Stop the Damage From These Parents Now (4-Video Compilation)

If the grown-ups around you ignored you as a child—if they were neglectful, brushed you off, or simply absent—you might still carry the experience of not being heard into adulthood. It’s very common for people who endured childhood trauma to drift through life feeling disconnected and invisible. If you recognize that in yourself, you have probably wondered what’s really going on: is it all in your head—anxious thoughts convincing you that others don’t care when they actually do—or are the people around you genuinely too self-absorbed or incapable of listening? Or is there a third option: perhaps you are doing things, consciously or not, that undermine your chances of being listened to. For most people who feel unheard, it’s usually a mix of all three possibilities.
Let’s start with the scenario where other people are at fault. This absolutely happens: some people are simply too wrapped up in themselves to pay attention, to empathize, or even to make an effort to understand. Many of us who suffered childhood trauma had at least one parent who couldn’t hear us—because they were drunk, high, depressed, obsessive, or otherwise too chaotic to be present. People with unresolved complex PTSD often end up repeating that pattern by choosing partners and friends who echo those same qualities. That can look like everyday relationship friction—where one person says, “I don’t feel heard,” and the other shrugs—or it can be far more damaging, involving partners with personality disorders, addictions, longstanding bitterness, passive-aggression, or stonewalling. Those people can be literally incapable of being present.
Sometimes we encounter someone who seems attentive at first—maybe a partner with narcissistic tendencies who showers us with attention—and then, without warning, the caring disappears. That harsh withdrawal is often called the discard phase: the period when the attention goes away and you’re left confused and abandoned. Many viewers who’ve been in relationships like that are now learning to spot the red flags earlier and to separate themselves from people who aren’t capable of real care. No meaningful benefit ever comes from trying to “fix” a person who doesn’t care; chasing such a person keeps you trapped in re-traumatizing patterns. If you’re still sleeping with, dating, pursuing, or otherwise entangled with someone who clearly cannot and will not hear you, that’s usually a trauma-driven decision that got you into the situation—and if you don’t leave after recognizing it, that choice shifts the responsibility to you. That’s a hard truth, but an important one.
We often cling to the fantasy that we can change another person—if we can explain ourselves well enough, be loving enough, lose a bit of weight, or adjust in some imagined way—when the most powerful leverage for change is actually inside us. Acknowledging how your own choices contribute to the issue is good news: whatever part you bring to the pattern, however small, is the part you can change. Sometimes one small change in your behavior or boundaries can tip the balance and transform how you relate to others. That is the clearest path to feeling connected and seen.
Now let’s consider subtler ways we might be getting in our own way. Our energy, tone, and style of communication matter. Trauma throws cognitive and emotional processes into chaos: when you’re triggered—during an argument or a moment of strong upset—your thoughts and words can become jumbled. That’s a product of dysregulation, the core of CPTSD. In a dysregulated state, your feelings feel urgent and obvious to you, but the way you express them can be confusing or overwhelming to someone else. People often describe it as a flood of words, breathless and desperate; while your feelings are clear to you, the content doesn’t land cleanly for the listener. I’ve heard this pattern many times in coaching: people have scattered, mosaic-like reactions and struggle to land the point they’re trying to make. Helping them slow down, organize what happened, how they feel, and what they want to happen next often makes a world of difference.
Emotional intensity can push your listener into defensive territory. If your words feel like an emotional tsunami, the other person can become frightened or shut down—and then you truly won’t be heard. It’s also important to be honest with yourself about the tone and fairness of your communication. Sometimes trauma leads us to communicate in ways that can be manipulative—even if we don’t recognize it as such. When someone can’t be direct about a need—“I feel lonely, I’m angry, I’m insecure; please pause and help me calm down”—they may substitute vague accusations, guilt trips, silent treatment, or exaggerated statements like “You don’t care about me.” Those indirect tactics tend to push people away. If you notice that nothing the other person does actually soothes you, even when they try to fix things, that’s a clue: the conflict may not be a real, solvable problem between you two; it may be a flashback or an old wound that only you can heal.
Truthfulness and fairness are essential. Ask yourself: is what I’m trying to express genuinely my emotion and my need, without an agenda to punish or exaggerate? Often manipulation arises from the belief that the hurt inside must be fixed by someone else. We search for an external salvation for an internal wound that only inner work can heal. Healing takes time, but it also starts with simple, steady actions that stabilize your nervous system enough to think, breathe, and choose differently. That daily, practical practice—relearning how to regulate your responses—begins to change how other people experience you and how you experience being heard.
A practical next step: if you want to be heard more, shift your energy away from trying to change other people and toward changing your own patterns—your dysregulated responses, how you communicate, and the boundaries you set. It’s not selfish to do that; it’s essential for creating the secure, witnessing relationships you deserve.
When you were a child, you couldn’t have known that a parent’s calculated, intermittent affection wasn’t genuine care. If you were emotionally or physically abandoned by those who were supposed to teach you how to read people and how to tell what’s real, you might now have a damaged “red flag detector.” That makes it harder to spot manipulation or distinguish a loving partner from someone who will use you. The good news is that perception can be rebuilt—it’s never too late to restore your emotional radar.
Here are a few letters from people whose stories illustrate these dynamics and the kinds of choices that can help. (Names have been changed.)
Sylvia writes: “Hi Anna—I’m 36. I grew up with a very narcissistic father who was emotionally unavailable, slammed doors when angry, refused to go on family holidays, and had multiple girlfriends. When I was five or six I asked him to stay with us instead of visiting other women. Now, as an adult, I fell in love with a coworker I’d been friends with. He’s married, but he told me their marriage was over and that he wanted to be with me. For a while I felt closer to him than I’ve ever been to anyone—it felt like my inner little girl finally received the protection and love she had begged for. But soon I discovered his marriage wasn’t over at all; his wife didn’t even know there was a crisis. He began to ghost me, refused to answer my calls, missed meetings, sent a brief apology text, and then at work acted like I didn’t exist. I’m heartbroken and feel like I’ve been underwater for nearly a year. I can see now he isn’t who I thought he was, but how did I feel so connected? How do I get free of this nightmare?”
That story is heartbreakingly familiar. When you grew up with a parent who was unreliable or dismissive—who checked out, favored others, or chased affairs—you learn survival strategies like “fitting” yourself into whatever scraps of attention are offered. When a grown man tells you, “I’m married but it’s over,” the simple reality is this: if a marriage truly ended, they would be divorced—not merely claiming it’s over while still living and functioning within it. Childhood experiences teach us to “crap-fit”—to contort ourselves to survive—which becomes a dangerous habit in adulthood, causing us to stay attached to people who treat us poorly.
In Sylvia’s case, the coworker’s behavior—lying about his marital status, disappearing, and treating her as if she didn’t exist—mirrors the same abandonment she learned to tolerate with her father. Work relationships complicate things further: when you date a colleague, even under good conditions the stakes are high and the fallout can be brutal. In this situation, the man lied and used her; he wasn’t present as a real partner. That kind of person doesn’t “see” you; they’re projecting an image and using your attachment. The immediate practical advice: cut off contact completely and decisively. Even if leaving your job is difficult, removing yourself from proximity to someone who reactivates that part of you that tolerates mistreatment can be profoundly healing. If changing jobs is impractical right now, at the very least close all doors and stop allowing any possibility of return.
For future relationships, put guardrails in place that account for your blind spots. Many trauma survivors need explicit rules—like waiting a long time before attaching emotionally or sexually, verifying where someone lives, meeting their friends, and having frank conversations about relationship goals—before allowing intimacy. Don’t feel guilty about insisting on these boundaries. Surround yourself with friends who will enforce them with you and prevent impulsive reunions. Community support is vital: we heal in relationship, and practicing new boundaries requires reliable people who share your values and hold you accountable.
A few concrete dating practices to adopt: date without sex for a while, verify basic facts through ordinary experiences (meet their friends, see where they live), and make your wants and boundaries known early and clearly—what you want in a relationship, whether you want children, whether you’re seeking commitment. If someone says, “The marriage is over,” treat that as a red flag until you have undeniable evidence otherwise. If you’ve been hurt before by being involved with someone who wasn’t free, make a rule to protect yourself. And if you want a structured place to work on these issues, look into the dating course and coaching resources mentioned in the video description—many people find those helpful.
Phoebe’s letter is another example. She describes growing up in a chaotic household: her mother was emotionally unstable, her grandparents raised her for long periods, and Phoebe’s mother showed manipulative, neglectful behavior across decades. Phoebe took on caregiving for her grandfather as an adult, then moved to care for him full-time after her partner (Leo) helped financially. Later, her partner became controlling and violent—he smashed things, shoved her, and once caused whiplash. He also lied about his background, faked an Irish accent, hid that his mother was alive, kept multiple phones, secretly filmed intimate moments, cheated, and turned out to be a porn addict. He manipulated her financially until her large savings were gone, and eventually she fled with the dog to a domestic violence shelter, now sleeping on an air mattress and rebuilding her life with the help of friends. She still struggles with trauma bonds, dissociation, insomnia, and shame.
This story is painful but tragically common: when your early attachments were unreliable, you can be drawn into relationships that replay the same dynamics. In Phoebe’s case, her mother’s abandonment and manipulation left her with a weakened ability to spot danger and an instinctive drive to re-create the love she missed. That’s not a moral failing—it’s a normal survival pattern. Her choice to go to a domestic violence shelter was courageous and practical; shelters know how to help you get safe and begin to recover. Phoebe was right to leave. She’s also doing what many need to do in a trauma crisis: prioritize safety, rely on friends and community, get therapy, and rebuild day by day.
When adult trauma spikes over old wounds, it can feel like a trauma storm. During those times, basic self-care—sleep, hydration, reducing alcohol and sugar, eating regular protein-based meals, sun exposure, movement, and social connection—matters more than ever. Consider evidence-based therapies that speed recovery from intense memories, such as EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing). EMDR can, in some cases, move an experience from an “active” trauma that keeps re-triggering your nervous system into a neutral memory that no longer overwhelms you. Some people notice major relief in just a few sessions. If that option is available to you, it’s worth exploring with a qualified clinician.
Remember that trauma recovery is rarely linear. There will be days of feeling helpless and days where progress becomes visible. Over time you should begin to feel safer, more grounded, and able to tell the story without being flooded by panic. Keep reaching out for support; the people around you can hold you and remind you of your strength while you rebuild.
Another reader, Alex, asked about reconnecting with his mother. He explains that he was close to his mother growing up, but after he came out as transgender in his teens, she responded by ignoring him and calling him a murderer of her daughter—a reaction that felt cruel and devastating. Over years, her behavior fluctuated: sometimes she seemed to come around, but other times she ignored or misgendered him. Eventually, after failed attempts at boundary-setting and repeated hurt, Alex went no contact nearly two years ago. Now his stepdad keeps urging him to reconnect, saying the mother doesn’t understand why she was cut off. Alex wonders if he overreacted and whether he should apologize and try to repair things.
This is a delicate and personal situation. There’s no one-size-fits-all answer. A few helpful principles: first, time can be an ally. No-contact is a legitimate boundary and doesn’t have to be permanent; it can be a temporary, adjustable space for you to heal and gain clarity. If you decide to reconnect, it should feel like a choice from strength—something you do because you’re ready and because you believe it could be safe or helpful—not because someone else pressures you. Given your mother’s tendency to dramatize and to gaslight professionals, family therapy would only be useful if both sides agree to participate honestly and you feel safe in that setting. If you have doubts or dread the thought of sitting in a room with her, that fear is meaningful and deserves attention.
It’s also okay to experiment with small steps—a titration approach: meet for a brief coffee, see how it feels, and pause if the old dynamics resurface. Start with clear, simple boundaries and communicate them calmly: explain why you needed distance, what you expect now, and what you won’t tolerate. If your mother has a pattern of manipulating therapists or shifting blame, you’ll need to watch for that and protect your boundaries. Your therapist is a valuable ally—keep exploring these questions in therapy, and give yourself permission to take time. And remember: changing your mind is allowed. If you try reconnection and it goes poorly, you can step back. Boundaries are flexible tools for your safety and growth, not permanent verdicts.
Across all these cases, certain themes repeat: childhood neglect or narcissistic parenting damages perception and attachment; trauma survivors often attract people who replicate earlier harms; intense emotional arousal makes clear communication difficult; indirect strategies and manipulation worsen the “not heard” problem; and the path out of feeling invisible often runs through inner work—learning to regulate, to speak clearly, to set non-negotiable boundaries, and to choose safer people. Practical steps that help include daily regulation practices, honest direct communication, clear dating guardrails, leaning on trustworthy friends, and using evidence-based therapies like EMDR.
If any of this resonates and you’d like structured support, there are resources—courses, coaching, and free tools—listed in the description of the original video, including a free “Daily Practice” course that teaches the fundamental habits for getting out of a triggered state and rebuilding steadiness. Many people find that stabilizing their nervous system is the turning point that allows them to make different decisions and create healthier relationships.
If you’ve been damaged by caregivers who were unreliable or cruel, remember: it’s not your fault. You learned survival strategies to cope with unbearable circumstances. Healing is possible, and you deserve to be seen, treated kindly, and loved in ways that feel safe. Take practical steps—safety first, then the small daily practices that restore regulation—and lean on supportive people as you create a life where you’re genuinely heard and valued.