Trauma isn't a word. Trigger warning ⚠️
TRAUMA ISN'T A COMPETITION
Trauma isn't a buzzword. It's just something people are talking about far more freely now, online and elsewhere, than they ever used to. That's not a bad thing in itself — I'd rather people talk about it openly than bury it the way generations before us were made to. But somewhere in that openness, I think we've lost sight of something important: trauma isn't a shared, uniform experience just because more people are naming it out loud.
Here's the thing I keep coming back to: trauma isn't defined by the incident. It's defined by the impact. Two people can go through what looks like the same event on paper and come out of it in completely different places — one relatively intact, the other fundamentally altered. That's not a flaw in either person. That's just how differently we're all wired to survive.
I say this knowing something about it myself. I'm not going to lay out the specifics here — that's not what this post is for — but I've lived through things that reshaped how my body responds to fear, how much I trust institutions that are supposed to help, how safe I feel simply existing in the world. The strange thing is, the people who actually knew me — my community, the people who watched what I went through — never once doubted it. They saw a traumatised woman and they believed it, plainly and without argument. It was the professionals, the ones with the letters after their name, who struggled with it. Belief was never the problem on the ground. It became a problem the moment it needed a clinical signature.
I've never been afraid to hold my hands up and ask for help. I've never struggled to hold myself accountable when accountability was due. So what's utterly devastating — what genuinely shakes something loose in you — is reaching out to the organisations that exist specifically to help, and coming out the other side more harmed than when you walked in. Not unhelped. Harmed. There's something seriously wrong with that story, and it's not a story about me being too sensitive or too much. It's a story about systems that are supposed to hold people and instead find new ways to drop them.
Given how much my own health has declined, I feel like I can't just let this happen to others without saying something. I'm a woman, so my perception of this leans toward how it feels from that position — but I fully appreciate anyone can be harmed by others, and that we can all, unwittingly, cause harm ourselves too.
So how does trauma actually present itself, in me? The saddest part — and I'm certain there are thousands, if not millions, of people around the world who'd recognise this exact shape — is how gradually it changes how you show up in the world. Years ago I was outward-facing, clearly functioning, working with the public all day long. I socialised. I laughed. I felt optimistic. And then, piece by piece, those core characteristics slide away, until you look at yourself and ask: where the hell did I go? I don't mean identity disturbance. I mean gradual chunks cut away from you, so slowly you don't notice them going until they're already gone.
You stop trusting others. You become hypervigilant, constantly reading whether someone could cause you harm — and that doesn't invite friendship or connection, it repels it. By definition, social support doesn't end abruptly. It fades. And you can intellectualise all you want; that doesn't cure the lack of trust underneath it. There's real wisdom in holding back when you meet people, in being the quiet observer — the wise old woman just watching calmly, because trusting blindly can cost more than you'd imagine.
But I've changed so much. I no longer even want to meet new people, because it's just full of risk. I stopped going out because I might come to harm — and why wouldn't I feel that way, when the threats were real? My body finds it hard to be calm. It's often rigid, ready to flee. That's automatic. It isn't a choice I'm making each morning. It's what's left behind after the threat is gone but the body never got the message.
If anything in this has stirred something up for you, please be gentle with yourself today. If you're struggling, these are here for you:
Samaritans: 116 123 (free, 24/7)
Mind: 0300 123 3393
CALM (for men): 0800 58 58 58
SANEline: 0300 304 7000
