On the day my father passed away, my mother, Gretchen, began digging a grave. Not literally, but metaphorically. For 27 years, she tried to symbolically murder me, a public filicide in her systematic, intentional effort to bury the truth.

I’ve pondered my choice of words carefully. Murder, filicide. These are intense characterizations. I’m sticking with them. By the end of this article, I believe you will understand why.

Gretchen’s father, my maternal grandfather, was a child molester who preyed on little girls in the family. When my mother’s sister made accusations against him, the family symbolically buried her using isolation, smear campaigns, and cutting her off from the family. I was in my teens at the time and already a victim.

The First Shovelfuls of Dirt

Gretchen possessed a knack for altering the truth. When my father was alive, he acted as a restraint for her fantastical tales. In his absence, she became reckless and extravagant in her lies, which were increasingly detached from reality. 

She told her tales with utter consistency and persistence. Her narratives became less like ordinary lies and more like an alternate reality system that demanded participation from those around her. She immediately spoke over anyone who tried to present an alternate view.

She dug the grave slowly. One accusation at a time. One smear at a time. One triangulated conversation at a time. Every lie required another shovel of dirt.

For decades I remained silent. Many survivors do. Silence required no fight, just acceptance of isolation.

To speak against the narrative machine required waging war, going into battle, and grappling with those lies. It required sparring with extended family systems and social circles. I never held hope that eventually reasonable people would believe me. I already had the example of what my family did to my aunt.

I did try to address the issue of her father with her for decades, although I did this obliquely, timidly.

Each time I tried to do this, her reasons for destroying my credibility increased. Her need to write me off and cut me out of the family, her need for a symbolic death increased.

When a Birth Announcement Becomes a “Spiteful Letter”

One of the moments that finally shattered my silence involved the birth of my son.

I had gone “no contact” with Gretchen many years prior to my marriage. I told my husband he would never know her because she and I had such a poor relationship. 

During that time, I discovered that Gretchen was “lurking” on my blogs. Our original wedding plans involved going to Nepal for the nuptials. However, we changed to a small ceremony in San Diego.

I became pregnant, yet I announced the change in wedding plans and the pregnancy by email only to trusted family members. Gretchen repeated our initial plans to everyone as if she still had a good relationship with me. So she knew nothing of the changes.

Finally, a family member informed my mother that she had another grandchild on the way. I suspect that was quite humiliating for her to have her scheming so exposed. Still, I sent her his birth announcement.

In May 2010, shortly after my son was born, my mother sent an email claiming she had visited a psychotherapist because she was distressed by a “spiteful letter” from me. She claimed outright that the therapist had diagnosed me with Borderline Personality Disorder, which would be highly unethical for a therapist to do. In other words, it was a lie. She also stated the therapist advised her to “protect herself” from me.

That email got forwarded around and eventually landed in my inbox.

The only thing I sent to her was my son’s birth announcement.

That was it.

A photograph and announcement welcoming her grandson into the world became transformed into evidence of pathology and aggression.

At the time, I struggled to fully comprehend the psychological machinery at work. Her narrative painted me as a woman who was unstable, dangerous, and disordered—the daughter who deserved burial rather than relationship.

 And it served as an answer when people asked her, “why weren’t you invited to the wedding, and why don’t you know your grandson?” 

The Grave Deepens

As the years passed, the consequences of her lies became increasingly destructive.

My husband became quite ill and eventually developed severe psychotic symptoms, including paranoia and delusions. During this period, my mother sided not with observable reality, medical intervention, or stability, but with the narrative she had spent decades constructing about me.

She reassured a mentally deteriorating man that nothing was wrong with him. She repeated her lies about BPD and an “official diagnosis.”

She reinforced his paranoia while he spread her increasingly bizarre accusations about me to therapists, churches, schools, and family court systems. Even after psychiatric professionals documented psychosis, she continued to spread her lies that I was the problem.

Worst of all, she put her own grandson’s safety at risk by telling my ill husband that I was planning “to kidnap” our son and move away. After that, my son came home from visits with his father saying:  “Mom, if dad takes me somewhere and never brings me back, as long as I’m having fun, it’s not kidnapping. Dad said so.”

Out of anger, I texted her in 2015 telling her of my decision to go public regarding the sexual abuse. As a result, she doubled down on the efforts to metaphorically destroy me.

At one point, she even reinvented herself as the ‘Director of a Psychiatric Hospital” for a dual purpose. She claimed that my husband was not psychotic, and she had worked around people in psychotic episodes long enough to spot it. And, she used this tale to reinforce her claim that I was mentally ill.

In reality, she had once been an inpatient at a psychiatric ward while I was in high school. She was never an employee…not even a janitor.

These were all frantic efforts to destroy my credibility. If I spoke the truth, then it was no longer Gretchen’s word against her sister’s. It became 2 against 1.

But abusive family systems organize not to promote truth, but in order to prevent psychological annihilation.

Witnesses to the Burial

Those who smear the truth teller in a family need the smears to flood out from private family discussions into the public realm. The person driven by secrecy recruits unwitting allies. Some become active participants. Others remain in painful gray areas—recognizing pieces of the truth while still trying to preserve family equilibrium.

And occasionally, an outsider sees the entire dynamic with startling clarity.

A dear friend of mine, Lola, once sent my mother a lengthy email after the birth of my son. Lola had known me for years. We had played competitive tennis together, traveled together, and laughed together. She had watched my life directly rather than through distorted family narratives.

Her email was warm, hopeful, relational. She praised my parenting, spoke lovingly about my son, and gently encouraged reconciliation between mother and daughter. She wrote something that has remained with me ever since: no matter how old her own adult children became, she believed it remained her responsibility as a parent to preserve connection at all cost.

My mother never responded to Lola. That hurt Lola immensely.

Looking back, the silence itself became symbolic. Lola represented something dangerous to the grave my mother was digging: an emotionally healthy witness. Someone standing outside the family system who could still recognize humanity where the burial narrative required condemnation.

If I was loved, stable, capable, and surrounded by authentic relationships, then the grave no longer made sense.

The Psychology of Burial

I no longer believe my mother’s lies were primarily about hatred.

They were about intense fear, shame, and guilt.

After decades of pondering my conversations with Grethcen I believe, my mother was victimized herself as a child. The fragments she revealed over the decades gave me enough information to understand that much. 

Acknowledging the truth would have required accepting shame and guilt. And it would have required an almost complete suspension of reality for those around her, like her husband. My parents were married in 1956. Her father was a pastor. Pastors didn’t do things like molestation. My mother would have been labeled mentally ill as her sister was, and she would have been considered “damaged goods.”

That is an unbearable confrontation for many trauma survivors trapped inside abusive family defenses.

In this way, this abuse functions like psychological entombment. The victim who chooses secrecy clings to distorted narratives because the collapse of those distortions feels synonymous with psychic extinction. 

The Final Exile

By the end of her life, my mother had largely isolated herself inside the reality she had constructed. She surrounded herself primarily with those willing to participate in it.

In her final instructions, she requested that I not be informed of her death or invited to her funeral. The same exclusion extended to relatives who had supported me publicly after I spoke about the abuse within our family.

Even after her death, her attempts to bury me and the truth continued. But now I know that the grave she dug was never mine.

It was hers.

Every lie deepened her isolation. Every distortion narrowed the possibility of authentic connection. Every attempt to bury truth required further separation from reality, from family, and ultimately from herself.

In trying to symbolically execute her daughter, she slowly interred her own life.

Climbing Out of the Grave

For survivors of abusive family systems, one of the hardest truths to accept is this: you may never receive acknowledgment from the people most invested in denying reality.

The apology will never come.

The reconciliation will never come.

The family may continue protecting the myth long after the damage is visible to everyone standing outside it. And they will likely try to send that false narrative down to future generations to preserve legacy.

At some point, survivors face a choice. We can continue organizing our identity around distorted narratives imposed upon us, or we can begin the painful work of climbing out of a grave not dug for us.

And perhaps that is the final tragedy surrounding abusive systems built on secrecy and lies: the person most committed to burying others rarely gains insight into their own self-imposed, metaphorical burial.

My mother’s funeral was held on June 27, 2025. Three days later on June 30, her sister, the one who had first made public accusations about her father and CSA, passed away.

I am the only living survivor holding the truth.

I will continue to hold and tell that truth until the day I die.

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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

But my favorite attraction was the house of mirrors.

Once inside, I was immersed in distorted angles and false illusions. Some reflections multiplied me into infinity, while others reflected back a fractured face. We all laughed inside the maze because the distortion -the mirage- provided entertainment.

The temporary illusions ended once I stepped out through the exit door and into daylight. Proportions returned to normalcy. 

When Distortion Becomes Structure

Families shaped by abuse often function differently, much like the house of mirrors. Non-abusive families frequently have difficulty understanding this dysfunction.

Abusive families build their reality around survival, denial, and secrecy. We could surmise that the distorted reflections do not remain inside the house of mirrors. Yet many times, those clinging to the lies refuse to leave the fun house and step through the exit door into the sunlight.

The fun house becomes the architecture of daily life. Roles form around that structure. The narcissist, the scapegoat, the golden child, the enabler, the invisible child, the flying monkeys, the hero, the grey zone, or the truth-teller. Over time, some family members recognize the distortion and leave. Others never gain any insight into the maze of lies.

The system depends on the mirrors remaining intact.

That is why naming abuse inside a family system rarely breaks only one relationship. The revelation acts more like a structural demolition. The entire building trembles prior to collapse. People who seemed grounded suddenly cling to distortions that once comforted them. Some retreat deeper into the maze. Some desperately try to reposition the mirrors so the old reflections still work. Others stand frozen, unable to reconcile the person they loved with the reality now standing in front of them. Those who remain stand amidst the shards of shattered glass.

Some will walk out into daylight, even though it costs them nearly everything.

Disrupting the Family Illusion

When I spoke publicly about my maternal grandfather being a child molester and that I had been a victim, I did not fully understand that I was doing more than telling the truth. I disrupted an entire system of orientation, or I would argue, disorientation. Family members who had spent decades accepting distorted images suddenly had to make choices-the comfort of the familiar maze or the disorienting clarity of sunlight.

Some relatives supported me immediately and without hesitation. Others hovered in painful gray areas: We believe you, but we also want to support the family. At first, I struggled to understand how both statements could coexist. Now I think trauma often teaches people to confuse harmony with safety. The preservation of the structure can begin to feel more urgent than the protection of the people inside it.

Some people viciously attacked me. And they still do. Mostly, these are family members who married into the family after the first accusations had long been smothered.

My mother could never fully leave the house of mirrors..

She and I had many conversations over many decades surrounding her father. While she went to her grave denying he committed child sexual abuse, those conversations gave me enough information to decide that she had also been a victim. However, she had learned that survival depended on silence, minimization, and denial. Survival depended on viciously attacking any truth teller, which is what she did to her sister and me. 

Those distortions became so woven into her understanding of reality that removing them may have felt like psychological annihilation. To acknowledge the truth would have required her to confront not only what had been done to her, but also her failure to protect her daughter despite knowing what her father was capable of doing.

That is the unbearable weight hidden inside many family systems shaped by abuse: pain welds itself to grief, which welds itself to guilt and identity. The resulting amalgamation presents as a unified whole. 

By the end of her life, my mother had surrounded herself primarily with the few people who could still remain inside her version of reality. In her final instructions, she requested that I not be informed of her death or invited to her funeral. The same exclusion extended to relatives who had supported me when I spoke publicly about the abuse. Even in death, the family remained divided along the fault lines opened by truth.

Stepping into the Light

For a long time, I experienced that division as proof of destruction. Now I understand it differently.

The truth did not shatter a healthy structure. The structure was already fractured beneath the surface. The mirrors merely concealed it.

And perhaps that is the cruelest part about systems built around secrecy: when the mirrors finally break, people often blame the person who spoke truth rather than the violence that made the distortions necessary in the first place.

Still, I no longer believe healing happens inside the maze.

Healing begins the moment we stop using distorted reflections to tell us who we are.

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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

What has your anger taught you?

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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

You live your life without announcing what happened to you as a kid. There’s no guidebook to follow. You just sort of wake up one day as an adult who’s technically functional. On paper, you’re paying the bills, managing a life, and walking through the world as a grown man. Yet, beneath the surface, your nervous system is still occasionally behaving like it’s trying to escape a house fire that isn’t there anymore.

And for a while, you think this is just personality. That you’re a bit intense in relationships. Or you need a lot of space sometimes. Or my personal favorite: “I’m just complicated.”

It takes a while to realize those are sometimes just very polite translations for what unresolved stuff looks like when it’s trying to be a person.

The part you don’t really say out loud

In practice, being a male survivor comes with this extra layer of silence that’s hard to explain unless you’ve lived it.

This happens largely because there’s no socially approved version of this grief. Society has a tendency to tell us to suck it up, push it down, and perform resilience. You’re expected to be the rock, the provider, the one who is unshakeable.

You just get life.

And then you’re expected to carry on like nothing happened.

That’s the version you’re handed. So casually. And the reality of it is brutal.

CPTSD doesn’t feel like a diagnosis.

Nobody wakes up thinking, “Ah yes, I’m having a CPTSD day.”

The day-to-day reality of living with CPTSD shows up more like this:

• Why did that text take so long to reply to?

• Why do I suddenly feel like I’ve done something wrong?

• Why do I want closeness and also need to disappear at the same time?

• Why does everything feel fine, but also completely unsafe?

It’s not dramatic most of the time. That’s the thing. It’s more subtle. It’s a process running in the background, dictating your reactions before you even get a say in them.

And if you don’t know what it is, you just assume it’s you. Your personality. Your flaws. The way you think you’re supposed to move through life.

So you start building explanations for things that were never really about who you are, but about what happened to you.

But eventually, you start noticing the pattern has a history. And that history is not recent.

The split you learn to live with.

This realization usually brings you face-to-face with this internal split that’s hard to describe without sounding like you’re talking about two different people.

On one side, there’s the version of you that gets on with life. Where you probably even function pretty well in most situations.

And on the other side, there’s the part that reacts to emotional closeness like it’s a weather system you don’t fully trust.

Too close? Threat.
Too distant? Abandonment.
Someone likes you? Suspicious. What’s the catch?
Someone pulls away? Confirmed. I knew it.

And you spend a lot of time trying to look like you’re not constantly doing internal math about all of it.

The relationship stuff nobody really prepares you for

This brings us to the bit that’s hardest to explain without sounding dramatic:

You can want love and connection deeply and still not fully trust it when it shows up. And it’s not because you are cold. It’s because your system doesn’t always distinguish between “This is safe now” and “This used to go badly.”

So you end up in these loops where you:

• crave closeness
• get close
• feel exposed
• pull back
• feel lonely
• miss the person
• question everything
• repeat

And from the outside, it probably just looks like inconsistency.

But from the inside, it feels like trying to walk in a straight line while your nervous system keeps tugging your sleeve in different directions.

Healing (unfortunately) isn’t a personality transplant.

One of the quieter disappointments in all of this is realizing healing doesn’t turn you into a different person.

It doesn’t erase the wiring. Instead, it just slowly, awkwardly, teaches you how to notice it.

So instead of:

“Why am I like this?” It becomes, “Oh. This is the thing again.”

And sometimes, if you’re lucky, there’s a third step: “I don’t have to act on it immediately.”

That last one is where things start to shift. Not in a dramatic “I’m healed now” way. More in an “I didn’t abandon myself this time” way.

Which really feels like progress that doesn’t look impressive but changes everything.

Why I’m writing this

I don’t think male survivors talk about this stuff enough in a way that sounds like real life.

It’s either clinical, distant, or wrapped in language that feels like it belongs to someone else’s experience. And that’s part of why a lot of men hit a wall when they try to look for help or read about trauma.

Because reality isn’t theoretical.

It’s you trying to date and earn a living, trying to be close to people, while also trying not to overreact to things your body still thinks matter more than they do.

And slowly learning that you’re not broken, just patterned.

Not simple and not a mystery either.

Just.. a system that picked up a few things early in life and is still trying to catch up.

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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

When the System Signals Danger

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

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

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

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

The Hidden Infection: Understanding Existential Shame

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

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

This hidden infection affects everything:

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

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

Where Does This Core Belief Come From?

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

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

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

How Existential Shame Shapes Our Lives

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

Perfectionism as Protection

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

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

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

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

Hypersensitivity to Rejection and Criticism

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

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

People-Pleasing and Fawning

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

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

The Collapse Response

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

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

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

Defensive Externalization

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

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

Recognizing the Pattern in Yourself

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

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

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

Understanding the Neurobiological Roots

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

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

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

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

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

I can trace this belief all the way back to my childhood when I first began to believe that the rays pouring out from behind the clouds were the light of God (or Source or Universal Energy).  Must have been an idea I got from a painting or photograph.  Still, it’s an idea that has stuck in my mind for decades and stays with me even today as I watch the sunset outside my window and am, as always, filled with awe.

I can remember one day in particular from my childhood, a day when I was about six- years old, when my spirituality really began to take hold.  After escaping from some episode of domestic trauma that was going on inside my house, I ran outside into the front yard, looked up at the sky, and saw a jet way up at the top of all of that blue.  Instantly, I felt that if there could be something so incredible, something so very far away from me and all my family turmoil, I could hold on to that faraway place and keep a part of my soul safe there (early threads of dissociation, I suppose).  Ever since that day, I’ve felt that if I could just see a piece of the sky or the summit of some mountain off in the distance, or even a turkey vulture in flight, I could make it…that I could somehow be okay. 

Twenty-one years ago, however, right smack in the middle of an intense “psycho-spiritual crisis,” I was about as far from okay as I could possibly be.

It was during the summer of 2005 at the beginning of perimenopause (the eight or so years before the menstrual cycles cease) that, all of a sudden, all of my coping mechanisms began to collapse, both around me and within me.  As my mind and my body suddenly began releasing much of the terror, grief, and shame I’d been holding onto related to my abuse, I found myself plummeting into the most terrifying and yet liberating experience of my life—an experience I never could have survived without my spirituality.

All day and all night my hands and my body shook.  My pulse, usually around 65 beats per minute, began racing somewhere around 100, and my blood pressure, normally around 110/65, had begun churning out readings as high as 178/100.  I couldn’t eat.  I couldn’t sleep.  It took all the concentration I could muster to perform even the simplest of tasks, things like making my sons’ lunch and doing the laundry.  I was afraid to take a shower, afraid to be alone, and terrified that I would take my own life. 

Even with all of this chaos and fear swirling around inside me, I held fast to my spirituality and continued to pray—to God, yes, but also to the inner and outer healing guides (angels, if you will), who I could sense were trying to help me, adding a special prayer for the life I so feared I was losing.

It took some time and a brief stay in an acute care psychiatric hospital for me to come to accept the fact that I was not suffering from any sort fatal brain disease but that it was the aftereffects of my long repressed childhood abuse that was causing all of my midlife physical and emotional upheaval—abuse that I was only just beginning to remember.  And so, desperate to heal my mind and body, once I left the hospital, with the help of talk and hypnotherapy, massage, movement and group therapy, I began my long-awaited journey toward integration, healing, and wholeness.

As many of you who are healing from similar abuse-related traumas know, this journey has not been an easy one.  There are many moments, so many moments when returning memories and long hidden feelings of grief, shame, and fear still threaten to steal away my newly found feelings of safety and sanity. 

While I have many tools to help me through these moments now, I remain amazed by how often simply being able to admit to myself  and to my inner and outer healing guides that I am afraid has brought me comfort, reassurance, and the blessed ability to move forward with my day.  Growing up in an abusive family, I was not allowed to give voice to feelings of shame, grief, or fear and so I internalized these emotions, turning them over the years into episodes of anorexia, bulimia, self-inflicted violence, anxiety, panic, and tendencies toward dissociation. 

Today I can see that it is only by embracing and ultimately releasing these long-repressed emotions and energies that I have been able to heal my mind, body, and spirit, one memory at a time, one tear at a time.

I think many of our difficulties with spirituality arise from our long-held belief that it is something that exists outside of ourselves, something unreachable and angry that we need to fear, much like the perpetrators who wounded us as children.  Through my studies of hypnosis, dream work, and the subconscious mind, however, I have come to believe that our spirituality or “higher power” is something that exists deep within each one of us and that it exists simply as the abundance of memory, wisdom, and faith that each of us needs to reclaim our lives and heal.  It is there whether we are able to believe in it or not, and it is there whether we feel we are able to access its power or not.

So, if you’re feeling so inclined, why not take a moment or two to access this inner spiritual power.  Close your eyes or, if you prefer, just lower your gaze toward the floor.  Take a deep breath and turn your attention inward.  Notice what you’re feeling.  No need to judge or try to change these feelings, just notice them.  Take another deep breath and then say these words whether you believe them or not…even if, or rather especially if it makes you cry—

• “I am taking back my power!”
• Say it again.  Louder.
• “I am taking back my power!”
• Say it again, even louder.
• “I am taking back my power!”

Say these words again, and again.  Say them every day if you need to and every night.  Say them until you truly believe with all your heart and soul that you really do have the right and the ability to reclaim the power that was stolen from you—to reclaim your life—and heal.

Wishing all of us much hope and wholeness on our healing journeys.

Many blessings,

Lynda Wisdo, MA, CYT

Another version of this post was first published in Many Voices Press Newsletter; October 2008 edition

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 I started on the healing journey as I call it from my abusive childhood, one very important tool that I learned to do is sit with my inner child.  I am a child abuse survivor, physical, sexual, and verbal.  I was raised by pedophiles, my mother being one of them.

At the age of 61, I still carry many scars from the abuse I suffered so long ago.  Every day I work to undo the years of damage that was done to me and reclaim my life.  But as we all know, as survivors, it’s not an easy process.  It takes diligence and a lot of hard work to face the past and heal.

One thing that I have been doing is sitting with my inner child.  I had heard of this method before as a way of healing but had never put it into practice.  And sitting with my inner child was not a conscious decision on my part.  One day that five-year-old little girl that I once was literally reached out to me for comfort.  And it happened in a very interesting way. 

A couple of years ago I started to get this strange feeling.  I would call it a yearning, a yearning to wrap my arms around someone or something for comfort.  And this yearning happened several times a week, out of nowhere.  I had no idea what was going on, so one day I decided to sit with it and see what I could come up with because that feeling wasn’t going away.

It didn’t take me long until I started getting answers.  As I sat there with my eyes closed, suddenly I saw myself at the tender age of five.  I remember that was the age that I felt the loss of my mother’s love the most acutely. 

I loved my mother with such an intensity back then that, to this day, I still struggle to find the words for how I felt.  I literally was obsessed with her.

My greatest wish at that age was to sit on my mother’s lap with her arms wrapped around me so I could soak up the love and comfort that only a mother could provide.  Unfortunately, my mother was not person.  She was an angry, combative, abusive bully who had absolutely no motherly instinct.  My mother never wanted me, and that was a fact that she often reminded me of during my childhood. 

But as a child, it was unfathomable to me that my mother didn’t love me, especially since my love for her was so great.  It seemed the harder I chased after her for love and acceptance the angrier she became and the more she pushed me away.

We moved often when I was growing up.  In fact, we moved so often in my childhood that I lost count of how many houses and states we lived in.  Moving was always a very traumatic and painful thing for me because I had to leave behind so many people and things in my childhood that I wasn’t ready to let go of.  I wasn’t able to form relationships with my extended family, nor did I get to form connections with childhood friends.  I grew up a very lonely and depressed child.

The day that little girl that I once was came to me, I knew exactly what she needed. 

And in my mind’s eye, I wrapped my arms around that little child and hugged her tightly to me, just like I did to my own children when they were that age.  As I held her, I told her what a good little girl she was, how sweet, how kind, how funny.  But most of all, I told her how very loved and special she is, things that I so desperately needed to hear at that time in my life.  This went away after a couple of weeks, and that made me feel her needs were met. 

I am going to be moving soon.  Not far, less than five miles from where I live now.  Since I moved so much as a child, I have to be very mindful of how I approach any move I make as an adult so it doesn’t overwhelm my nervous system.  The new apartment I am going to move into is a good one for me, in a quieter area of town and closer to the barn where I board my horse.  I look forward to the move.  I am ready for a change. 

Well, once I made that decision to move, guess who popped up again?  That little five-year-old in me!  I wondered why she came back.  Is she feeling the vulnerability and fear that another move always brought on and is seeking comfort?  I have no idea what the motivation is, but let me tell you, as soon as she showed up in my mind’s eye, I immediately wrapped her in my arms.  I sat with her, assuring her, comforting her, loving her, anything I felt she needed to quiet the fear.    

It occurred to me one day that this child that shows up in my mind is not the only version of me that needs reassurance.  I look at the pivotal (most painful) points in my life, both as a child, a teenager, a young adult, a middle-aged woman, all those earlier versions of me that suffered so badly during those years also need love, comfort and reassurance.  And I sit with them as well.

My fellow survivors, sitting with your inner child is an amazing tool for recovery, and I highly recommend it.  I really wish I could have done this sooner, but I realize healing happens in its own time.

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

But…as I plunge deeper into my healing journey, I’m asking myself how I cannot feel this way. Lately, smiles light my face from the heart up, and I’ve broken out in dance multiple times. Yes, dance. If you’re reading this and don’t know me, I can tell you that not that long ago, I would’ve been more likely to voluntarily shave off my eyebrows with a dull butter knife than break out in dance. Morose and withdrawn for decades, I’m suddenly brimming with unfettered joy. I’m becoming the kind of person who once froze me in baffled shock. 

Despite being older than I’ve ever been, I somehow feel the youngest I’ve ever felt. As I heal, I’m experiencing an inverse aging phenomenon. It’s akin to falling in love. You know…that warm, glowing feeling, gooey as a freshly baked cinnamon roll, nearly soggy with icing? Yep, that’s me. Happy. Sappy. Saccharine. So uncharacteristically not “me” that I, at times, wonder if I’ve been body snatched. Yet…I know that this is me. This is me in the state of Self. This is me when I’m not stuck in constant survival mode. No longer confined to a perpetual prison of my go-to fear responses, I’m truly experiencing the present for the first time in decades, if not forever. It feels like the transition from black-and-white to color in “The Wizard of Oz.”

I wonder how I could have not smelled the blooming flowers or heard the chorus of birds in the past, yet somehow, I’ve never experienced life this way before. (If I’m being honest, I did hear some of the birds, and I used to swear at them for making noise. Who gets mad at birds?) Anyway, it feels like all my favorite songs have been merged into one magical masterpiece, and someone has cranked up the volume. It feels like an orgasm of the soul. I realize that my life has played out for over 40 years, not quite void of, but severely lacking vibrancy. 

It’s only fair, as we heal and begin to see life through the lens of hope, and dare I say happiness, that we question if this is what we’ve been missing out on?

Have people who have never lived within the CPTSD prison experienced this their whole lives? Is it this intense, or is it just another day for them? As these questions dance through our minds, we inevitably arrive at the question: why? What did we do to have this stolen from us all these years? The answer, of course, is nothing. That, however, doesn’t make it hurt any less or shake any sense into it. It’s not fair, and it’s infuriating. It’s easy to get stuck in this feeling, especially now that I can truly feel each angle and texture of my experiences. It’s okay to get angry, but we owe it to ourselves not to stay in a place of hopeless rage. We’ve been robbed of enough, so we must resist the temptation to rob ourselves. 

How can we let go of our grip on anger and embrace what we have left of this journey? I think, just like with so many other things in our lives, we (being the resourceful survivors that we are) find or create something that works for us. I’ve decided that I’m going to push through this hangup about missing out by telling myself that most people don’t experience this degree of appreciation for life’s beauty. I’ve convinced myself that the decades trapped in the lonely halls of darkness illuminate the light at the end of the hall.

The contrast between life’s lowest depths exaggerates and magnifies life’s greatest heights. Once afraid of feeling, I now feel everything, good and bad, so deeply that my body seems to hum with emotion. It’s a superpower of sorts. I don’t wear a cape, but I wear a cocky smile knowing I’ve made it through hell and I’m still standing.

A now-gone, but never-forgotten loved one, who also lived a life filled with heartache and challenges, lived by the motto: “Don’t worry, it will get worse.” The first time she laid this line on me, I laughed for about two seconds before it dawned on me that it was the truest thing I’d ever heard. I think I surprised her when I said: “You’re right. That’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten.”

You’ve gotta just keep going, and when things are good, enjoy them. Give yourself permission to marinate in happiness and savor every last succulent drop of unquantifiable bliss. None of us has a crystal ball, so there’s no point in trying to forecast the future. (If you just read that and thought, “That’s easier said than done,” trust me, a part of me intensely agrees.) That said, we can only control and live where we are right now. I heard another saying once that resonated with me: if you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you’re taking a leak on the present. Good point, right?

Things haven’t been easy for many of us, and sometimes it feels like we’ve survived a series of painful tests only to be rewarded with more pain.

Again, it really is not fair. But, like most things, there is another way to look at it. I recently discovered musician Kate Wolf, and the lines to her song “Unfinished Life” ring through my soul like a siren calling me home. Wolf wrote: 

“I’ve crossed so many rivers

In search of crystal fountains

I’ve found the truest paths

Always lead through mountains.”

Here’s the thing about climbing mountains to get to the other side…it brings us to a place where we see things clearly and from a place of advantage. We see the full scope of humanity. We feel the full scope of life’s experiences. I don’t know, maybe I’m full of crap, but it’s as good a justification as any. I do know one thing, though. The traumas that bring us to this page, where we seek answers, companionship, and hope, have changed us. They may have removed the power from our hands temporarily.

But…we survived. We have control over where we go from here.

Sometimes it takes Herculean effort to just enjoy the moment, but we can do it. How do I know? Well, mostly because we’ve already been to hell and back. So…if you’re finally able to hear the song and it makes you happy, it’s okay to dance! If you feel like you’re becoming “one of those people, look in the mirror and welcome yourself to the world. Maybe this whole thing is a bit like falling in love…with yourself and with life for the first time.

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

In the days leading up to “official” adulthood, I’d convinced myself that once I exited childhood, the fear and helplessness wouldn’t penetrate as deeply. I was wrong.

Those things only intensified, and I felt helpless in the face of my powerlessness to thwart them. An adult by law now, I still possessed the mangled nervous system of a terrified child who’d long held the responsibilities of an adult. My 18th birthday felt like a cruel joke.

I became an adult long before society deemed me one. My childhood, though it held many glimmers of happiness, had also been suffocated by responsibilities that weren’t mine to bear. The people who should have buffered me from the pain that life sometimes delivers were often instead the perpetrators of chaos and heartache. Furthermore, they often saddled me with the cumbersome weight of adult burdens, expecting me to wear the heavy cloth of unreasonable expectations with a smile. In many ways, the roles of parent and child were reversed; this phenomenon is known as “parentification.” 

Parentification comes at a grueling cost. You learn to take responsibility for things that aren’t yours to bear. You protect the fragile emotions of others at the expense of your own and provide emotional support in places where you should receive it. In other words, you care for those who should care for you. Along the way, you develop a tangled web of unhealthy coping mechanisms. 

As if being robbed of vital pieces of childhood during your childhood isn’t enough, you may carry these burdens into adulthood. This might manifest in several ways, including but not limited to: 

• Social isolation related to exhaustion, fear, and an inability to relate to people your own age or people in general.
• Viewing your needs as burdens.
• Carrying a nameless guilt that seems to bear no origin and strangles your ability to live in the moment. 
• Measuring your worth by what you can do for others and/or accomplishments.
• Caring for others at a cost to yourself and/or finding it impossible to say “no.” 
• Difficulty expressing emotions while feeling responsibility for other people’s feelings.

A quarter of a century after my “formal” induction into adulthood, I mourn the innocence that was torn from my grasp in the dawning years of my life. Longing for the pieces of my childhood that I never lived, I feel pangs of sadness for the fragments of my adulthood that remain trapped in the shadows of my childhood. And…I feel gratitude. While the most vigorous parts of my healing journey have only recently begun to take shape, and chaos has not been a stranger to me as an adult, the weight of my childhood burdens has not broken my back.

Over time, I instead built a backbone of steel. As a child, I didn’t have the strength to wrestle for control nor the power to negotiate my fate. Somehow, I never let the weight completely crush me. My persistence continued into adulthood. While I’ve lived in survival mode for much of my life, I’ve defied the odds again and again. Chances are, if you’re reading this, so have you. We’re part of a club we never asked to join.

In the early stages of rewiring my discombobulated nervous system, I’m no longer afraid, and I’m not powerless. In fact, I’d say the opposite is true. I’ve been told I’m “formidable” and a “force to be reckoned with.”

I agree. I don’t know if I would’ve become this version of myself if not for the pain that paved the way. When I reflect on the fearful, mild-mannered, and shy child I was, I’m surprised by the confidence I bear as an adult. I’m no longer mild, and though feeling safe is an uphill battle, I wouldn’t say I’m always fearful either.

In reflecting on who I was as a child and who I am now, I realize that the common trait I carried from childhood into adulthood is strength. I didn’t have any other choice. As I navigated one nightmare after another, I dug into my reservoir of fortitude. I learned to put up a fight and to keep going even when exhaustion weighed me down. I learned to persevere. Less poetic, but equally true, eventually I arrived at a blissful place where I no longer take anyone’s crap. Over time, those things added up to the person I am today. There’s one word that best captures what I’m describing: resilience. 

In being forced to grow up before we’re ready, many of us develop resilience. Or…maybe we’re born with it? What does the word “resilience” mean? Well, you’ve heard the term, “to hell and back,” right? Resilience is essentially the ability to come back from hell…again, and again, and again. Resilience is not always born in trauma, but I think it takes on a unique “flavor” when it’s rooted in the challenges of “growing up early.” Those of us who “became adults” as children first used our resilience to survive. As a result, we started adulthood both behind and ahead of the metaphorical “starting line.” We entered “adulthood” exhausted and knowing too much.

We see the world through weary, sometimes cynical eyes that belong to a much older person. Have you ever been told you’re old or wise “for your age?” Me too. Although I’d love to have an even-keeled nervous system and a mind that doesn’t play out worst-case scenarios by default, I appreciate the wisdom and strength within me that emerged early; it’s only intensified with time. Furthermore, because of my cynicism and ability to read between the lines, I can detect BS from a mile away, and I’m not afraid to call people out if they have it coming. I’ve been silenced long enough, and my patience for what I refer to as “reindeer games” expired a lonnnng time ago. 

Furthermore, although it’s aggravating to have a hypervigilant nervous system that sometimes drags me into overly strong bodily and mental reactions to small things. The “big stuff” doesn’t really faze me in the same way it seems to others. I view life as a bit of a jack-in-the-box, and I know there’s always more crap rolling down the line. And…I know I can deal with whatever it is because I’ve dealt with so much already. 

I’ve crammed the pain of multiple lifetimes into one. This probably explains why I’ve never felt “my age.” Suspended between youth and old age, some days, I feel closer to age 70 both mentally and physically. But…something’s shifting. As I heal, some days I feel seven, but not the burdened seven-year-old I was. I see glimpses of the real seven; as I heal, I experience moments of unfettered joy that sparkled like rare diamonds in the dark cave of my childhood but could never be held.

I’ve learned a thing or two since then, though. Perhaps it’s because I feel like I’m at a place in my life where there’s less time left, but my goal has shifted from survival to thriving. Please join me. We’ve been surviving for far too long. It’s time to live.

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

During that stay my psychologist tried to get me to hug my mother during a session. I was sitting in my sparsely furnished room, on top of my bed with the reversable pink and blue comforter, and I was gripping the fabric so tight in my fists that my knuckles went white.

I told the psychologist, “I can’t remember the last time anyone hugged me.” Facts. I never did hug my mother, even though the psychologist kept insisting, session after session. My mother was putting on a show for the clinician, and I saw right through it.

Some kids grow up surrounded by physical affection and closeness, but some don’t. I was one of those children. My paternal grandmother showered me with love and I was addicted to it. That feeling was stripped from me when we moved 5 hours away to Northwest Indiana.

I don’t think any of my teachers had a clue in what type of environment I was getting raised. I don’t think any alarm bells were going off for anyone because no one notices what happens to a child who never gets tucked in or kissed on the forehead. No one notices what happens when a child grows up without getting hugged or consoled when they’re hurt. No one notices because nothing visible happens to that child.

What happens is the child’s body notices. The child’s body keeps notes. The nervous system is keenly aware of what’s going on. Long before we have words for loneliness, we learn what comfort feels like or what it doesn’t feel like.

We are wired for touch

Touch is not a luxury, it is a developmental need. Attachment theory demonstrates that children rely on caregivers for the basic life necessities like shelter and food, but they also rely on caregivers for emotional and physical comfort.

Harry Harlow’s famous monkey studies showed that infant monkeys consistently preferred a soft, comforting ‘mother’ over a wire mother that just provided food. Modern research continues to demonstrate that affectionate touch supports emotional regulation, social development, attachment security and overall well-being. Children who long for touch are not needy; they are responding to a basic human need.

When affection is missing

Children will often adapt to what is available to them, to what their environment provides, rather that recognizing that something’s missing, or what they’re experiencing is wrong. They may grow up thinking that parents weren’t supposed to provide anything other that what is needed for basic survival. They may not understand that their parent was emotionally distant until they have the exposure to families that are different, and it will cause a great deal of confusion for children from families where affection was absent.

As a child you cannot miss what you never knew existed, but your nervous system still knows that something’s absent that you developmentally require. The absence of affection is generally an invisible loss because, to these children, it just feels normal.

Research suggests that experiences of affectionate touch during childhood are associated with specific attachment styles and comfort with touch later in life.

Looking for love in all the wrong places

Children who grow up emotionally and/or physically deprived often become adults who hunger for connection. This might manifest itself in various ways, like becoming attached too quickly to people who show you the kind of affection you did not experience as a child. Sometimes those people aren’t the best people from whom to receive the affection.

Sometimes the energy we have attracts people who feel comfortable, familiar, and if your childhood environment was traumatic, filled with emotional instability and abuse, you might be attracting someone who behaves the same way, even though initially the attention received feels good.

Emotionally neglected people will feel intensely attracted to people who give them warmth and validation, even though that person might be emotionally immature and even abusive. The unprotected adult survivor might ignore relationship red flags.  Doing so is not evidence of weakness; it’s evidence that you’re trying to fill an unmet need. When you’re starving, receiving crumbs can even feel like a feast.

When touch becomes entangled with pain

For some people, love and sometimes friendships can arrive wrapped inside emotionally abusive packages. The person might ‘love bomb’ you, might give you validation and affection that’s followed with criticism, their safe and loving touch might end up conditional over time and emotional abuse might reside alongside physical affection.

Over time, choosing someone who feels familiar and comfortable might become someone who is not emotionally safe. Once that occurs too often, your body will perceive the person as a threat, and the closeness with that person that used to feel wonderful becomes dangerous and your body knows before your mind does because it recognizes a familiar pattern it has felt before.

Studies on attachment and childhood emotional maltreatment indicate that early neglect and later harmful relationships can affect future relationship quality, trust, and emotional regulation.

From Touch-Starved to Touch-Afraid

The heartbreaking twist is that many people who once desperately wanted affection might recoil from it later because the body senses danger. The reaction becomes instantaneous, even if the mind doesn’t want to, even if the relationship partner doesn’t like it and you fight about it, repeatedly. An unsafe partner that you are committed to stay with will undoubtedly affect your nervous system’s ability to accept touch and intimacy without fear.

Over time, touch with your partner will feel uncomfortable. Without even thinking, you might flinch when the partner reaches for physical connection because you are now uncomfortable with affection from someone your nervous system knows to be unsafe. You might become hypervigilant about emotional and physical attention with your partner. Your inner child that once craved affection and attention becomes the adult who no longer trusts it.

Avoiding touch isn’t always about not wanting closeness. Sometimes it’s about not feeling safe enough to receive it.

Learning That Safe Touch Exists

Healing often begins when affection is no longer tied to conditions, manipulation, or performance. It is vitally important to remove yourself from unhealthy relationships. That might be very difficult because if you have children, that becomes complicated. If your unhealthy partner recognizes his or her contribution to your distrust in them, and is willing to work on their abusive tendencies, then there might be hope to maintain the relationship.

However, your nervous system will not be duped. It will take a great deal of time and work on both sides. Your partner must work on their abusive tendencies and become consistently safe. You need to set boundaries to what you will accept and what you will not and you must hold your partner to those boundaries. They must experience consequences of breaking those boundaries. This healing work will be very painful; I’m not going to sugar coat it.

What to strive for

Adult survivors of emotional abuse and complex trauma need to find relationships (romantic and otherwise) with people who are consistently safe. The partners need to know, on an intimate level, the trauma you experienced so they know how to encourage connection, affection, and intimacy in ways that feel safe to your nervous system. If you’ve been in unsafe adult relationships previously, your nervous system will be skeptical and distrustful like a dog that has been chronically beaten by a previous owner.

The goal is not becoming more affectionate. The goal is feeling safe enough to choose it. Small steps, small efforts, and micro affections will help, but your partner must feel safe to your nervous system. Be kind to yourself because your nervous system wants the best for you. Sometimes healing looks like allowing yourself to lean into a hug instead of bracing for what comes next and having a partner who is informed and patient is paramount to your comfort level with touch.

Some children grow up hungry for touch, and some adults spend years searching for it. Sometimes adults spend years learning to trust touch again. Beneath these experiences is the same truth: we were never designed to survive without connection. The part of you that still longs to be held in safe, familiar, and comfortable arms is not broken, it’s just part of being human.

Resources

Book: Running on Empty by Jonice Webb

Book: The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk

Book: Attached by Amir Levine and Rachel Heller

Book: Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents by Lindsay C. Gibson

References

Beltrán, M. I., Harrison, N. A., & O’Brien, J. T. (2020). Affective touch experiences across the lifespan: Developmental and individual differences. Neuroscience & Biobehavioral Reviews, 118, 659–669. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.neubiorev.2020.08.018

Narvaez, D., Wang, L., Gleason, T., Cheng, Y., & Lefever, J. B. (2019). The importance of early life touch for psychosocial and moral development. Psychology, 10(11), 1443–1466.

Packheiser, J., et al. (2024). A systematic review and multivariate meta-analysis of the effects of touch interventions. Nature Human Behaviour, 8, 1060–1077.

Simpson, J. A., & Rholes, W. S. (2017). Adult attachment, stress, and romantic relationships. Current Opinion in Psychology, 13, 19–24.

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