drglenndoyle

Don’t get tricked into the Trauma Olympics.

Comparing your trauma to someone else’s is almost always a trap.

I can tell you from experience, that juice is almost never worth the squeeze.

It’s true that sometimes hearing others’ stories can be validating. It can help us understand that we’re not alone in what we endured. That there really were other families that functioned (such as it is) the way ours did. That there really are other people who are still alive after life tried to kill them.

But it’s also the case that hearing others’ stories can get in our head about the validity or severity of our own experience.

Many trauma survivors already struggle with feeling that we don’t have “permission” to feel what we feel.

We often struggle with feeling like our experience wasn’t “bad enough” to produce the symptoms and struggles we face now.

We’ve often been told that it wasn’t the situation that was bad— but rather, we were “weak.’

Some of us have been told that we didn’t really experience trauma— we just have a “personality disorder.”

A fair amount of the work in trauma recovery is unwiring and rewiring feelings and behavior that stem from what we were told.

We don’t need to add to that task by comparing and contrasting what we went through or how we responded to it, with what someone else went through, or how they’re handling it.

I find it useful to remind myself that, no matter what I learn about someone else’s past or trauma, I’m almost surely not hearing the entire story. I’m hearing what they remember, and/or what they’re able to express right now.

I also find it useful to remember that, no matter how someone seems to be handling their trauma, what I see is almost never the entire picture.

In the end, just like nobody knows our entire story or experience except us, we truly don’t know all the contours of somebody else’s story or experience.

Not that this fact stops Trauma Brain from trying to get us to judge the living sh*t out of ourselves based on what we do hear about others’ stories.

Trauma Brain— the internalized voices of our bullies and abusers— will almost always use someone else’s story to tell us we didn’t REALLY have it “that bad.”

Or, sometimes, Trauma Brain will play against type, and use someone else’s story as “evidence” that what we went through was SO bad, there’s no POSSIBLE way we can “recover”— so we might as well not try.

What I want you to notice about that is, Trauma Brain doesn’t actually care about how our experience stacks up against someone else’s.

It just wants us to judge and hate ourselves, and give up on recovery.

Be mindful when you’re exposed to others’ stories of trauma and survival and recovery.

Remember that, no matter what anyone else endured, you still absolutely have the right to feel what you feel and need what you need.

Your injuries are your injuries. They don’t change because someone may have had it “better” or “worse.”

Trauma survivors very often end up bonding over our shared experiences of pain (which is not a “trauma bond,” by the way— that term refers to what happens when a survivor is coercively bonded to an abuser on whom they are dependent). And it’s true that some of our biggest supports in this trauma recovery can be other survivors.

Just be careful Trauma Brain doesn’t sucker you into competing in the Trauma Olympics. That is a very reliable recipe for a spiral.

Breathe. Blink. Focus.

And remember your recovery truly is YOUR recovery.

drglenndoyle

You are up for this.

CPTSD is going to try to convince you you are not up to this life. That you can’t hack it.

It’s going to give you all sorts of “evidence” that you’re just not up to this— and that evidence is going to feel very real, mostly because you’re exhausted.

Exhaustion makes false evidence appear real. You know, “F.E.A.R.”

The reality is, you are up for this.

When I say “up for this,” I don’t mean you’re up to the project of simply continuing to exist— I mean you’re up for the project of creating a life you don’t hate.

The thing is, we’re not really taught how to do that.

Hell, humans are really taught how to do that under the best of circumstances, even when they’re not being abused or neglected.

Look around. How many people do you know who are actually relaxed and focused and happy?

You might know a few— but you probably know a lot more who are tense, scattered, and unhappy.

That’s because we’re not really taught how to design a life.

We’re not taught it in school, and the versions of it we’re “taught” in religion often have nothing to do with what we actually want or value.

So you take that basic skill deficit that most humans suffer from, and you add abuse and neglect that f*cks up our head about whether we “deserve” to live, let alone be happy— and you wind up with trauma survivors who are very vulnerable to hopelessness about our future.

Trauma recovery is going to ask you to understand that feeling for what it is: a feeling.

Even that sense of certainty that you “can’t” create a life is just that: a feeling. A feeling that has been conditioned, programmed, reinforced, by painful experiences that shouldn’t have happened.

We truly shouldn’t be taking our bullies’ and abusers’ word for what we deserve and what we can do.

We truly shouldn’t take on the BS (Belief Systems) of people who didn’t have their own sh*t together— to the extent that they had to make THEIR lives all about making OUR lives hell.

It is my experience that most survivors in trauma recovery are not just creating our recovery from scratch— we’re building our lives and our self-concepts from scratch, really.

The idea that we can create a life that is about what WE want it to be about is this bizarre idea.

Maybe its sounds unbelievable. I get it.

But here’s the rock bottom reality: neither you nor I were “destined” for anything.

We were not destined for misery; nor were we destined for greatness.

We have the life we have. The resources we have. The time we have.

And, yes, you and I have the injuries we have. This fun collection of beliefs and behaviors called CPTSD.

But we get to choose what our life is about.

How to DO that is not easy or effortless, but let me be crystal clear: we GET to learn how to do it. We GET to decide who and what we want to be.

That’s not toxic positivity bullsh*t— that’s reality.

You are up for this. It may not be pretty and it may not be easy— I know my journey hasn’t been either of those, and it still isn’t.

But you and I are up for this.

You have a realistic place in this world and a realistic life you can build that you don’t hate waking up to every morning.

It all starts and deepens with conditioning and reconditioning.

You are not the one human being whose nervous system stopped being malleable after your trauma. I guarantee it.

Breathe. Blink. Focus.

And seek out the next teeny, tiny, recovery supporting micro choice.

drglenndoyle

Functional freeze and fawning in plain sight.

“Fawn” and “freeze” in CPTSD often don’t look like we think they should.

When we hear “freeze,” we often think of literal paralysis.

Sometimes that is what “freeze” looks like— but CPTSD survivors tends to be far more familiar with “functional freeze.”

In “functional freeze,” we may not look “frozen” at all to someone observing us.

We may be going about our tasks of the day, doing the things, showing up to work, taking care of the kids.

But inside, we may be at a standstill.

We may be procrastinating on important things that we just cannot get ourselves to do.

It often feels like an internal wall we just can’t get around— and yet, we feel lots of shame about that wall, because we don’t register what’s happening as a trauma response.

It’s easy to mistake a “functional freeze” state for a “choice,” because we’re still doing certain things. We’re not literally, physically “frozen.”

But “functional freeze” is no more a “choice” than any other trauma response.

Trauma responses are not choices.

CPTSD survivors stuck in “functional freeze” would often give ANYTHING to be able to do the things they feel unable to do— even as they’re doing the things they are able to do on autopilot.

A similar thing happens with the “fawn” response.

We may not even realize we’re “fawning” when we are. We may think we’re just engaging with someone in a friendly, accommodating way.

But that line— between “friendly” and “accommodating” in an unchosen way— can be very fine.

We’re told so often to stop “people pleasing,” that we may truly believe we’re making a choice, a choice we could make differently at any moment.

But diverting from that accommodating, people-pleasing default may be harder than it seems.

Our behavior when we’re “fawning” can seem so natural, so freely chosen, that we may not register that we’re actually feeling quite coerced— and quite unable to just choose differently.

Trauma responses that don’t necessarily look like trauma responses can really f*ck with us.

We assume that we would know a trauma response when we see it or experience it— but would we?

After all, many CPTSD survivors are real good at hiding our trauma responses from others.

Who’s to say we’re not equally good at hiding them from ourselves?

It’s true that not every reaction we have is a trauma response.

But when a reaction is a trauma response, even one in disguise, it really matters that we’re able to clock that— because trauma responses can’t be just “unchosen.”

They have to be met with compassion and patience— and, more than anything, tools that create safety, inside and outside of us.

Broaden your thinking about what may be a trauma response.

Functional freezing and fawning in plain sight happen a lot more than anybody realizes.

Breathe. Blink. Focus.

drglenndoyle

Talking– and listening– to ourselves.

You’ve heard me say over and over again that the three main trauma recovery tools are self-talk, mental focus, and physiology.

The self-talk piece is often the one that’s most accessible.

We’re talking to ourselves 24/7/365.

We may not be aware we’re talking to ourselves— but we are. We are in constant communication with ourselves.

We’re constantly telling ourselves stories— some true, some less true— about who we are and what things mean.

What we communicate to ourselves really matters— but how we communicate it really, really matters.

Remember that the backbone of realistic trauma recovery really is the relationship with ourselves— because that’s what takes the hit when we endure complex trauma.

When we endure complex trauma— that is, pain that unfolds over time, is functionally inescapable, and entwines with our relationships—we almost always come out of it with a damaged relationship with ourselves.

We don’t believe we’re worthy.

We don’t believe we’re capable.

We don’t believe we have a future.

And that damaged relationship with ourselves is almost always reflected in our self-talk and other self-communication.

This often takes the form of talking to ourselves like our abusers and bullies talked to us.

We internalize both their vocabulary and their cadences.

And why wouldn’t we? For many of us, our abusers and our bullies were the people we interacted with the most, whether it was our parents or our peers.

Some survivors get skeptical that self-talk plays an big role in either trauma or recovery, because the words “self talk” sound superficial.

But I’m not talking about superficial self-talk.

I’m talking about deep self-talk— the self-communication that is a 24/7/365 live feed inside our head and nervous system. The self-communication that informs and supports our deepest belief systems.

That’s what we have to shift.

Just telling yourself “good job”— while maybe an okay start— isn’t going to do much.

Using your ability to talk to yourself to remind your “parts” and inner child, again and again, that they will not be punished or abandoned— not by you, not inside your own head and heart— can be life transforming.

A good rule of thumb to keep in mind is, you know all the stuff you needed to hear once upon a time, when you were lonely or desperate or in trouble?

You still need to hear that stuff.

But now it needs to come from you, to you— from the conscious, verbal “part” of you, to the more vulnerable, less verbal “part” of you.

(If you’re paying attention, you’ve probably already figured out that self-talk is the way most people get started with “parts” work in trauma recovery.)

Breathe. Blink. Focus.

And talk to yourself.

Talk to yourself like it matters— because it really, really does.

drglenndoyle

Parentification is coercion and neglect. No exceptions.

Anybody who has children knows they can be incredible emotional supports, mostly by accident, mostly in ways that would be impossible to engineer even if one wanted to.

But it’s not the job of kids to be emotional supports for adults.

And kids shouldn’t be put in that position— or the position of doing any job or fulfilling any role that actually requires an adult.

At the heart of the whole thing is consent.

Kids can’t meaningfully consent to being emotional supports for adults— let alone taking on other adult roles.

They couldn’t understand what’s involved if they wanted to.

That’s not to disrespect any children— of course there are remarkably bright and industrious kids out there.

But kids lack the neural wiring to wrap their heads around adult roles.

I don’t care if a kid is an “old soul.”

I don’t care if a kid has triple the raw IQ of their parents.

I don’t care if a kid fervently believes in their own ability to take on an adult role or do an adult job: it’s not for them.

And we, as adults, need to make sure kids are not put in that position.

There are many people reading this who are well aware, who know by experience, what happens when kids are put in the position of being emotional support for adults, or coerced into being “little adults” in other ways.

Yes, I said “coerced.” Because that’s what it is.

Some parents are going to have feelings about this. They’re going to make the case that what they coerced their kids into wasn’t harmful. They’re going to say that it depends on the kid, that there are smart and mature kids out there who can handle it.

One, being smart and mature, even adult-like— in intellect, appearance, or otherwise— doesn’t mean a kid is able to take on adult roles.

Two, adults and kids are not operating on level playing fields, power wise.

Not only are kids incapable of taking on those adult jobs and roles, they are incapable of consenting to do so, due to that power differential. Especially so if the adults in question are their parents, caretaker, or other important people in their lives, such as teachers or clergy.

It harms kids to take on adult roles— especially repeatedly, especially in relationships where refusing to take on those roles is awkward or impossible due to the power dynamic.

Why am I writing about this on my trauma page?

Because more than a few people reading this were harmed by the coercion I’m describing.

Raise your hand if you were ever described as an “old soul.” “Mature for your age.”

Raise your hand if it was up to you to take care of your parents.

I understand a certain percentage of survivors reading this are going to say I’m overstating things, that what happened to them wasn’t abuse or neglect, that they were capable of being the emotional or logistical support their parents needed at the time.

I’m not going to tell you what your truth is.

But I am going to tell you, many survivors of this specific kind of neglect, parentification, don’t register it as neglect— but they are impacted by it all the same.

That “fawn” response? The people pleasing, the perfectionism, the anxiety, the guilt?

The vulnerability to relationship conflict, that “freeze” response when things get tough between you and your partner?

Yeah, none of that comes out of nowhere.

Parentification is coercion and neglect. I don’t care who you are or who your parents were.

And by the way, coercing kids to be “adults” in certain spheres, like emotional support, kicks open the door to rationalizing kids fulfilling other “needs” for adults, with the same arguments for it all. “Some kids are mature enough to handle it,” blah blah blah.

Kids deserve better.

You deserved better.

drglenndoyle

Getting cozy with our fear.

Fear is not the enemy.

Fear, properly understood and managed, can actually be quite useful.

Animals that lack fear don’t tend to last too long in the wild. There are definitely things worth being afraid of out there.

What we’re shooting for in trauma recovery is not to become fearless.

What we’re shooting for is to relate to our fear differently.

To not be controlled by our fear.

To not be overwhelmed by our fear.

All that is going to start by acknowledging that fear is not the enemy.

Our enemies were our bullies and abusers.

Conceptually, our enemies now are the beliefs and other conditioning our abusers and bullies have left behind in our nervous system.

That’s what we’re up against— the echoes of old voices, that spike fear responses in us in the present.

Our old conditioning will make us feel more vulnerable than we are.

Our old conditioning will make us feel less resourceful than we are.

Our old conditioning will work, hard, to make us forget who we even are, what our life is all about.

It will work to reduce us to what we’re feeling right here, right now— notably, our focus on and fear of the awful scenario we think is going to happen.

Understand: I’m not saying the awful scenario is never a risk. I’m not saying things will always work out, or any such bullsh*t. They won’t. There are definitely scenarios and situations that will suck, that will be painful— that are worth fearing.

What I am saying is, we manage those scenarios and situations by nudging our focus from our fear, to our resources. Our recovery tools and philosophies. Our safe people and pets.

The problem is not that fear doesn’t feel good.

The problem is, we’ve been conditioned to focus on the fear to the exclusion of everything else.

You, survivor, are more than your fear.

Your fear is real and valid, even if it is being “spiked” by trauma conditioning. But you are not reducible to this feeling or this experience of fear.

Let the fear exist.

Validate it. Thank it, even. It is, after all, trying to do a good thing— it’s trying to keep you alive.

I know this sounds counterintuitive, and I know it’s way, way easier said than done (much like anything anyone can say about any subject).

But embrace your fear. Meet it gently. Breathe into it gently. Acknowledge what it’s doing for you— and also acknowledge that it’s being amplified by old pain and old patterns.

What we very much don’t want is to be making decisions out of fear.

We want our decisions to reflect our goals and values— not our fear.

To do that we’re going to have to be willing to coexist with our fear, sit with it, get to know it.

I know. Easier said than done.

But it beats the hell out of the alternatives, namely, letting fear trigger “flee” and “freeze” responses that put us at even more risk.

Breathe. Blink. Focus.

And nuzzle up to your fear.

It is, after all, October.

drglenndoyle

Here’s to my “high maintenance” survivors.

Maybe you’re “higher maintenance” than the average person. I know I am. 

We don’t need to pretend we trauma survivors are a walk in the park all the time. I know I’m not. 

We tend to be highly sensitive. True. 

We tend to struggle with emotional regulation. Also true. 

Our relationship needs and triggers tend to be complicated. Oh boy, is that true. 

None of that makes either you or me less “worthy” of support, or understanding, or care. 

CPTSD is an injury. It’s not a mental illness (not that there’s anything wrong with mental illness, mental illness is not a choice). 

Sometimes our injuries compromise our functioning. 

You break a leg, you struggle to walk. 

Your eyes get injured, you struggle to see. 

And if your nervous and endocrine systems get injured— as they do in complex trauma— you struggle with emotional regulation and attachment. 

None of those symptoms are defects of character— even the ones that seem like personality characteristics. 

That’s not to say we like those symptoms. It’s not to say we don’t work to change or diminish or resolve those symptoms. We do. That’s what recovery is all about. 

But as we work our recovery, yes, we’re a little “higher maintenance” than people who don’t have our history, our pain, or our injuries. 

We trauma survivors have often been conditioned to feel shame because of our injuries and needs. But this isn’t a shame thing. Truly. 

Our injuries and needs don’t make us a “burden”— at least, not in the way Trauma Brain is trying to tell us we are. 

Yes, we may need more support or specific kinds of support to care for our injuries. But that’s true of everyone who has any kind of injury. 

I don’t love the fact that I’m injured. I’m sure you don’t love the fact that you’re injured. 

But we don’t have to love it. 


We do have to be realistic about it. 

And we have to be crystal clear about the fact that injuries do not define us— either our personalities, our worthiness, or our future. 

Trauma symptoms masquerade as personality characteristics— but they’re not. 

They can influence our personalty in the moment— just like an obviously physical injury might put someone in a bad mood.

But we are not our injuries. 

And our injuries do not make us “bad.” 

Yes, caring for our post traumatic injuries can be exhausting and frustrating and annoying. We can resent that task all we need to— that resentment is legit. 

Just know that shame is lying to you. Trauma Brain is lying to you. 

Lying is what trauma— and our bullies and abusers— do best. 

Breathe. Blink. Focus. 

Remember. 

drglenndoyle

Storms gonna storm.

Storms and earthquakes level bridges and buildings— which is not the “fault” of those bridges and buildings. 

Even bridges and buildings that are designed to stand up to storms and earthquakes, get f*cked up by them. 

It usually has nothing to do with how intelligently or well they were built. 

It’s more often the case that trauma is simply trauma. 

It’s the same with human beings. 

When something happens that injures us, it’s not our fault for not being “tougher” or “stronger.” 

There are absolutely events that overwhelm the capacity of the toughest, strongest humans. 

It’s not even necessarily the intensity of the trauma that makes the difference. 

Trauma that is inescapable, that unfolds over time, and that entwines with our important relationships— that is to say, complex trauma— doesn’t have to be particularly “intense” in order to deeply injure us. 

Why does this matter? 

Because CPTSD survivors are absolute champions at self-blame. 

It’s not our fault— we’ve been conditioned, conned, into the habit. 

We’ve often been told, over and over again, by people in authority— parents, teachers, spiritual leaders— that we’re “bad,” we’re “lazy,” we’re “sinful.” That the problem is with us. 

We are designed to believe things we’re repeatedly told. Especially by people who have power in our world, people we “should” be able to trust. 

So when we start coming to terms with our post traumatic injuries, our first instinct is often to blame ourselves— our “choices” (which often were not choices), our supposed lack of “toughness,” our alleged lack of “strength.” 

Shame and self-blame just don’t work to change how we feel and function. Not over time, not in positive or sustainable ways. 

And but also, that shame and self-blame is often nothing more than BS (Belief Systems— but also the other kind of “BS”). 

You and I, as humans, were not designed to weather the kind of pressure that we were put under. 

Our evolutionary history may have designed us to withstand certain physical pressures— which is why you’re alive to read this, and I’m alive to write this— but evolution did not equip us to carry on in the face of mental or emotional or spiritual or financial abuse. 

This matters, insofar as CPTSD almost always springs from a combination of those, often in addition to physical or sexual abuse.

All of which is to say, most of the people reading this (and the person writing this) could probably use a reminder that it’s not our fault that we get injured by things we’re not designed to withstand— and that’s not our fault. 

A storm doesn’t have to be the worst storm in the history of storms to do significant damage to a structure— the storm just has to hit the structure in just the right way. 

Have you ever seen that old time video footage of a bridge wildly deforming because an earthquake just happened to hit with aftershocks that resonated at exactly the right frequency to destabilize it? Go look it up, it’s wild. 

The damage inflicted by trauma is not necessarily about intensity. It’s about how it resonates with our vulnerabilities. 

And the longer trauma takes to unfold; the more inescapable it is; and the more it entwines with our relationships, the more opportunities it has to resonate with the vulnerabilities of our human nervous system. 

None of which is our fault. 

We don’t “choose” trauma, and trauma responses are not “choices.” 

Recovery behaviors ARE choices— starting with noticing how we’re talking to ourselves, how we’re directing our “mental spotlight,” and how we’re breathing and using and taking care of our physical body. 

Self-talk, mental focus, and physiology. Every effective trauma recovery tool or strategy reduces to a combination of these three. 

Breathe. Blink. Focus. 

And notice when Trauma Brain is trying to blame you for a storm you didn’t invite, an earthquake you couldn’t prevent, or for being a normal, vulnerable human being. 

drglenndoyle

Disciplining our inner “drill sergeant.”

The “drill sergeant” thing doesn’t work when we’re trying to change the habits of self-talk and mental focus that keep us stuck in trauma. 

But it may be the only approach many of us know. 

We might not have seen or experienced many other techniques of changing habits. 

We might have been subjected to years of other people trying to coercively change us, and we might have “downloaded” their tactics into our head. 

Most trauma survivors know— or at least we hear, over and over again— that self-compassion is necessary in this work. But we don’t have any real experience with what “compassion” looks like. 

We do have a lot of experience with what kicking the sh*t out of ourselves, verbally and otherwise, looks like. 

So that’s what we keep returning to. 

Add to that, many of us have developed and reinforced the belief that we “deserve” harsh punishment for every imperfection. 

Part of us may truly believe that, whatever our habits happen to be at the moment, getting the sh*t kicked out of us is still about right. 

Something to think about is the fact that the military uses drill sergeants to create soldiers. 

Why? Because soldiers, at least at the beginning of their careers, aren’t supposed to think. They’re only supposed to follow orders. 

Drill sergeants exist to get new soldiers out of the habit of thinking for themselves, and into the habit of doing what authority figures tell them to. 

You could argue this is very necessary to a disciplined military— but I’m going to argue that this is a lousy model to create realistic CPTSD recovery. 

Whether we developed CPTSD in childhood or later, every survivor has been coercively controlled (and betrayed, for that matter) on some level. 

The reason why the “drill sergeant” style of relating to ourselves comes so naturally is because it’s what we’ve been immersed in. It feels “right” because it feels familiar. Our nervous system recognizes it (and our nervous system prefers things we recognize, even painful things, over things we don’t). 

But if we want to reverse the painful patterns conditioned in us by CPTSD, we’re going to need that critical thinking that “drill sergeants” would otherwise extinguish. 

We’re going to need that emotional intelligence that soldiers about to be sent to war are taught to suppress. 

We’re going to need compassion and patience that are not front line tools of most infantry soldiers. 

Don’t get me wrong: trauma survivors working our recovery are definitely warriors. 

But we’re not soldiers, per se. And trying to shape us like soldiers— i.e. staying in “drill sergeant” mode when you relate to yourself— will only deprive us of tools we need in everyday recovery. 

All of which is to say: my problem with the “tough love,” kick-the-sh*t-out-of-yourself, “drill sergeant” approach to emotional and behavioral change isn’t that it’s unkind. (Though I don’t love that aspect of it, either, honestly.) 

My problem with it is that it’s not just ineffective, it’s counterproductive. 

Realistic trauma recovery asks us to get OUT of the habit of harsh self-punishment, and to intentionally eschew shame as a “tool” of behavior change. 

Drill sergeants “motivate” via concentrated doses of fear and shame— and, again, I’m not passing judgment on methods of military training. (I don’t know near enough about it to pass judgment on it even if I wanted to.) 

Trauma survivors cannot stake developing our recovery behaviors on fear or shame. It just doesn’t work. It’s antithetical to the entire project. 

This leaves us with the question of, if not coercive tactics, what do we instead use to motivate us to change? 

Compassion. Patience. Realism. Grace. 

None of which come easy to people with histories or injuries like you and I have. 

Easy does it. We start where we start: noticing when we’re reflexively doing the “drill sergeant” thing in our self talk and mental focus, and engaging our “pattern interrupt” tools. 

Every CPTSD survivor has a version of this problem. DID survivors often have entire “parts” devoted to that “drill sergeant” voice. 

Easy does it. 

Breathe; blink; focus; and give it the time it needs. 

drglenndoyle

Trauma identity and recovery identity.

To me, an unexpected challenge of trauma recovery is keeping our recovery identity top of mind. 

Most of us have been conditioned, sometimes for years, in what can be called our “trauma identity. 

We’ve been sold a bill of goods— about who we are, what we “deserve,” what we’re capable of. 

We’ve been conditioned in a whole set of beliefs about ourselves that aren’t grounded in reality— they’re based on what our bullies and abusers told us and made us feel about ourselves. 

We end up with this smorgasbord of beliefs and habits that aren’t really us— but which we are very attached to and entwined with. Our “trauma identity.” 

It’s one of the reasons so many survivors kind of confuse our symptoms with our “personality”— we’ve been basically brainwashed by our abusers and our experiences to believe that’s who and what we are. 

If we want to realistically recover, we’re going to need to give our nervous system an alternative, a recovery identity, to shoot for and flesh out.

Our recovery identity is everything about our life that we’re trying to create. 

It’s how we want to feel. 

It’s how we want to think. 

It’s the habits we want to cultivate. 

It’s even how we want to look. 

Think of our recovery identity as our roadmap— what we’re trying to make of our lives in trauma recovery. 

Defining a recovery identity, and keeping that “roadmap” handy, really matters, because otherwise we fall prey to the “pink elephant” problem. 

You know the “pink elephant” problem, right? Try this: DON’T think about a pink elephant. Come on, I said DON’T. Think about ANYTHING other than a pink elephant. 

Hard, right? That’s because our brains are not designed to NOT think about things. 

If we go around thinking about our “trauma identity” and telling ourselves DON’T think about those things, DON’T do those things, come on I said DON’T, no really DON’T…guess what our nervous system is going stay fixated on? 

That’s right: our “trauma identity.” 

It’s not enough to just define what we DON’T want. Most of us have been thinking non-stop about what we DON’T want for years. 

What we need is a template for what we DO want. What we value. What we’re trying to create. 

I’m a big believer in defining our recovery identity so specifically that we could crate a list of the characteristics we’re trying to cultivate in recovery— and I’m a big believer in checking that list often, to remind ourselves of what we’re doing here. 

It’s a big risk in trauma recovery, losing sight of what we’re doing here. 

The project can be so exhausting, so frustrating, so annoying, that if we don’t have a clear vision of why we’re doing this, we can lose momentum, develop the “f*ck it’s” real fast. 

So: define your recovery identity. Keep a running list of all of the the characteristics of the recovered version of “you.” 

Remember that your recovery identity isn’t a “perfect version of you— that doesn’t exist. 

It’s the version of you that prioritizes consistency, integrity, self-compassion, and personal responsibility. 

It’s the version of you that works every day to communicate with and take care of your “parts.” 

It’s the version of you that refuses to kick the sh*t out of yourself for setbacks or mistakes. 

Those are some starter examples— but you’re going to come up with a lot more. 

Make that list and keep it handy. Remember that the process of trauma recovery is about reconditioning our thoughts, beliefs, and habits, in patterns WE choose and that serve US. 

Think of your recovery identity not just as a goal, but a tool for shaping your self-talk, mental focus, and physiology. 

Breathe; blink; focus. 

And remember who you’re becoming.