.”

13. Orienting Exercise

What it is: Deliberately looking around your environment for signs of safety.

Why it works: When your trauma response activates, you’re responding to danger that likely isn’t present now. This exercise helps your brain update its threat assessment.

How to do it: Slowly scan your surroundings, naming specific things that signal safety: “The door locks. I can leave anytime. No one can enter without my knowing. The floor is solid beneath me.”

14. Thought Defusion

What it is: Creating distance between yourself and distressing thoughts.

Why it works: This technique helps you recognize that thoughts aren’t reality and don’t require immediate action or belief, especially trauma-triggered thoughts.

How to do it: Notice a distressing thought and try one of these:

• Mentally prefix it with “I’m having the thought that…” or “I’m noticing I’m having the thought that…”
• Imagine the thought written on water or clouds passing by
• Thank your mind: “Thanks, mind, for trying to protect me”
• If it feels appropriate (and only if it doesn’t feel dismissive of your experience), giving the thought a different voice can create helpful distance
• Visualize thoughts as leaves floating down a stream or text scrolling on a screen

15. Non-Gaslighting Affirmations

What it is: Brief, truthful statements that acknowledge both your distress and your capacity to move through it.

Why it works: Unlike toxic positivity or denial, these statements honor your experience while gently redirecting your focus toward resources and resilience.

How to do it: Repeat one of these (or create your own that feels true):

• “This feeling is temporary. I’ve survived it before.”
• “This feeling will pass.”
• “My body is trying to protect me. I am responding normally to abnormal experiences.”
• “I am here now, not then.”
• “I can feel this and still take the next breath.”
• “My nervous system is loud right now. I can listen without obeying.”

What May Be Counterproductive

Some common suggestions can actually make things worse when you’re in a trauma response:

1. Telling yourself to “calm down” or “get over it” Why it’s unhelpful: This creates internal conflict and shame, adding another layer of stress when your nervous system is already overwhelmed.

2. Complicated visualization exercises Why it’s unhelpful: When in high distress, complex mental tasks can be impossible to follow and create more frustration.

3. Deep breathing without other regulation first Why it’s unhelpful: If you’re hyperventilating or in panic, focusing only on breath can sometimes increase awareness of breathing difficulties and worsen anxiety.

4. Positive affirmations that deny your experience Why it’s unhelpful: Statements like “I am completely calm and at peace” when you’re neither calm nor at peace can create a sense of gaslighting yourself.

5. Staying completely still when your body wants to move Why it’s unhelpful: Sometimes trauma responses include excess energy that needs physical discharge.

Remember

These techniques aren’t about “fixing” you, because you aren’t broken. They’re tools to communicate with a nervous system that’s doing exactly what it learned to do to keep you alive. With practice, these resets can become automatic responses that help you navigate a world that sometimes feels overwhelming.

After using any technique, take a moment to notice any shifts in your body or mind. You might quietly ask yourself: “What do I notice now? What do I need next?” This simple check-in honors your experience and builds your self-awareness.

For more comprehensive approaches to healing, consider exploring trauma-informed therapy, somatic experiencing, trauma-sensitive yoga, or similar modalities that address trauma responses through both body and mind.

Bellamy splashed cold water on their face, did a quick butterfly hug, and took four box breaths. The buzzing sensation began to recede. They whispered to their reflection: “This feeling is temporary. I’ve survived it before.”

And they had. They always did. Bellamy stepped back into the diner, their breath steady now, ready for the next moment—one reset at a time.

Copyright Notice: This excerpt is from my forthcoming book. All content is © 2026 Worldwide Groove Corporation. Unauthorized reproduction, distribution, or use of this material without permission is prohibited. Thank you for respecting my work. 😊

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

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

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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

Recently, he asked me what principle I live by. He gave his own principle as an example:

“If you are behind me, I will protect you.

If you are beside me, I will respect you.

If you are in front of me, no mercy.”

Then as teenagers sometimes do, he quickly launched a ballistic missile at me: “but you’re Christian, so you will just say let God handle everything.”

We had a brief, productive conversation that included my experience that Christianity doesn’t expect us to ignore evil but to use wisdom and discernment. We acknowledge its existence. It teaches us to forgive, but it doesn’t require us to forget. And forgiveness means not pursuing vengeance on your own and allowing it to consume you. We have the justice system for that.

It was a nice mother/son moment, which has left me pondering the issue of evil, or if you are not religiously minded, criminality, abuse, harm to others, disregard for others, whatever you want to call it.

I could take this discussion towards theology, philosophy, or other disciplines.

But, I want to keep this practical.

My son is asking many questions, and some of those questions have been asked for millennia without satisfying answers. 

One thing he is wrestling with it whether he is “different” because of his father’s actions.

This has me thinking about the phrase “damaged goods,” which many victims of abuse grapple with, and I think it is partly because society overall has difficulty pointing fingers at multiple perpetrators. If a father sexually abuses his child, and the mother doesn’t take action to protect her child, she becomes an enabler, an accomplice. Who points the finger at her? Dysfunctional family systems ignore this. Society as a whole ignores this.

Why does society call the victim damaged goods? And it does happen. It has happened to me.

Calling the victim damaged goods is in many ways blaming the victim. Society prefers the narrative of the ‘flawed victim’ because it lets us keep believing that most families are safe and most parents are inherently protective. Naming the perpetrator and the enabler shatters that comforting illusion. It accepts appearances rather than substance.

Look at the linguistics surrounding these topics.

A victim of child sexual abuse is called mentally ill, defective, damaged, broken, scarred, delusional, liar.

A perpetrator of child sexual abuse is called troubled, sick, complicated, misunderstood, or worst of all…the victim of lies.

The language to describe a perpetrator almost begs you to be sympathetic towards the perp.

It took me many years to ask these questions. Just because my grandfather was a child molester and I his victim, why does that make me the damaged one?

Isn’t he the damaged human being, the one committing crimes, the one inflicting harm? If he has the capability to be cruel, why isn’t he defective? If my mother failed to protect me, why isn’t she “different” from animal mothers who have robust maternal instincts to protect against a direct attack by a predator. 

Frequently, I run across an anecdote on social media that goes like this:

“My therapist said, people who need therapy don’t come to us, their victims do.”

We need to reject the idea that we are damaged goods. We aren’t on the clearance rack because of some defect. As victims, we need to assertively embrace this concept, internalize it, and speak out about it. 

Back to my son:

His dad has not been physically abusive. He developed a rare form of dementia when our son was young, and this dementia caused psychosis. We separated when our son was 6 years old. His dad disappeared for years. Then suddenly, he reappeared a couple of years ago. He still had parental rights and wanted to visit with our son. At first, things went well. They had fun. Then little by little, I could tell the relationship was turning south.

One day, my son came home from a visit and announced he never wants to see his dad again. He didn’t want to tell his dad directly, thus putting me in the middle. Dad filed a motion in court for custody. Our son is old enough to have his voice heard in court, so he told the family court mediator, then he spoke directly to the judge. My son got what he wanted, and dad lost all of his rights.

Trying to deal with a person literally out of touch with reality can be extremely disorienting. And it can be extremely emotionally abusive. It doesn’t matter if his dad can’t control it or isn’t responsible for his illness. The effect is the same on our son.

When my son asked me if he is being cruel to his dad by going no contact, my response was, “I think you are being honest with your feelings.”

My son isn’t responsible for his father’s illness. He isn’t responsible for his father’s choices. He isn’t responsible for fixing a relationship that has become unsafe for him.

He is responsible only for being honest about what he experiences.

That may be one of the hardest lessons for victims of abuse to learn.

We are not broken; we are witnesses. We are not defective; we are people who learned survival strategies that once kept us alive and now can be updated.

Honesty is not cruelty.

Setting boundaries is not cruelty.

Speaking truth is not cruelty.

Being harmed does not make you damaged goods.

It means someone else caused harm.

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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

That wording problem can follow a trauma survivor for years. Once a person is labeled angry, people often stop looking for the condition underneath the reaction. They hear irritation and assume hostility. They see impatience and assume aggression. They watch someone go from calm to overwhelmed in seconds and decide the person has a temper, when the clinical picture may be far more specific.

Frustration usually begins with obstruction. Something is in the way. A plan fails. A task will not work. A person is trying to get through the day and another delay, demand, noise, or correction lands in the middle of already limited tolerance. The reaction may be sharp, but the center of it is blocked movement. The person is not necessarily trying to attack anyone, they are trying to get past something they do not have the internal room to handle well.

That low tolerance can come from many places: poor sleep, chronic pain, depression, neurological fatigue, untreated anxiety, trauma load, financial stress, caregiving demands, sensory overload, or too many years of functioning without enough recovery. A person who becomes frustrated quickly may need accountability for how they speak, but the first clinical question should be what their system is already carrying before the obstacle appears.

Irritability works differently–It is not always tied to one blocked goal. Rather, it is a lowered threshold across the person’s whole nervous system. The sound is too much, the question is too much, the repeated interruption is too much, the harmless delay feels intrusive, and the minor inconvenience lands with more force than necessary. In trauma work, irritability often sits close to hyperarousal. The person is not resting in the room because their body is scanning it. Small changes get registered as possible trouble–a tone of voice, a slammed cabinet, an unexpected touch, a crowded store, a slow driver, a vague text message, or someone standing too close. By the time the person explains the reaction, the reaction has already happened.

That is one reason behaviors of trauma survivors are often misinterpreted. The outside world sees the edge, hears the bite in the sentence, and sees the face change. It may never see the body underneath it trying to manage threat, fatigue, shame, noise, memory, and fear in the same instant. From the outside, irritability can look like contempt. From the inside, it may feel like being crowded by life.

Anger has a different force behind it. Usually, anger carries the perception of harm, threat, insult, violation, betrayal, injustice, or danger. It has a push in it–it wants correction, distance, protection, confrontation, or relief. Anger can be appropriate when feeling abused, exploited, lied to, cornered, or harmed. A complete lack of anger in the face of violation is not health–it’s often shutdown wearing a peace mask. The problem comes when anger becomes intimidation, punishment, cruelty, verbal aggression, physical aggression, or emotional control. Trauma may explain how the person got there, but it does not excuse staying there. A trauma history can help identify the route into the reaction, but it cannot make other people responsible for absorbing the damage.

That is where the language has to be exact. “I am frustrated” usually means something is blocking me. “I am irritable” usually means my threshold is low and too many things are hitting too hard. “I am angry” usually means I perceive harm, threat, injustice, or violation. Those states can overlap, but they are not the same clinical event, and they should not be treated as if they are.

The common claim that “real anger only lasts seven seconds” is too neat for human behavior. The first physiological spike may be brief because the body can surge quickly and begin to settle if the threat passes. But anger can last when the person keeps mentally returning to the injury, when the source of the injury remains present, when shame has turned defensive, when fear has not been named, or when the person has learned over years that escalation is the only way to get a response. Many people are not walking around in pure anger–they are walking around with fear under armor, grief with a voice, shame sharpened into defense, or exhaustion that has lost its manners.

For trauma survivors, better language can interrupt years of self-mislabeling. A person who says, “I am angry all the time,” may discover they are frustrated by repeated obstruction, irritable from chronic hyperarousal, and angry only when a real or perceived violation occurs. That difference can change the work because it can move the person from self-condemnation into self-examination without removing responsibility for repair.

For families, friends, and clinicians, the same precision can slow down lazy judgment. Not every sharp response is rage, not every impatient sentence is hostility, and not every withdrawal is contempt. Sometimes the person is overloaded, not cruel. Sometimes they are frightened, not defiant. Sometimes they are trying to stay present while the body is already preparing to leave, fight, freeze, or disappear.

None of that gives trauma the right to run the household, the therapy room, the workplace, or the relationship. People living with trauma still have to learn how their reactions land on others, they still have to apologize when they wound someone, and they still have to build enough self-awareness to say, “I am overloaded,” instead of making the room pay for an old injury.

But the people around them have a duty, too, especially in clinical and caregiving settings. They need to stop using “angry” as a catch-all word for every uncomfortable emotional display. Mislabeling does not calm anyone down. It usually drives the person further into defense because now they are not only dysregulated; they are being inaccurately described while trying to regain control. A better vocabulary will not heal trauma, repair a nervous system, erase history, or excuse bad conduct, but it does give everyone a more honest place to begin. Frustration asks what is blocked. Irritability asks what is overloaded. Anger asks what has been threatened or violated.

Once the wrong word is used, the wrong story usually follows. In trauma work, the wrong story can keep a person trapped inside a label that was never clinically accurate in the first place.

Sources

American Psychiatric Association. (2022). Diagnostic and statistical manual of mental disorders (5th ed., text rev.). American Psychiatric Association Publishing.

American Psychological Association. (2017). Clinical practice guideline for the treatment of posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD) in adults. American Psychological Association.

National Institute of Mental Health. (2024). Post-traumatic stress disorder. National Institute of Mental Health.

U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD. (2025). Anger and trauma. U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD. (2025). Complex PTSD: History and definitions. U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

World Health Organization. (2024). International classification of diseases for mortality and morbidity statistics (11th rev.). World Health Organization.

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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

He was her brother,
though the family never seemed
to claim him as its own.

He walked through rooms
like a guest who had overstayed,
apologizing with his silence,
expecting every kindness
to come with a condition.

As a child,
he carried burdens
that no kid should ever have known–
learning to endure
before he ever learned to dream.

Endurance became his language.
He memorized calculated routines
instead of bedtime stories,
mistook alertness for breathing,
and carried grief too heavy for hands
that should have only held toys.

She admired him
not because he was unbreakable,
but because every broken place
taught him how to carry his armor.

She knew the cost of his silence.

No one understood how hard he fought
just to believe tomorrow would come,
without bearing another impossible price.

And when a child spends years coping,
sometimes growing up does not look like becoming stronger–
it looks more like learning how to survive unseen.

He didn’t grow up–
he grew distant.

That was the tragedy.
Not unharmed–
never untouched–
but unwilling
to let the family
see how deeply
it had wounded him.

He had no place
where he could finally exhale
and think, I am home.

He searched faces
for permission to stay,
while never believing
he deserved to be there.
The family called him quiet.
She knew his silence was saying
what words never could.

And where others saw silence,
she saw strength.
Where they saw distance,
she saw the child who had learned
to protect the pieces of himself
no one had thought to hold.

She saw what they missed-
the boy who became a man
without ever being given
the safety to become one.
And more than anything,
she wished he could see
what she saw:

A man who stood
when he had every reason to fall.
A heart that kept loving
after love had so often
arrived wearing sharp edges.
A soul that still reached
for light, even after growing up
inside the darkest nights.

He never fit into the spaces
that were meant to hold him.

She hoped one day
he would see his true worth-
that he always had a place.
Wherever kindness was needed,
wherever courage looked ordinary,
wherever someone else needed proof
that enduring does not make you less worthy
of being loved.

She always looked up to him,
not because he was perfect,
but because he kept walking
with an inner weight
that would break most.

So, if these words ever find him,
let them say what he should have heard long ago,
not as a reminder of what he endured,
but as a reflection of
who he has always been:

You were never meant
to earn your place
by carrying pain.
You were always worthy
even when the family
could not show you that.
You have always belonged.
If nowhere else,
then here-
In the unwavering love
of the little sister
who saw the boy
behind the armor-
the child
behind the silence–
the extraordinary man
who never realized
he was someone’s hero
all along.

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

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Photo Credit: Unsplash

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