The first time I tried to date after experiencing trauma, I was terrified, far more terrified than I was when I went on my first date at 19 years old. I feel everything in my body: the good, the bad, the uncertainty. Was I ready to be seen again? To be touched? To want?

It had been years since the word dating meant anything to me. The word itself tasted like poison and felt like fear. As a survivor, even casual flirtation has felt like standing on the edge of a cliff. As a queer survivor, that cliff feels like Mount Everest layered with paradox: I’ve learned what I need, want, deserve, and I am seeking is softness in a world that often eroticizes my pain, community in spaces that claim to be safe but rarely know how to enshrine that.

For a long time, I thought I had to simply “heal” and that the healing would necessitate rejecting my own desire. I told myself the most “empowered” thing I could do was focus on work — to build my career, to pour everything into helping other survivors. I founded my organization The Gold Star Society — a survivor-led community organization dedicated to safety, healing, and economic justice for women, queer, nonbinary, and BIPOC survivors — so people like me could feel safe, seen, and supported again.

I thought I had to choose between being a survivor and being sensual. As I have been actively healing, I’ve learned it doesn’t require cutting off the parts of me that still ache for touch. It means learning how to listen to my body and learning my body’s different languages, slowly translating it back into something tender for myself and then something I am able to give to others.

My Body Remembers Everything

When someone’s fingers brush against mine, even in passing, my body reacts before my brain does. There’s a flinch, a pause, a quiet scanning of the moment for danger. I have never forgotten a single touch.

Trauma has rewired my sense of time,  trapping me in moments that no longer exist. Dating after trauma means constantly negotiating between past and present. I can love someone deeply and still feel my pulse race when they reach for me too quickly. I can crave touch and still freeze when it arrives, and those are all things I have had to learn to navigate and embrace.

I used to think that made me broken. But the truth is, it makes me honest. My body is simply telling the truth: Safety takes time to relearn, and desire, like healing, is a process, not a state.

Queer Love, Complicated Love

Dating as a queer survivor adds layers most people don’t talk about. The language we use to describe harm — “gender-based violence,” “domestic violence,” “sexual assault” — wasn’t built for us. These terms were created to fit a heteronormative mold: man as abuser, woman as victim. But what happens when the person who harms you shares your pronouns, your politics, your community space?

In queer culture, we talk a lot about radical love, chosen family, accountability. But we rarely talk about what it means to experience harm within that same radical ecosystem, how queerness doesn’t make us immune to replicating power, control, or silence. When I was harmed by another queer person, the hardest part wasn’t the betrayal; it was the erasure. The way people whispered, “that’s not really assault,” or “but she’s queer, she wouldn’t do that.” Literally no one believed me and kept insisting it couldn’t happen because we’re queer.

Relearning intimacy meant reclaiming not just my sensuality but my truth. It meant refusing to let queerness be used as a shield for harm, while also refusing to let harm steal queerness from me.

There’s a myth that queer love is automatically safer, gentler, more evolved. While this can be  true, it is not always a given. Queer survivors have to fight to even name what happened — and then to rebuild the possibility of touch without fear and without support.

Dating With Soft Armor

Since I have finally started dating again, I made a rule for myself: honesty over performance. If I need to pause mid-kiss, I will and I do. If I need to check in before being touched, I will and I do. Having conversations around this as early as possible has been crucial. The first person who didn’t flinch when I said “I’m a survivor, and sometimes my body shuts down when it remembers” taught me something about what safety can look like — not absence of fear, but presence of care, patience, support, and understanding.

Softness has become my armor, but not in a bad way. In the most authentically human way possible.

Sometimes that softness looks like swiping on a dating app and saying upfront “I move slow”, unafraid of the rejections since they aren’t personal. Sometimes it’s telling a partner “I need the lights on” or “can we breathe together first?” It’s using safewords that aren’t about kink but about grounding and consent. It’s letting myself have boundaries that evolve by the hour and not being ashamed of them.

In queer spaces, sensuality is often framed as liberation, as reclaiming the body from shame, as proof that we’ve survived. Which is beautiful. But for me, sensuality after trauma isn’t about performing confidence or the pressure to be confident in myself right away. It’s about presence. It’s about learning how to inhabit my body again, not just in the moments that are pleasurable, but in the moments that are uncertain, even in the moments that sometimes hurt.

I’m still figuring it all out. I’m still learning how to tell lovers what I need without apologizing for it. I’m still unlearning the reflex to shrink when someone calls me beautiful, as it’s hard for me to take compliments. I’m still practicing how to trust a body that once betrayed me by surviving and extending grace to myself.

The Politics of Pleasure

There’s something deeply political about being a sensual survivor — especially as a queer, Afro-Boricua, Neurodivergent, Indigenous Nonbinary individual. We live in a world that commodifies both our pain and our pleasure, manipulatively  separating them completely or making them into just one thing. Our trauma gets turned into hashtags, our bodies into symbols of resilience, with no in between. But the private, messy, ongoing work of learning to feel safe inside our own skin? That rarely fits the narrative.

Every time I choose to date again, to flirt, to feel desire without shame, it’s an act of resistance. Pleasure is protest. Slowness is rebellion. Safety is revolution. This is what I have been embracing.

When I design survivor tech, I’m not just thinking about crises. I’m thinking about pleasure as safety. About what it means for survivors to have agency over desire, over boundaries, over joy. Looking at us as whole humans who deserve to not just survive, but thrive.

I want survivors to have access to tools that honor not just their pain, but their curiosity — the right to want again, without fear that wanting will lead to harm. We are all humans.

Love as a Slow Rebellion

Sometimes people ask me if I’m “ready” for love again, as if healing has a finish line. It does not. The truth is, readiness is fluid, and I learned that right away on this journey. Some days, I can’t stand to be touched — like, at all. Other days, I crave closeness so much it hurts.

What I’ve learned is that love — the kind that’s real, the kind that’s worth staying for — doesn’t rush you. It moves at the pace of mutual consent, respect, and understanding. It honors silence as much as sound; grace and patience go hand and hand. It asks, gently, “What do you need to feel safe?” and actually listens when you answer.

Queer love taught me safety isn’t sterile — it can still be wild, electric, messy, full of heat and contradiction. The goal isn’t to erase fear but to learn how to dance with it. To know that you can tremble and still reach out and have all the human experiences we’re meant to have.

To touch after trauma is not to forget what happened — it’s to remember who you are beyond it and embrace that.

Relearning Desire

There’s a moment, every once in a while, when someone touches me and I don’t flinch. It’s rare, but it does happen. It’s quiet, almost unremarkable — a hand resting on my thigh, a kiss at the corner of my mouth — but in that moment, I feel something I hadn’t felt in years: possibility.

Not because I’m “healed,” but because I’m here. I’m present. I’m choosing softness again, even when it is scary.

For us survivors, desire isn’t just about pleasure. It’s about return — returning to the body, to the world, to the possibility of being loved not in spite of what happened, but because we are still capable of loving and giving and trusting again.

Dating after trauma isn’t linear. It’s not pretty. But it’s real. And in a world that taught me survival was the ceiling, I’m finally learning that tenderness can be the floor, the place where I start again.

Before you go! Autostraddle runs on the reader support of our AF+ Members. If this article meant something to you today — if it informed you or made you smile or feel seen, will you consider joining AF and supporting the people who make this queer media site possible?

Join AF+!

“I will not let the bullies and critics of my early life win by joining and agreeing with them.” ~Pete Walker

For most of my life, there was a voice in my head that narrated everything I did, and it was kind of an a**hole.

You know the one. That voice that jumps in before you even finish a thought:

“Don’t say that. You’ll sound stupid.”

“Why would anyone care what you think?”

 “You’re too much. You’re not enough. You’re a mess.”

No matter what I did, the critic had notes. Brutal ones. And the worst part? I believed every word. I didn’t know it was a critic. I thought I just had “realistic self-awareness.” Like everyone else had a little tape playing in their head on repeat, telling them how flawed they were. Turns out, that voice was trauma talking, and it never seemed to stop.

My Inner Critic Wasn’t Born, It Was Built

CPTSD doesn’t just mess with your sense of safety. It hijacks your internal dialogue. When your early life feels unsafe or unpredictable, criticism becomes your compass. You learn to scan for danger, to anticipate what might trigger rejection or anger. You start blaming yourself for things that weren’t your fault, just to keep the peace.

Over time, you don’t need anyone else to tear you down, you’ve got that covered all on your own. The critic lives inside. It’s relentless. It’s like a hyper-alert security guard that’s been working overtime for decades. One who has a bone to pick.

That inner critic wasn’t trying to be cruel. It was trying to protect me. Twisted, but true. It believed if it shamed me first, I’d beat everyone else to it. If I kept myself small, or perfect, or invisible, I wouldn’t become a target. If I could control myself enough, maybe the chaos would leave me alone.

That voice became familiar. And familiarity, even when it’s toxic, can feel like home.

The Turning Point: When I Realized That Voice Was Lying

Healing began the day I noticed a strange disconnect. The people I cared about didn’t talk to me the way my inner critic did. They weren’t disgusted when I made mistakes. They didn’t roll their eyes when I showed up with all my messy feelings. They didn’t act like I was a problem to be solved or a disappointment to be managed. In fact, they were… pretty warm. Even when I wasn’t “on.”

This realization felt like looking in a funhouse mirror and suddenly seeing my true reflection. If they weren’t seeing me through the lens of judgment and shame, who was I really listening to? That voice in my head, or the people who cared?

That was the moment I started to doubt the inner critic’s authority. Because that voice? It wasn’t truth. It was trauma. A protective but outdated part of me that no longer needed to run the show.

How I Actually Started Healing (the real first steps)

The very first real step wasn’t dramatic. I noticed the mismatch, my head yelling “you’re a mess” while everyone around me treated me like a person, not a problem. Once I noticed that disconnect, things shifted from “this is just how I am” to “oh, maybe this is something I can change.”

So my early moves were small and boring, but they mattered.

I booked a therapist who knew trauma work and stayed long enough to stop the band-aid fixes. I learned one therapy that actually landed for me, Internal Family Systems, which helped me stop fighting the critic and start talking with it. I started writing, not to fix myself, but to give that voice a page to vomit onto so I could see how ridiculous and repetitive it sounded in black and white.

I also leaned on a few safe people, friends and a therapist who would call me out when the critic lied and remind me I wasn’t actually the person I believed I was, over clouded with shame.

The harder work, though, was going underneath the critic. The voice was just a symptom. What sat beneath it was grief, anger, and fear I’d carried since childhood. For the first time in therapy, I wasn’t just trying to outsmart the critic, I was learning to sit with those younger parts of me who never felt safe. That’s when healing really started to shift: not by silencing the critic, but by finally listening to the trauma underneath it.

I Didn’t “Silence” My Inner Critic, But I Did Start Questioning It

Some days, that voice still shows up, loud and obnoxious. Healing didn’t make it disappear. It’s still there, popping up like an annoying pop-up ad you can’t quite close.

For years, the critic zeroed in on my appearance. I carried so much shame and self-hatred that I didn’t need anyone else to tear me down, I was already doing the job for them. Trauma and CPTSD made sure of it. Even when no one said a word, the critic filled in the silence with insults.

But I learned to give it a pause button. Instead of obeying it automatically, I started getting curious.

One morning, I caught my reflection and the critic immediately sneered: ‘You look disgusting.’ Normally, I’d believe it and spiral. But that time, I paused and asked: Whose voice is this really? It felt like my child abusers. What’s it trying to protect me from? Probably the fear and shame rooted in that abuse. Is it true, or just familiar? Familiar. That shift didn’t erase the shame instantly, but it gave me a crack of daylight. Instead of hating myself all day, I was able to shrug and think, yeah, that’s the critic, not the truth. That tiny pause was progress

Sometimes I imagine my inner critic as a grumpy, overworked security guard who’s stuck in the past. He’s cranky and exhausted, working overtime to keep me “safe,” but he’s also out of touch with the present. I don’t hate him. I just don’t hand him the mic anymore. These days, I keep him behind the glass with metaphorical noise-canceling headphones on. He can rant all he wants, but I’ve got Otis Redding and boundaries turned all the way up.

What Actually Helped Me Push Back

Therapy: Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy helped me see the critic as just one part of me, not my whole self. It gave me tools to speak with that part, instead of battling it.

Writing: Putting the critic’s voice on paper was a game changer. Seeing those harsh words in black and white helped me realize how cruel they really were.

Safe People: Talking openly with trusted friends and therapists helped shatter the illusion that I was unlovable or broken.

New Scripts: Instead of empty affirmations, I practiced gentle reality checks: “It’s okay that part of me feels that way. That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Compassion: Learning to treat myself like a friend rather than an enemy—clumsy, imperfect, but worthy.

Why This Matters: The Cost of Believing the Critic

Believing that inner voice isn’t just uncomfortable, it’s dangerous. It shapes how you show up in the world. It keeps you stuck in self-doubt. It makes you shrink when you want to grow. It convinces you to stay silent when your voice needs to be heard.

For years, I hid behind that critic’s fog. I avoided risks, pushed down feelings, and avoided intimacy because I thought I wasn’t enough. That voice stole years of my life. I lost people I cared about because I couldn’t believe I was good enough or deserving of love, and that does a number on you.

Healing isn’t about erasing the critic, it’s about learning when to listen, when to question, and when to change the channel.

I’m thankful that, with therapy and the work I’ve put into my healing, I’ve been able to reclaim some of that space for myself. It’s by no means easy and there are a lot of starts and stops, but it is worth it. I am here today testament to that.

If You’re Living With That Voice Right Now

If your inner critic sounds convincing, like it has a PhD in your failures, I get it. I lived there. But here’s the truth:

You are not the sum of your worst thoughts. You are not the voice that calls you a burden.You are not unworthy just because you’ve been told that.

That critic might be loud, but it’s not honest. It’s scared. And scared doesn’t get the final say.

You get to question it. You get to rewrite the script. You get to take up space, even if your voice shakes. Even if it whispers, “Who do you think you are?”

Because the answer is: Someone healing. Someone trying. Someone finally learning that voice isn’t the truth anymore.

About Jack Brody

Jack is a writer, dad, and recovering overthinker living in NYC. He writes about CPTSD, healing, and untangling your worth from your wounds at aboutthatjack.com. He no longer believes everything his inner critic says, though they’re still in couples counseling.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“Children learn more from what you are than what you teach.” ~W.E.B. Du Bois

I was standing at the service bar, waiting for my drink order to be ready. The scent of steak fat clinging to my apron and infusing itself into my bra, while twenty-something servers around me whined about working on Mother’s Day… yet I was the only mother working that night.

I’d barely slept because I’d closed the restaurant the night before.

My nine-year-old daughter had just told me she wished she were dead.

And here I was, pretending to care about side plates and drink refills when all I wanted was to be home holding her, telling her she mattered. Instead, I snapped—righteous and broken all at once—and stormed out to the alley behind the kitchen where I could cry without making a scene.

That was the moment I knew: something had to change. Not for me. For her. Because if I stayed in this life, this marriage, this pattern, she would learn it too.

Up until then, I thought I was protecting her. I fooled myself into thinking that there wasn’t too much harm, because the yelling wasn’t directed at her. That I could absorb the blows. That love was sacrifice. But kids don’t learn from what you say. They learn from what you model. And I was modeling self-betrayal.

Her stepfather’s cruelty wasn’t new. Neither was the exhaustion I carried in my bones from trying to patch over the cracks with routine and denial. But watching her crumble under the same pressure I had normalized? That shattered something in me that couldn’t be glued back together.

I married him because I saw a wonderful father for my daughter. I saw him get down to her level and play with her. They would giggle together. Be silly together. Be kids together.

Well, that was all fine and dandy when she was three, four, five years old, but at some point, she began to outgrow him. While he sat stuck in his trauma, she matured. She was growing to be a strong little lady.

He didn’t like that. So, when I wasn’t around, he would lash out and treat her like a slave, a whipping boy, but also whined and threw temper tantrums. She had now become the surrogate mother of a petulant child.

She was nine. She should have been thinking about art projects or bike rides, not death.

When I confronted my husband about how he spoke to her, it only made things worse. So she begged me never to mention it to him again and informed me that she would no longer confide in me. I hated myself for letting that happen. The very moment I thought I was being strong and standing up for my little girl, I was actually just prolonging her punishment.

I was staying for stability, for financial security, for some misguided sense of loyalty. Those were the moments that provided her with a blueprint for her own suffering.

There’s this narrative that mothers must be martyrs. That our suffering is noble, even necessary. But I don’t buy it anymore. Because what good is a self-sacrificing mother if all her child learns is how to silence themselves in order to survive?

Leaving wasn’t brave. It was survival. I packed us up, found a small apartment, and started over with debt, doubt, and one hell of a broken heart. Not just from the marriage but from the years I’d spent disconnected from myself. My daughter didn’t need a perfect mother. She needed a peaceful one.

It wasn’t a clean break. I cried in closets and called him at 2 a.m. and hated myself for the longing. I felt like I’d lost my mind. But I was beginning to find my voice. And slowly, she started to smile again. Her shoulders relaxed. We giggled like two girlfriends. We reinvigorated our “‘nuggling” tradition—Saturday nights with a big bowl of popcorn, snuggled up under a blanket together, watching a silly movie. Just the two of us. Just like it used to be. I knew we were going to be okay.

Healing didn’t come in grand epiphanies or social media-worthy quotes. It came in late-night sobs and morning coffee. In resisting the urge to explain myself to people who would never get it. In learning to sit with discomfort instead of racing to fix it.

I had to undo decades of believing that silence was safety. That if I didn’t rock the boat, we wouldn’t drown. But we were already drowning. And pretending otherwise was only teaching her how to hold her breath longer.

I had to unlearn the idea that being needed was the same as being loved. That caretaking and contorting myself for approval was noble.

I started showing her what boundaries look like. I started apologizing when I got it wrong. I started asking myself what I needed, not just what everyone else wanted from me.

I also had to let go of the fantasy that he would change. That if I just loved him better, communicated differently, forgave more quickly, then things would improve. That fantasy had a chokehold on me for years. It’s humbling—and liberating—to realize you can love someone and still not be safe with them.

Sometimes I wanted to go back, not because I believed things would be different, but because being alone with my thoughts was terrifying. I had to rebuild a relationship with myself that I didn’t even know was fractured.

I started journaling, walking, making playlists that made me cry and heal in the same breath. I was slowly, painfully learning to mother myself.

I watched her blossom with every ounce of peace we created. She didn’t flinch as much. She stopped asking me if something was wrong when I was having a moment of silence. She acted like a child again. I knew then that the mess I was wading through was already doing its work—not just in me, but in her.

We learned new rituals. Morning cuddles before school. Singing in the car. Cooking meals together and dancing in the kitchen while things simmered on the stove. It wasn’t just healing. It was joy. Honest, simple, borrowed-from-the-mundane joy.

I realized I didn’t have to keep waiting to feel safe. I could create it.

And in every small moment, I chose something different. I chose gentleness. I chose boundaries. I chose to believe that we were worthy of more.

There were still days I missed the chaos. That part of me that equated drama with passion, unpredictability with depth. But then I’d hear her talking to her stuffed animals in the next room or see her curled up in bed with her cat and remember: calm is not boring. It’s safe. And we deserve safe.

Eventually, the grief became quieter. The ache dulled. I stopped needing to explain the past to anyone, including myself. And I started dreaming again—not just for her but for me. I wanted her to grow up seeing her mother whole, not just holding it together.

Because one day, she would hit a wall of her own. She’d sit in a bathroom or an alley or a car, and she’d wonder how she got there. And I wanted her to remember that change is possible. That discomfort isn’t failure. That sometimes, being your own hero means walking away before the fire consumes you.

Some days, I still think about standing in the doorway of her room, unable to move—but needing to leave—looking at my sweet little girl who just told me she wished she’d never been born. The day I realized that being a mother wasn’t just about protecting my child from harm. It was about protecting her from becoming the kind of woman who thought harm was normal.

She didn’t need me to be unbreakable. She needed to see me break and still get up. So that’s what I did.

About Claudine Plesa

Claudine Plesa is an ordained minister, life and relationship coach, and the creator of Positive Divorce Blueprint. Twice divorced and thrice married, she writes about healing, identity, and emotional resilience with honesty, grit, and a dash of irreverent humour. She lives on a hobby farm in Ontario, Canada, surrounded by grandkids, animals, and an ever-growing sense of self. Learn more at positivedivorceblueprint.com

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it.” ~Helen Keller

The phone call arrived like a silent explosion, shattering the ordinary hum of a Tuesday morning. My uncle was gone, suddenly, unexpectedly. Just a few months later, before the raw edges of that loss could even begin to soften, my mom followed. Her passing felt like a cruel echo, ripping open wounds that had barely begun to form scabs.

I remember those months as a blur of black clothes, hushed voices, and an aching emptiness that permeated every corner of my life. Grief settled over me like a suffocating blanket, heavy and constant. It wasn’t just the pain of losing them; it was the abrupt shift in the landscape of my entire world.

My cousin, my uncle’s only child, was just twenty-three. He came to live with me, utterly adrift. He knew nothing about managing a household, budgeting, or even basic self-care. In the fog of my own sorrow, I found myself guiding him through the mundane tasks of adulting, a daily lesson in how to simply exist when your world has crumbled.

Those early days were a testament to moving forward on autopilot. Each step felt like wading through thick mud. There were moments when the weight of it all seemed insurmountable, when the idea of ever feeling lighthearted again felt like a distant, impossible dream. My heart was a constant ache, and laughter felt like a betrayal.

Then, the losses kept coming. A couple of other beloved family members departed within months, each passing a fresh cut on an already bruised soul. It felt like the universe was testing my capacity for heartbreak, pushing me to the absolute edge of what I believed I could endure. I was convinced that happiness, true, unburdened joy, was simply no longer available to me.

For a long time, I resided in that broken space. My days were functional, but my spirit felt dormant, like a hibernating animal.

I went through the motions, caring for my cousin, managing responsibilities, but internally, I was convinced my capacity for joy had been irrevocably damaged. The idea of embracing happiness felt disloyal to the people I had lost.

One crisp morning, standing by the kitchen window, I noticed the way the light hit the dew on a spiderweb. It was a fleeting, unremarkable moment, yet for a split second, a tiny flicker of something akin to peace, even beauty, stirred within me. It startled me, like catching my own reflection in a darkened room. That flicker was a subtle reminder that even in the deepest shadows, light still existed.

This wasn’t a sudden epiphany or a miraculous cure. It was a slow, deliberate crawl out of the emotional abyss. I began to understand that healing wasn’t about erasing the pain, but about learning to carry it differently. It was about allowing grief its space while simultaneously creating new space for life to bloom again.

The first step was simply acknowledging the darkness without letting it consume me.

I stopped fighting the waves of sadness when they came, allowing them to wash over me, knowing they would eventually recede. This acceptance was pivotal; it transformed my internal struggle from a battle into a painful, but necessary, process.

I also learned the profound power of small, intentional acts. This wasn’t about grand gestures of self-care. It was about consciously noticing the warmth of a morning cup of coffee, the texture of a soft blanket, the simple comfort of a familiar song. These tiny moments, woven into the fabric of daily life, began to accumulate, like individual threads forming a stronger tapestry.

Another crucial insight was the importance of letting go of the “shoulds.” There’s no right or wrong way to grieve, and no timeline for healing. I stopped judging my feelings, stopped comparing my progress to an imaginary standard. This liberation from self-imposed pressure created room for genuine recovery, allowing me to be exactly where I was in my journey.

I started to actively seek out moments of connection. This meant leaning on the friends and remaining family who offered support, even when I felt too exhausted to reciprocate. It was about sharing stories, sometimes tearful, sometimes unexpectedly funny, that honored those we had lost and reminded me that love, even in absence, still binds us.

Embracing vulnerability became a strength. Allowing myself to be seen in my brokenness, to admit when I was struggling, paradoxically made me feel more grounded. It revealed the immense capacity for compassion that exists in others, and in myself. This openness fostered deeper connections, which became vital anchors in my recovery.

The concept of “joy” also transformed. It wasn’t about constant euphoria but about finding contentment, peace, and even occasional bursts of laughter amidst the lingering sorrow.

It became less about an absence of pain and more about a presence of life, in all its complex beauty. I learned that joy is not a betrayal of grief but a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.

Ultimately, my journey taught me that resilience isn’t about being tough or never falling. It’s about being tender enough to feel, courageous enough to keep seeking light, and brave enough to get back up, even when every fiber of your being wants to stay down. It’s about collecting the pieces of your broken heart and finding a way to make it beat again, perhaps even stronger and more appreciative of every precious moment.

I now stand in a place where I truly believe I am stronger and happier than ever before. Not despite the pain, but because of the profound lessons it taught me.

Every challenging step, every tear shed, every quiet moment of discovery contributed to the person I am today—a little wiser, a little braver, and with a way better story to tell.

My hope is that anyone facing similar darkness knows that the path back to joy is always possible, and that your story, too, holds immense power and purpose.

About Jessica Bowman

Jessica W. Bowman is a Southern author driven by a passion for authentic storytelling. Her first memoir, In Case I Die: A Southern Perspective of Death & Living Every Day Like it’s Your Last, explores finding joy and resilience after profound loss. Her writing aims to offer hope and practical wisdom, inspiring readers to embrace their own journey and cherish every moment. Learn more at jessicawbowman.com.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“True healing is not a straight line. It is a spiral. You come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.”

I used to believe healing would be obvious. Like a movie montage of breakthroughs… laughter through tears, epiphanies in therapy, and early morning jogs that end with a sunrise and a changed life. But that’s not what healing looked like for me.

It looked like dragging myself out of bed with puffy eyes after staying up too late crying. It looked like brushing my teeth when everything in me whispered, “Why bother?” It looked like answering a text when I didn’t feel lovable or worth responding to.

Healing, I’ve learned, is quieter than I expected. It’s not a climax. It’s a practice.

Three years ago, I hit what I can only describe as emotional gridlock. I wasn’t in crisis, at least not the kind that gets dramatic music. I was in the kind that feels like cement. I was tired all the time. My fuse was short. I wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t eating regularly, and the woman in the mirror didn’t look like someone I recognized anymore.

If you had asked me what was wrong, I wouldn’t have had an answer. It wasn’t a single event. It was a slow erosion of self, life chipping away piece by piece until I felt like a ghost of who I used to be.

One night, after snapping at my kids over something insignificant and crying in the shower, I sat on the edge of my bed and thought: I don’t want to live like this anymore.

Not “I want to disappear.” Not “I want to run away.” But this version of life, the one that felt like survival mode on loop, had to change.

So, I did something radical:

I took one deep breath. I unclenched my jaw. I drank a glass of water.

And that was day one.

There was no fanfare. No overnight shift. Just a decision to start with what I could reach: my breath, my body, the next kind choice.

The next morning, I made breakfast. Not for anyone else, just for me. Eggs and spinach. It sounds small, but it felt like reclaiming something. I was so used to skipping meals or eating standing up like my needs were interruptions.

That day, I walked around the block after lunch instead of scrolling. It wasn’t even a workout. I didn’t track it. But the sun hit my shoulders, and for the first time in a long time, I felt here.

That walk was healing.

So was every moment I chose presence over performance.

I started keeping a mental list of all the tiny things I did in a day that felt like medicine. A bath instead of another task. A journal entry that made no sense but helped me feel less like I might explode. Drinking water before coffee. Asking myself “What do I need?” and then actually listening for the answer.

Sometimes the answer was a nap. Sometimes it was a good cry with no rush to wipe my face. Sometimes it was texting a friend and saying, “I’m not okay right now,” even when I worried I might sound dramatic.

And sometimes, the answer was just silence.

Letting myself be… without the need to improve, perform, or explain.

Over the next year, healing became a practice of showing up differently.

Not dramatically.

Consistently.

I started listening to my body instead of overriding it. I rested when I needed to instead of proving I could push through. I said no even when my people-pleasing screamed at me to just say yes and make it easier for everyone else.

And the thing about consistency? It’s boring. It doesn’t get applause. But it works.

Healing is in the repetition of small kindnesses to yourself. The boring, brave acts of resistance against self-neglect.

It wasn’t linear, either. I fell back into old patterns. I had days where I numbed out with my phone, skipped meals, and snapped at everyone in the house. But I stopped making those days mean that I was back at square one.

You can fall down and still be healing.

You can feel stuck and still be progressing.

One of the most freeing things I ever learned was that healing isn’t a destination you arrive at. It’s a relationship you build with yourself. One rooted in trust.

And trust is earned in the small, quiet moments.

What I didn’t know then, but deeply understand now, is that our nervous systems aren’t waiting for one massive overhaul. They’re waiting for safety, predictability, and care. You rebuild your sense of self the same way you build trust with another person: One consistent action at a time.

It’s brushing your hair instead of pulling it up in frustration. It’s putting your phone down and drinking tea. It’s crying when the tears come instead of swallowing them down.

These things don’t look revolutionary. But they are. Because every small act of care tells your body and mind, “You matter. I’m here. I’ve got you now.”

I remember one day vividly.

It was pouring rain. My toddler had just thrown oatmeal across the room. I was already touched out, overstimulated, and dangerously close to tears. My instinct was to throw the day away, to turn on cartoons and pour coffee over my anxiety and call it survival.

But instead, I sat on the floor. I scooped my screaming child into my lap, pressed my forehead to his, and whispered, “We’re okay. We’re safe.”

I took a breath. Then another. And something in me softened.

That moment didn’t fix my life. But it reminded me of my power. That was healing, too.

If you’re in a season where everything feels off, where you feel numb or exhausted or like the spark you used to have is buried under obligation, I want you to know this:

You don’t need a ten-step plan. You need one small thing you can do today that feels like care.

A breath. A meal. A walk. A text to someone safe. A cry you’ve been holding in.

That is healing. Not a dramatic rebirth, but a quiet reweaving of yourself, thread by sacred thread.

A Few Things That Helped Me

• Lower the bar. Healing isn’t about being your best self every day. Some days it’s just about not abandoning yourself. Start there.
• Romanticize the boring. Light the candle. Make the tea. Put on the cozy socks. Small rituals matter. They remind you that your life is worth living even when it’s messy.
• Give yourself credit. Every time you choose presence over autopilot, you’re rewiring something. That’s no small thing.
• Befriend your body. It’s not broken. It’s responding to years of survival. Treat it like a loyal companion, not a machine that’s malfunctioning.
• Talk to yourself like someone you love. When you mess up. When you overreact. When you don’t meet your own expectations. Especially then.
• Keep showing up. Even if it’s not glamorous. Especially when it’s not.

You won’t always feel the shift. But you’ll wake up one day and realize: you’re softer. Kinder. Less reactive. More you.

That’s what healing does.

Quietly. Faithfully. Cell by cell.

About Cristie Robbins

Cristie Robbins is a published author, certified mental wellness coach, and the founder of The Wellness Blueprint. She helps women reduce stress and reclaim vitality through a root-cause approach. Learn more or connect with Cristie at thewellnessblueprint.org. and follow her on Facebook and Instagram.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“Sometimes letting things go is an act of far greater power than defending or hanging on.” ~Eckhart Tolle

In July 2023, my father died in a tragic accident. We were devastated—my sisters, my mother, and I. Or so I thought.

What followed in the months after his death forced me to confront the truth of my mother’s emotional disconnection, a truth I had sensed but never fully allowed myself to see. In losing my father, I also lost the illusion of the mother I thought I had.

A Sudden Exit

By September, just two months after my father’s death, my mother packed up and left the home we had just helped her settle into. She moved from Florida to Alabama to be with a man she had secretly loved for years—her high school crush. A man she had long referred to as her “co-author.” I will call him Roy.

He had been a nightly fixture in her life for a while. She would stay on the phone with him late into the evening, even while my dad slept in the next room. She always claimed it didn’t bother my father. But looking back, I wonder if he just swallowed the discomfort, like so many other things.

Let’s take a step back. In 2022, my sister and I bought a home for our parents to retire in comfortably. We thought we were giving them a safe and loving space to grow old together. But before my father even passed away, my mother had already planned her escape. The house we bought wasn’t her sanctuary. It was a stopover.

She didn’t ask us for help moving. She didn’t even warn us. She bought new luggage, made quiet arrangements, and disappeared. We were suddenly bombarded with text messages filled with excitement: stories of her “new life,” her “adventures,” and her rediscovered love. She glowed with freedom while the rest of us were still gasping for air.

A New Life, A New Name

By January—six months after my father died—she was married to Roy. She changed her last name. She discarded decades of shared identity with my father like she was shedding an old coat. She left behind his ashes. She left the framed photos that we had prepared for his memorial. It was as if he had never existed.

But it wasn’t just him she left behind. She also abandoned her daughters. Her grandchildren. Her great-grandchildren. A family many would cherish, tossed aside like clutter.

Her new story was one of long-suffering redemption. She recast herself as the woman who had endured a marriage with a difficult man and had finally, after decades, found joy. The truth? She had slowly detached from the rest of us for years—investing more time in writing projects and Facebook groups aligned with Roy’s interests, and less in her own family.

Her new husband had also just lost his spouse, only days after my dad died. The narrative practically wrote itself: two grieving souls who found each other through fate. But those of us watching from the outside knew the foundation had been laid long before the funerals.

The Pain of Rewriting the Past

Eventually, my sisters and I had to step away. We had asked for space to grieve our father—kindly, repeatedly. But every boundary was met with denial, deflection, or emotional manipulation. There was no recognition of our pain, only excitement about her “next chapter.”

Sometimes I wrestle with the urge to correct her version of events. In her telling, she’s the eternal victim: a woman finally liberated, only to be judged by ungrateful daughters who refused to be happy for her. But I’ve learned that arguing with someone’s internal mythology rarely leads to healing. It only deepens the divide.

So, I let go. Not of the truth, but of the need for her to see it.

I grieved deeply—not only for my father, but for the mother I thought I had. I began to wonder: Had she ever wanted children? Had she ever truly been emotionally available? Was it all performative?

Those are hard questions to ask. But once I allowed myself to see her clearly—not as the mother I hoped she was, but as the woman she actually is—I began to feel something surprising: relief. And eventually, acceptance. Accepting that a parent is incapable of giving you the love you needed is one of the hardest emotional tasks we face. But it’s also one of the most liberating.

Breaking the Cycle

There were red flags in childhood. My mom wasn’t nurturing. She often complained of pain, stayed stuck on the couch, irritable and disconnected from the rest of the family. I walked on eggshells around her. I can’t recall warm, playful memories. That emotional void quietly shaped me in ways I didn’t fully understand until recently.

I developed an attachment style that drew me to avoidant relationships, repeating old patterns. I didn’t know how to ask for what I needed because I had never learned to recognize my needs in the first place.

Through therapy, reflection, and support, I began to break the cycle. But it required giving up the fantasy. It required grieving not just the loss of my parents, but the loss of the childhood I wished I had. This is not a story of blaming parents, but rather one of gaining a deeper understanding of my mother to better understand myself.

I want to be clear: I have compassion for my mother. She grew up with mental illness in her home. She wasn’t nurtured either. She didn’t learn how to attune, connect, or show up. She may have done the best she could with what she had.

But compassion doesn’t mean ignoring harm. I can hold both truths: her pain was real, and so is the pain she inflicted.

The Freedom of Letting Go

I’ve stopped hoping for an apology. I’ve stopped trying to explain myself. And I’ve stopped trying to earn her love.

Instead, I’m investing in the relationships that nourish me. I’m giving myself the emotional safety I never had. I’m allowing myself to feel it all—the grief, the clarity, the compassion, the peace. Letting go of a parent doesn’t make you cold-hearted. It means you’ve decided to stop betraying yourself.

Because here’s the truth I’ve come to accept: we can love our parents and still recognize that the relationship isn’t healthy. We can give grace for their pain without sacrificing our own healing. And in some cases, we can—and must—walk away.

There is freedom in seeing our parents as they really are—not as idealized figures, but as complex, flawed humans. When we hold onto illusions, we gaslight ourselves. We call ourselves too sensitive or too needy when in reality, we’re responding to unmet needs that have been there all along.

To me, that doesn’t mean sitting in resentment about what you didn’t get from your parents; it means figuring out how to provide that for yourself as an adult. If we don’t examine those early wounds, we carry them forward. We struggle to trust. We tolerate toxic dynamics. We confuse love with emotional labor.

Understanding where it all began leads to healthy change. We can choose different relationships. We can choose ourselves.

And that, I’ve learned, is where healing begins.

About Anissa

Anissa Bell is a licensed marriage and family therapist and sleep specialist who helps anxious minds find rest—even when life feels anything but restful. She works with clients to untangle the worries that keep them up at night, including work stressors, relationship problems, complicated family dynamics, and the overall life messiness that fuels anxiety and insomnia. Learn more about her therapy practice at sleep-anxiety.com orclaritytherapyassociates.com, or get to know her on a more personal level HERE.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

“Until you make peace with who you are, you will never be content with what you have.” ~Doris Mortman

For most of my life, I believed my worth was tied to how well I could perform.

If I looked successful, kept people happy, worked harder than anyone else, and stayed quiet about my pain, maybe—just maybe—I would be enough.

That belief didn’t come from nowhere. I grew up in a home where fear was a constant companion. Speaking up brought consequences. Being invisible felt safer. I learned early to smile through it all, to stay small, to never be a burden.

I carried that into adulthood—into my marriage, into motherhood, and into the corporate world.

I became the high achiever who never asked for help. The professional woman who had all the answers. The mother who always held it together.

I was the one who volunteered for every project, who stayed late to make everything perfect. At home, I kept up appearances with themed birthday parties, spotless counters, and a schedule packed to the brim—all while quietly falling apart inside. I thought if I could hold everything together on the outside, no one would see the cracks within.

But inside, I was unraveling.

The Moment Everything Shifted

One night, my husband exploded in anger. That wasn’t unusual. But this time, something different happened.

He lunged toward me, yelling, blind with rage. Our young son, who had crawled quietly onto the floor behind me, was nearly stepped on in the chaos. My daughter, just a child herself, began silently picking up the dining room chairs he had thrown.

No one cried. No one spoke. We had all learned to go silent.

But in that silence, something inside me woke up.

I saw myself in my children—quiet, afraid, coping. And I knew: if I didn’t break this cycle, they would grow up carrying the same invisible scars I had.

That night, I made a promise to myself: This ends with me.

The Healing Didn’t Happen All at Once 

Leaving was hard. Healing was harder. But it was also the most powerful thing I’ve ever done.

I realized I had been performing my way through life. Even in pain, I made everything look polished. I was afraid that if people knew the truth—about my past, about my marriage, about how little I thought of myself—they’d walk away.

But what actually happened was this: when I finally allowed myself to be seen, I started to heal.

What I’ve Learned on the Other Side of Survival

Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s a process—sometimes slow, sometimes messy, sometimes unbelievably beautiful.

Here are a few things I now hold close:

1. You can’t heal what you refuse to name.

For me, that moment came during therapy, when I finally said out loud, “I was in an emotionally abusive marriage.” It felt terrifying—and freeing. Until I gave it a name, it had power over me. Naming it took the first step to taking that power.

For years I told myself it “wasn’t that bad.” But downplaying our pain doesn’t make it go away—it buries it. And buried pain finds a way to surface in our choices, our relationships, and our sense of self-worth.

2. You’re allowed to want more than survival.

I thought I should just be grateful to have a job, a home, healthy kids. But deep down, I wanted joy. I wanted peace. I wanted to feel like I mattered—to myself.

For a long time, I believed wanting those things made me selfish. I had spent years making sure everyone else was okay, thinking that was my role. I was the people- pleaser, the fixer, the one who didn’t cause trouble. My self-worth was so low that even imagining a life where I felt fulfilled seemed like too much to ask. Who was I to want happiness?

But wanting peace and joy wasn’t selfish. That was healing.

3. Small, daily decisions matter more than big breakthroughs.

Choosing to journal instead of numbing out with TV. Taking a walk after work to process my thoughts. Pausing before reacting in frustration. These choices weren’t dramatic, but they created steady change—the kind that lasts.

Leaving my marriage was one bold decision. But the real transformation came from the everyday choices that followed: writing down what I was grateful for, saying no without guilt, and consistently reminding myself to honor my values of honesty and integrity—which I hadn’t done when protecting my ex-husband, keeping up appearances, and pretending everything was fine. Those were the moments that helped me reclaim my life.

4. You’re not broken—you’re becoming.

For a long time, I saw myself as damaged and thought healing meant changing into a different person. But I’ve come to see things differently. Healing isn’t about becoming someone new. It’s about removing what never belonged to you in the first place—shame, fear, silence—and uncovering who you were all along.

I realized this while sorting through old journals, when I found an entry from my teenage years—full of dreams and hope. That’s when it struck me: she’s still in there. Healing helped me reconnect with that part of myself, not erase her.

If You’re in That Quiet Place Right Now

Maybe you’re carrying a silence too. Maybe you’re functioning, performing, doing all the things—and still wondering why you feel so far from yourself.

Please hear this: You are not alone.

You don’t have to have it all figured out. You don’t need a perfect plan. You just need a willingness to listen to that small, wise voice inside—the one that says this isn’t the end of your story.

Because it’s not.

And then, you have to honor it. Even if it’s with one small act. One honest conversation. One brave decision. That’s how the healing begins—not by knowing everything, but by choosing to move forward anyway.

I know this because I’ve been there—waking up with a heavy heart, going through the motions, wondering if life would ever feel like mine again.

But I chose to pause. To feel. To begin again. I hope you will too.

“The journey of the perfect daughter is not about perfection; it’s about finding the courage to be imperfect, to be human.” ~Robert Ackerman, Perfect Daughters

Growing up in a home shadowed by addiction is like living in a house with no foundation. The ground beneath you is unstable, the walls feel fragile, and the roof could collapse at any moment. For me, this was my reality. My earliest memories of my mother’s alcoholism are tied to confusion and worry—a child’s attempt to make sense of an adult world filled with unpredictability and silence.

Her moods were erratic, swinging from one extreme to another, I recall. I remember one night, she came into my room, woke me up, and told me not to worry, but she was going back to work. The way she spoke, her entire presence, was off. It wasn’t her usual self. I didn’t understand she was drunk. I just felt pure, childlike concern.

This confusion was only the beginning. As I grew older, the challenges multiplied. The embarrassment of comparing my home life to my friends’, the isolation of a family that never spoke about the elephant in the room, and the lack of safety in my own home left me feeling utterly alone.

I didn’t feel comfortable reaching out to any adult. My dad wasn’t approachable, and my mom wasn’t emotionally available. I felt like I had to solve everything on my own.

The Roles We Play 

In the chaos of addiction, children often take on roles to survive. For me, these roles became my identity. I became the peacemaker, mediating between my mother and younger sister. I became a second mother, guiding my sister in ways my mom couldn’t. And I became the “good daughter,” believing that if I loved my mother enough, I could save her.

I thought that by loving her more, investing my attention in her needs, and avoiding confrontations, I could make her feel better. But it was an impossible burden.

My relationship with my father also suffered. I blamed him for allowing my mom to continue her behavior and for not doing anything for us. He became the enemy, and I pushed him out of my life.

The Long Shadow of Childhood Trauma 

The impact of my mother’s alcoholism didn’t end in childhood. As an adult, I found myself repeating patterns in friendships and romantic relationships. I’ve struggled with codependency, boundaries, and trust issues. I’ve had manipulative partners and found myself drawn to selfish, narcissistic people.

But my journey toward healing began when I hit rock bottom. I was drinking excessively, showing up to work after long nights out, and even driving drunk. I dated a partner who was emotionally abusive and almost physically violent—and my parents had no idea.

A pivotal moment came during a surprise party my sister organized before I left to study abroad. I arrived hungover and exhausted, and when everyone shouted “surprise!” I had an anxiety attack. It was the first time I realized how many feelings I’d buried—sadness, frustration, anger, and underneath it all, a deep, overwhelming grief I had never allowed myself to feel.

The Path to Healing 

Healing didn’t happen overnight. It began with therapy—though my first experience was far from ideal. That therapist was deeply narcissistic, mirroring the types of people I’d been drawn to all my life. But I didn’t give up. I found another therapist, and she’s been my steady guide for seven years.

Through our work, I learned that I was not alone and that I could reach out for help—and trust that help. I also learned to recognize what trust feels like, to move away from extremes, to distinguish love from codependency, and to take responsibility for my part in my experiences. At twenty-seven, I was finally ready to stop blaming others and take accountability—not just for my present, but for all the years I had abandoned myself. I began to reframe my past, not through the lens of a victim, but from the perspective of the self-aware adult I’d become.

One of the most profound breakthroughs came when I decided I was ready to confront my mother. Preparing for that moment shifted everything—it marked the beginning of reclaiming my voice and stepping into my own power.

Support groups like Al-Anon also played a crucial role. When I arrived at Al-Anon, I started crying within minutes. For the first time, I heard people speak openly—almost casually—about having a loved one with alcoholism. I had never experienced that kind of openness in such a “normal” environment.

Listening to the speaker share their story, I realized I wasn’t alone. We were all carrying the same grief, frustration, and helplessness. In that room, I felt seen. I felt like I belonged.

Through therapy, meditation, exercise, and books, I began to rebuild my sense of self. I learned to be with myself in a peaceful, serene way. I stopped looking at my mom as someone weird or lost and started seeing her as someone with a disease. I took off the impossible burden of having to save her.

Surrendering to Hope 

One of the most profound lessons I learned was the power of surrender. For me, surrender meant admitting I needed help—that my own resources weren’t enough to handle the situation I was facing at home. It meant being humble enough to admit that this was bigger than me, that trying to fix my mother was not only ineffective but was also destroying me.

In my daily life, surrender meant walking away from arguments, especially when my mother was drinking, letting go of the exhausting mission to make her happy, and accepting that her happiness wasn’t something I could guarantee.

There’s a phrase in Al-Anon that became my mantra: “I didn’t cause it. I can’t control it.” I surrendered my expectations of who I wished my mother would be and allowed myself to grieve the mother I didn’t have. That surrender saved my life.

My journey is a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. When you choose to surrender, everything will start feeling better. It’s a leap of faith, and trust me, you’re not alone.

Today, I’m still on my healing journey, but I’m no longer defined by my past. I’m learning to trust myself, set boundaries, and embrace my worth. My story is a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is hope—and that healing is possible, one step at a time.

About Teresa López

Tere is a journalist and advocate for mental health. Through her personal journey of healing from childhood trauma, she has found solace in therapy, meditation, and support groups. She hopes her story inspires others to seek help and embrace their own path to peace. Connect with her on Instagram @terelandia.

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!

TRIGGER WARNING: This post includes a brief mention of childhood physical abuse and may be triggering to some readers.

 “The person who tries to keep everyone happy often ends up feeling the loneliest.” ~Unknown

It’s Christmas morning. I’m seven years old. I sit on the hardwood floor with my sisters, in my nightgown surrounded by crumpled wrapping paper. I grab the next present to open. I tear off the paper. It’s a ballerina costume with a pink leotard, tutu, and pale pink tights.

As soon as I thank my adoptive parents, I leave the room with my new gift, keeping it hidden behind me. I get upstairs to my bedroom and stand in front of the mirror, rushing to get it out of the package and put it on, struggling to get the different fabrics to cooperate.

When I finally get it on my body, I run back downstairs with a big smile, excited to surprise everyone and maybe even earn some laughs. My heart races with excitement. I enter the living room. My adoptive parents look at me. I scan their faces for smiles. The smiles don’t come.

“What the hell did you do! You ain’t supposed to put it on yet!” Mom yells.

My heart’s beating loud. Why are they angry? I can’t understand the mean words my parents hurl at me. Dad gets up from his chair and attacks me. When he’s done, my face is hot and my hair disheveled. I hang my head and go back upstairs to my bedroom to change out of the costume. I look in the mirror at myself. ‘I’m so stupid.’ I think. I will never misread them again.

I was taken from my birthmother at ten months old and placed with foster parents who abused me, and despite this being common knowledge, they were allowed to adopt me.

Adoptees, even without abuse from adoptive parents, become experts at adapting. We know our family arrangement came to be because our birth parents weren’t up for the task of holding onto us; the reason doesn’t matter because children can only point inward. Beneath the surface, many adoptees carry an unconscious belief that sounds something like this:

“I am bad and unlovable. That is why I was not worth keeping the first time. If I can become whoever my adoptive parents want me to be, I will prevent being abandoned again.”

So, adoptees learn to bend and shift, careful not to incite disappointment or anger from their adoptive parents. For example, I didn’t dream of being a dancer as a child. I’d never taken a ballet class or even expressed an interest in it. So when I opened that costume on Christmas morning, I saw it as a clue. My eagerness to be a show pony in a ballet costume was an instinctual reaction because it meant earning a higher approval rating from my scary adoptive parents. But obviously, I read it all wrong.

This life-saving skill of adaptation permeates any relationship that poses a risk for leaving adoptees with a broken heart. It can become so pervasive that by the time adoptees enter adulthood, they’ve had little to no experience exploring their own needs, wants, or desires—because they’ve spent their entire lives becoming who the person in front of them wanted them to be.

My husband and I gave our daughter a “yes day” a couple of years ago, where she created a list of fun things to do, and within specific parameters, we had to say “yes.” This involved her choosing our outfits for the day, a trip to Dave and Busters, a silly string fight, designing specialty chocolates at the Goo Goo Cluster shop downtown, and a candy buffet for dinner. My husband and I delighted in her joy that day.

Later, when my daughter asked, “Mom, what would you want to do if you had a ‘yes day?’”

I felt a burning in my chest, realizing I couldn’t answer her. And when an idea did come, like seeing a concert or dining at a specific restaurant, I knew I’d feel guilty for asking the rest of my family to join me because it wasn’t their thing. My inability to tell my child what I like was a powerful teaching moment, and a call for change.

I began therapy in my early thirties, intent on resolving the thick layers of trauma and loss that created this barrier between the me that operated out of fear of abandonment, and my true self. Traditional talk therapy with a therapist specializing in trauma, EMDR, EEG neurofeedback, and accelerated resolution therapy slowly chipped away at that barrier. With every victory, I learn more about myself and feel more at ease in the world.

Resolving trauma is dissolving shame. For me, shame has kept me from knowing myself and focusing solely on the happiness of the people around me for fear of being left or in danger if I fail.

Loneliness is a consequence of being a chameleon who doesn’t know who she is. How can I expect genuine connection if I’m not allowing people to accept the real me? As a shame-filled person, I chose relationships with people who mirrored my low self-worth back to me. How can I expect genuine connection in relationships like that?

Authentic relationships are a natural consequence of dissolving shame. Being seen, loved, and accepted for our true selves is the antidote to loneliness.

For anyone out there who bends and shifts to maintain connection with the people they care about, ask yourself, “If I had a yes day, how would I spend it? Do the people in my life care enough about me to come along and delight in my joy?”

If that question feels uncomfortable—if the people who come to mind would groan, flake, or dismiss it—I see you. I’ve been there. But healing begins with allowing yourself to imagine something different. Imagine being surrounded by people who celebrate and cherish the real you. Imagine what it would feel like to be loved that way.

Because that kind of love is possible, and you deserve it.

About Kelly Jean Torres

Kelly Jean Torres is an author, essayist, and singer/songwriter in Nashville, TN. Her book, Saving The Lost Girl: A Memoir of Healing, was released this April. Visit her website to learn more:
https://kellyjeantorres.co/

See a typo or inaccuracy? Please contact us so we can fix it!