Unpacking Trauma One Eye-Opening Epiphany at a Time
Breaking Generational B.S. Because Apparently, “Just Get Over It” Isn’t a Legit Healing Strategy
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For decades, I walked through life blissfully unaware that I was basically a human emotional piñata, getting whacked from all sides. Every memory I’ve unpacked in therapy could have been different—should have been different. But when you grow up with undiagnosed neurodivergence, life isn’t just a puzzle; it’s a puzzle missing half the pieces while someone gaslights you into thinking you’re holding all of them. This, my friends, is how one unknowingly collects a lovely bouquet of complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD).
I always thought my PTSD stemmed from my toxic ex—the charming disaster who was verbally and physically abusive. But surprise! Turns out trauma is like a subscription service you never signed up for—it just keeps renewing itself. When you have unresolved trauma, you unknowingly gravitate toward more of it, as if it's the only language you understand. And just like that, you’re knee-deep in a life so chaotic, even a reality TV producer would say, “That’s a bit much.”
A Childhood of Unseen Wounds
I was an “oops baby” to teenage parents—kids themselves, just winging it through life. Maybe that’s why I’ve always carried this lingering feeling of being a glorified group project no one actually wanted to work on. They did what they were supposed to do, but there was always a sense that I was just... there.
My parents were young, wild, and trying to navigate their own lives. There was drinking, partying, and enough chaos to rival a soap opera. We kids were tucked away in the basement or upstairs, out of sight, so the adults could do “adult things” (which, in retrospect, was mostly poor decision-making). Alcohol-induced fights were the norm. Criticism was a daily special. I was never good enough, always doing it wrong, always needing to be better. And when you hear that enough, your inner voice starts sounding like a relentless mean girl.
At some point, the noise in my head became unbearable. The weight of never being enough, of constantly being wrong—it became too much. That is trauma. That is what shapes a person in ways they don’t fully grasp until years later.
The Cycle of Blindness
But here’s the thing—I don’t blame my parents.
How could I? They were kids themselves. Kids raising kids, carrying their own inherited traumas, passing down their emotional baggage like a treasured family heirloom. Trauma is generational until someone decides to stop the hand-me-down madness. I see now that they were blind to their own pain, just as I was blind to mine for so long.
That blindness led me to my own unconscious decisions. At 19, I had a baby—not because I was ready, but because I was desperate to feel loved. To create the love I had always longed for. But now I fear that in doing so, I unknowingly passed down the very traumas I was trying to escape. Oh, the irony.
Relearning How to Live
Now, I am relearning everything—how to exist beyond survival mode, how to feel safe in my own skin, how to be kind to myself without immediately rolling my eyes. I can't remember the last time I truly felt safe to be my full self. That realization hits like a rogue wave at a beach you thought was calm.
I have to learn how to mother in a way I was not mothered. In a way I didn’t even mother my own children for much of their lives. It’s painful to admit, but there it is. The cycles don’t break themselves—we have to shatter them, piece by piece, with intention and effort.
So I am learning. Learning to communicate with myself first.
Why am I feeling this way?
What is going on in my brain?
Do I need something, or do I need space?
How can I show up for myself with compassion instead of an internal roast session?
How can I be a support instead of a critic?
The inner voice that once tore me down needs rewiring. The disgust and judgment I internalized need to be unlearned so I can relearn how to live in a way that nurtures me. And in doing so, I can create a ripple effect—one that brings healing not just to myself, but to my children, my husband, my friendships, my life.
Breaking cycles isn’t easy. It requires facing truths that are uncomfortable, painful, and sometimes absurdly unfair. But I refuse to let the past dictate the future. I am choosing to be the change—to create a foundation of safety, love, and understanding that I never had.
Because healing doesn’t just happen. It’s a choice. And today, I choose to heal—snark, scars, and all.
Your Turn: Time to Break Some Cycles
If any of this resonates with you, maybe it’s time to ask yourself some hard questions. What patterns are you repeating? What voices from your past are still controlling your present? Where can you show yourself more kindness, more compassion, more patience?
Take a moment. Write it down. Start small. The first step in breaking cycles is recognizing them. And if you need a sign to start doing the work, consider this it. You deserve to heal, to thrive, to live fully—and not just as a survivor, but as someone who truly feels alive.
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