CPTSD & The Feeling You Can’t Connect (4-video compilation).ar-en

How does it feel when you try to be part of a group? For many of us who grew up this way, adulthood often brings a persistent sense of not quite fitting in. Maybe you recognise that feeling — you’re somehow partly inside the circle and partly outside of it: not fully in, not completely out. Perhaps you initially join a group enthusiastically but gradually pull back, neglecting your own involvement. I’ve done this time and again. You might eventually convince yourself that groups simply aren’t for you, even though belonging matters — it’s a deep human need — so you keep trying, feel awkward or excluded, retreat again, and blame others. Sometimes that’s fair, but often there’s a personal pattern at play, even when it doesn’t seem obvious. Almost always you stay roughly the same distance from the center. Think of any group: there’s a centre with one or two leaders, then people closest to them who pour a lot of time and energy into the group, then others a little further out who participate and influence but not as much, and so on. In my case I tend to settle at about eighty percent out from the center: invited to the party but not the ones making it happen. Many times I’ll start off excited — “this group is great, I finally found my people” — and move closer to the centre, maybe taking on a more active or even leadership role. But sooner or later I’ll find a reason to withdraw, slipping out to maybe forty percent, then eventually out of the group entirely. So being part of something has been — and in parts of my life still is — uncomfortable for me. Why is that? I used to chalk it up to a string of bad luck: the wrong coworkers, the wrong moms’ group, the wrong twelve-step friends. I told myself I was different and that people just didn’t get me. I didn’t notice the persistent pattern until I did a lot of healing around disorganisation and gained more clarity. It makes sense: being in groups can overwhelm someone with childhood trauma sensitivity. People and group dynamics can trigger all the old wounds about belonging and fitting in. For someone whose nervous system was shaped by early trauma, being around many people can feel like a sensory assault and become deeply emotional — like a high school experience that never ends. Childhood trauma isn’t the same as introversion, but there are similarities: socialising can drain more energy than it gives because you’re constantly working to appear “normal.” The point is that when we need people — for practical needs and for relationships necessary to heal trauma wounds (which are mostly relational and affect your nervous system) — the healing must happen before you can comfortably have social relationships, but it must also occur within them. Small everyday interactions are where you practice new skills and receive emotional nourishment, even with some pain, rejection, and criticism along the way. Being different in a group where everyone else seems connected can sting, yet all of this can become more manageable. Like anyone else, you need to feel you belong. It’s natural to be drawn to groups; initially hanging around the edges is often more tolerable. You can be among people and somewhat social while keeping one foot outside the door so you can leave if necessary — and that’s okay. Healthy groups provide roles and space for many types of people, and it’s fine not to be fully engaged right away. If life could stay like that forever, that would be lovely, but there’s a problem: staying permanently on the margins makes it hard to build meaning. You need friction and real connection with others to develop social skills; everyone needs that. Perpetual marginality keeps relationships superficial, and that is not what most of us ultimately want. At first staying on the periphery prevents old triggers from firing, but surface-level connections come at a cost. The deep bonding you crave becomes a distant fantasy while you remain isolated. What starts as a temporary delay in development can turn into a real deficit: you become more isolated than ever. That’s how it happens — by playing it safe, you stay stuck. You need to take some risks and broaden your comfort zone a little. Friendships and group membership naturally involve ups and downs; if you never ride those fluctuations, you risk not only being unable to integrate but becoming harder to connect with. This sounds harsh, but avoiding people tends to lead to selfishness and withholding yourself from others. It’s an emergency protective response, not a sustainable way to live. Opportunities to share yourself are everywhere: say you’ll bring a dish to a potluck, join a choir or a sewing class, invite friends for a picnic. Turning up for people makes you less fragile, more resilient, more connected, more open. Yes, inclusion is difficult, and isolation can feel very peaceful in the moment — I get that — but if you let it take root long-term it will take over and exaggerate your worst traits. Isolation creates fertile ground for resentment, self-centredness, bitterness, and odd behaviours, and once those patterns set in it becomes much harder to steer back toward connection. I’ve described this “weirding” process before and some said it sounded unfair, but I think it’s a fair observation: isolation made me a stranger to myself — not in a good way. Have you ever felt that beginning to happen to you, or seen it in others? After lockdown ended and I started socialising again, I noticed how rough I was around the edges: talking too much, unsure what to say, a bit angry and anxious. Gradually I regained my bearings. So take your alone time, but don’t let it permanently erode your capacity to connect. Many of you watching this might be wondering if change is even possible or worth the effort. The answer is yes to both. Begin with one small action, then show up. There are many practical ways to do this — in the training I offer, a 30-day program, people practice taking manageable steps every day to build relationship skills and consistent positive action; there’s a link in the description if you want to look into it. For today: shower, put on a coat, go say hi to someone. Revisit a group you used to enjoy, check in with a friend you’ve been neglecting, sign up for a beach clean-up or a blood drive — community events don’t need to be thrilling, they just get you out of the house so you can show up. Do one small thing like that every other day, and within a couple of weeks you may find yourself feeling included again. The need to belong isn’t a weakness: humans evolved in tribes, and even if we sometimes crave independence, we were never meant to be wholly self-sufficient. Evolutionary biologists will tell you belonging was a survival strategy — warmth, food, protection from predators — but social inclusion matters just as much for the development of your mind, body, and spirit. Without being embedded in human relationships, the flourishing of your true self is stunted and fulfillment can’t fully appear. Connection and belonging are also crucial for physical health and brain health: they protect against dementia, and they create a support network of people who care for you when you’re broke, lonely, or falling apart. You’re not meant to face life’s hardships entirely alone. Maybe you’ve done it before — I have — but let’s agree that we don’t have to endure life’s difficulties entirely alone anymore. Healing can return connection to you. Individual relationships are one thing — and if you live with childhood trauma, those close relationships can also be difficult — but you need both close ties and broader group membership. I know it sounds daunting because it is hard, but keep trying and keep engaging. The reward is the ability to belong, and belonging is the thing we secretly all want: it’s where we long to be. Isolation is a nearly universal symptom of childhood trauma or other relational wounds. From the outside it looks one way, and internally it feels another. Even when we crave love and connection, shame keeps us from others. Isolation can look like outright avoidance, but more subtly it can mean showing up to events and acting sociable while keeping yourself emotionally aloof — short replies, avoiding meaningful activities that bond people. For someone who is sensitive to others, pulling back often feels like the right, safest, most self-caring choice in the moment when deciding whether to go out with a friend or attend a party or invite someone over. There’s a temptation to give an excuse because it relieves the immediate stress that hijacks your mind. You might regret it later, but saying yes can instantly dysregulate your nervous system. Do you experience that dysregulation — that intense, overwhelming distress that some feel often, especially those neglected or harmed as children? When criticism, pressure, or the fear of not fitting in is triggered, it can set off a cascade of emotional, physiological, and cognitive shifts that make functioning difficult. A night out can feel like a huge challenge; an argument can leave you unfocused for days. Until you learn to soothe your nervous system, you unconsciously organise your life to avoid triggers that bring on that chaos — and that avoidance looks like isolation. When I say “trigger,” I don’t just mean someone saying something you don’t like; I mean experiences or ideas that activate deep nervous-system disruption. For someone who relies on isolation to manage complex trauma symptoms, being around people can feel like standing in a field with a tornado approaching. Anxiety ramps up at the thought of interacting; you may feel helpless and afraid. In some situations choosing isolation can be healthy and empowering — a real act of self-care. Sometimes you say no to invitations, or you agree then cancel, end a dating relationship, or ignore a friend’s text, and you make up excuses: sudden traffic jams, family emergencies, invented illnesses. You become adept at inventing narratives so others don’t see what’s really happening: you can’t handle being around people right now. You felt overwhelmed, so you sheltered yourself to feel safe and get a little breathing room. That’s understandable. But here’s the catch: if you keep using isolation to manage your trauma triggers, one by one life’s doors will gradually close. People and opportunities will pass by without you. You can change this, but be ready — it requires honesty and courage to face the truth and admit that it’s not the world but your choices that have been keeping you apart. And yes, there are times when people behave poorly, and that complicates everything, but that doesn’t mean connection is impossible.

They say things like dating is a swamp designed to take advantage of you, or that all jobs are traps set by greedy capitalists who squeeze every drop of you and then toss you away — these beliefs usually come from real wounds. They begin as automatic reactions to actual harm or injustices, but over time they harden into rigid barriers around you. Those walls make you hyper-vigilant and stuck, and they make it hard to relax back into life. The result is often a slide into isolation. Some people become almost skilled at being alone. I hear from folks all the time, and here’s what matters: don’t get too good at being lonely. It’s healthier to feel uncomfortable with loneliness rather than numbly comfortable. It’s better to mourn the relationships you lost or the doors trauma closed for you. That sadness and discomfort can be the engine that nudges you back toward other people. If you can learn to heal the triggers that make social contact feel unbearable, you can start reconnecting step by step — more on how to do that in a minute.
First, think about that fleeting calm and peace you get when you retreat after being triggered: your heart races, emotions spike beyond their usual regulation, your mind distorts reality — classic post-traumatic stress responses. Overwhelm sets in because the brain can’t process all the thoughts and feelings at once. That’s when trauma survivors fall into familiar patterns. Some shut down and withdraw. Others frantically try to please everyone, terrified of pushing people away. Some explode in anger, some quietly justify not participating, and some simply fade into the background, hoping not to be noticed. Everyone has patterns, but usually one or two dominate. Trauma rewires the nervous system to amplify stress and makes emotions harder to manage and recover from. So the temptation to avoid triggers completely, or to appear present while avoiding real connection, is huge. These strategies let someone keep showing up superficially while keeping relationships hollow. If you don’t show up for others, increasingly they won’t show up for you.
Isolation is an immediate way to reduce the stress of a PTSD symptom flare — it could be triggered by an argument, an embarrassment, a sense of rejection, feeling judged, or simply being asked for more than you can give. Letting people in fully may feel like a marathon you cannot run. So isolating feels like a protective short-term fix. But recognize that isolation can also teach you healthier ways to protect yourself: instead of inventing excuses to retreat, you can work on setting boundaries. Practice the words and behaviors that let you go out and come back when you need to. It’s okay to be social and it’s also okay to say no when someone asks too much. Many people isolate simply to prevent being drained by others because they don’t know how to refuse. It’s possible to be warm and still say no.
Watch out for the story you tell yourself when you’re withdrawing — the idea that it’s only temporary, that you’re just “taking a minute,” or that a few nights of Netflix and takeout count as self-care. Those short escapes can feel like a mini-spa, but after days or weeks they often leave a heavy, gnawing feeling. If isolation becomes routine, it creeps up at odd hours — waking you at 3 a.m., making life feel like it’s passing by. Paradoxically, being with people, showing up for them, and learning to set awkward but real boundaries can feel less draining than long-term isolation. The longer you stay away, the harder it becomes to return. Isolation can deepen the very behaviors that made you feel ashamed and pushed you away, creating a downward spiral. It can even feel addictive: you might come to crave the overwhelm because it justifies retreating into solitude. That’s when the situation is serious.
Why fight to get out of that place? Because you need people in your life. Pets are wonderful, but they aren’t a full substitute. Even if you think you don’t need people emotionally, your immune system, mental health, and physical health benefit from social contact. Being with others pulls you out of obsessive preoccupation with past injuries and slights. When loneliness lets those resentments fester, memories of “what they did to me” balloon unchecked. While reconnecting can feel risky, it can also be quickly rewarding — bringing a little adventure, joy, hope, activity, friendship, or romance. Social contact helps maintain social resilience and keeps conversational muscles from rusting. After extended hiding, everything can feel awkward: word-finding, how to behave, how to read cues. That awkwardness smooths out with practice. Humans need socialization; without it, you become socially rusty. Feeling needed and knowing your presence matters to others helps happiness flourish. Relationships can either damage or nourish you. Learning who helps you grow takes practice and requires trying things in the presence of other people — you cannot develop these skills in isolation.
Small acts matter: greet the cashier, check in on a neighbor, run an errand for someone, call a friend who could use a chat and actually listen. Play the role of someone who cares. This is necessary for ongoing growth; otherwise trauma traps you in a developmental barrier. Beware, though, of tipping into people-pleasing as a substitute for real connection — transactional exchanges like “I’ll clean your kitchen if you take me to the pharmacy” will drain both parties. When helping others, don’t expect repayment; sometimes reciprocity happens, sometimes it doesn’t. That uncertainty can make you retreat again. It takes practice to stay and let people get close enough for real friendships to develop slowly and naturally. After being alone for a long time, there’s a temptation to heap way too much expectation on new relationships and then feel wounded when they don’t instantly meet those expectations. It’s healthier to build a network of friendships so no single acquaintance becomes a life-or-death linchpin. Keep persevering with people — you’ll gain more from steady effort than from staying cut off. People are needed both for thriving and for practical support through illness or hardship.
If getting out of your comfort zone seems impossible, that difficulty is precisely the reason to push back against isolation now. If others trigger you, you can learn how to calm those triggers. The better you manage them, the more flexible you’ll become in hanging out with different people and enjoying varied situations. It would be cruel to deny a child parental love, to ignore their needs, and act like it’s insignificant. What stands out in the community of people who write in and share their stories is their extraordinary resilience and capacity for love despite carrying the belief that they did something wrong. A letter from a woman named Josie exemplifies this.
Josie began her note with tears, then found clarity about what she needs help with. She recognizes a tendency toward magical thinking and illusions, and asked for direct, concise feedback. Her story: for years she felt her family hated her. As the oldest daughter in an immigrant household, she was expected to care for younger siblings and her own desires seemed irrelevant. She watched a younger sister take dance lessons while she never had that option. She cooked and cleaned, and a conversation with a brother left her feeling dismissed and furious when he described her as “just” the older sister. She suspected part of the reason was appearance: her skin was darker and her hair curlier than everyone else’s. Parents told them that her mother drank cola during pregnancy, so no one could have cola as a child — an odd excuse that further singled her out. Her mother, who had been treated poorly by her own mother, repeated neglectful patterns: giving gifts to other children while not celebrating her mother’s birthday, a cycle of leaving the oldest daughter without attention. Josie coped by “saving” throughout the year, buying her own birthday presents, baking her own cake, wrapping those gifts as if they had come from others. She pretended.
Then traumatic events made one truth unavoidable: her family wasn’t actively malicious but rather indifferent. After a series of incidents — her family renting a hall for a surprise birthday for a younger sibling without inviting her, and another brother taking advantage of her while everyone knew and did nothing — she concluded they simply didn’t care. That was a deep pain. A few days ago, a conversation about rising health insurance costs revealed a jarring fact: her mother had told the family only a certain number of people could be put on her plan. The younger children were prioritized to save costs and Josie and an older brother were excluded — allegedly because adding them would cost an extra $200 a month. Josie, who had been sick as a child with a heart condition requiring specialist care and medication from age ten until 23, had asked, “What about me?” and was told, “You always managed on your own.” The realization hit her like a physical sickness. She found tears at work, felt unable to concentrate, then went for a walk and used self-awareness techniques to name what was happening. Knees shaking, she went to hide in a bathroom and was flooded by memories: adolescence, worrying how to afford prescriptions, begging a doctor during a smoke break for refills because clinic visits were unaffordable, turning instead to free clinics and sometimes being given medicines without much attention. Once she thought she was dying from food poisoning and friends and a roommate told her to “let me die” because she couldn’t afford hospital bills on a seven-dollar-an-hour wage. That avalanche of memories of being uninsured and neglected by family returned with brutal force. Now, with a new job that pays more and might improve her finances, the resurfacing grief and her heartbreak threaten to hijack her concentration and performance at work. She has no friends or romantic interests and feels like she is starting from zero. Family dynamics seem reflexively repeated in adult relationships. At 36, she worries about becoming irreparably broken if she can’t learn to manage the heartbreak and build a new family and friendships. She asks how to harden her heart less fragility, how to work effectively without being overwhelmed by feelings of abandonment, and how to create a chosen family while remaining connected to a biological family that matters to her, even if she doesn’t matter to them. She doubts they intend to hurt her but knows some actions were intentional, especially from her mother. She recounts being excluded from a farewell party her mother claimed was a surprise — a party that never included her — which left her feeling exiled and rejected. She longs to forget but cannot.
This is a long, heavy story, and it demonstrates a powerful mix of insight, endurance, and yearning. The essential question she asks — how to keep loving them and keep living — is beautiful and honest. Some will respond with a flat “you don’t have to keep them in your life,” but the reality is more complicated; family ties are often important even when toxic. She did not receive what she needed growing up: love, support, or protection. She stepped into caregiving roles as a child and was left out of basic protections like insurance. The neglect was sometimes cruel and sometimes a product of untreated patterns replayed through generations. The cruel idea that cola in pregnancy could darken a child’s skin is absurd and reveals more about their internalized biases and family stories than about her. Her mother’s behavior reads like neglect passed down the line. There’s a real chance that dynamics in that family resemble traits of narcissistic parents — lack of empathy, emotional cruelty — and that has left Josie with heavy wounds. Despite everything, Josie displays an inner strength: she’s good at “magical thinking,” finding ways to make love where it wasn’t offered, but she also recognizes that this defensive optimism can trap her.
The insurance revelation is surreal and outrageous; leaving a sick child off coverage because of a confusing family plan or cost decisions is neglect on a systemic and personal level. The memory of being ill at school and unable to afford care, of begging a doctor for refills and eventually relying on free clinics, is devastating. The pattern of not being seen by one’s family can erode trust and health. Now with a better job on the horizon, the fear that these emotions will swamp her at work is real. The answer is not that Josie must have her family’s love to thrive. It’s tragic they didn’t provide it, and time can’t give back the care she missed. But a meaningful, fulfilling life is possible now. Healing starts by honestly seeing the present reality of the damage and the behavioral outcomes it has created — the illusions, the avoidance, the intrusive emotions — and then making a plan to manage them. Josie already knows she tends to fantasize; she knows the illusion is there. That self-awareness is an important beginning.
There are concrete ways forward. First, build a community of supportive people. Friends and a partner can play family roles; they are people who can celebrate holidays, help when you’re sick, and be present during crises. Joining groups, practicing small social acts, and finding safe people to rely on creates a buffer against family harm. For practical help, there are programs and courses that teach social connection skills — things like a “connection bootcamp” or similar programs that help rebuild social muscles slowly. Daily, small exposures to people will grow tolerance for the discomfort: greet someone at the store, return to a group activity you used to enjoy, reconnect with a friend you’ve neglected, or sign up for a local class or volunteer event. Consistent small actions every couple of days — nothing huge — can bring you back into social life within weeks.
Therapeutic practices that combine writing and meditation help too. One specific approach used by many is a structured daily practice of expressive writing plus a short meditation, which creates mental space and prevents trauma-driven reactivity from hijacking behavior. Doing this regularly is maintenance rather than a one-time cure; complex PTSD often requires ongoing self-care practices because triggers will resurface intermittently. Build rituals that keep you regulated: a daily practice that clears the mind, then a plan for how to step into social moments with a steady baseline.
Consider 12-step groups or fellowship meetings, which are accessible and can offer immediate social support and belonging. There are in-person and online meetings where people show up for one another. Therapy, especially with a trauma-informed clinician, can help too, and combining therapy with community creates the greatest chance for recovery. Practice setting clear limits and expectations when interacting with family: prepare for visits by lowering expectations for change, decide in advance what you can tolerate, and choose whether to visit at all. There are practical tools — boundary-setting strategies and “ninja boundaries” techniques for dealing with difficult relatives — that can make contact safe enough to try without expecting emotional rescue.
Understand that part of the damage of childhood trauma is a fundamental sense of not belonging. This is common among people who didn’t receive adequate care from caregivers. It’s a painful but normal response. The good news: belonging can be rebuilt. Initially, participation at the edges of groups is fine — be present but leave one foot near the door until you feel safe. Healthy groups include roles for many people and allow different levels of involvement. Start with low-risk interactions: volunteer, join a choir, attend a community clean-up, or participate in a local fundraiser. These activities let you connect around shared purpose, which is a gentler context for bonding. Over time, these connections can deepen.
Remain aware of the ways trauma affects the nervous system and social behavior: dysregulation can make emotions swing wildly, make someone feel clumsy or scattered, lead to overwhelming reactions to small slights, or make social situations feel like an assault on the senses. That’s part of the reason socializing can feel harder and more exhausting than it should. The impulse to withdraw protects you short-term but prevents long-term flourishing. Meaningful social contact is necessary for emotional, cognitive, and even physical health: it supports immune, endocrine, and brain functioning and supplies a network that can help you if life collapses financially or in other ways. Reconnecting doesn’t require abandoning boundaries — instead, it asks for deliberate steps to find safe people and practice being present.
Work on making friends who keep you grounded, people who will check in in realistic ways — not to fix everything but to offer small consistent presence: “I’ll be here for half an hour after your visit; text me when you’re done.” Those micro-check-ins offer structure and validation. Ask for honesty in real time: if a visit with family is hard, let a friend know how it felt right away instead of letting the feelings fester alone. Friends act as emotional scaffolding that reality-checks the distortions family neglect creates.
Start with practical, repeatable actions and supports: a daily regulation practice, a plan for boundary-setting with family, joining community groups or 12-step meetings, finding a therapist experienced with complex trauma, and gradually increasing low-risk social participation. Celebrate the small wins: showing up to one event, texting a friend back, asking for a break during an awkward family exchange. Over time, these small acts rebuild the capacity to be with others without being overwhelmed. Isolation can look peaceful, but when it takes root, it breeds bitterness, self-centeredness, and increasing eccentricity that make reentry ever harder. That path is reversible, but it requires consistent, gentle exposure and support.
There’s real hope. Healing may take maintenance work, but many people who grew up neglected or with complex PTSD find belonging and build chosen families. The work begins with honest acceptance of the past, daily practices that restore nervous-system regulation, and deliberate social acts that expand connection one step at a time. Your worth is not defined by how your family treated you. You can find people who think you’re wonderful, who make room for you, and who help you reprogram the old messages that told you otherwise. Take small, steady actions: go to a community event, return to a group you used to love, invite someone for a short outing, or volunteer. Two weeks of small, consistent social engagements can feel transformative. You owe it to yourself to try. The reward is a life where inclusion and real connections allow you to grow, heal, and become the person you were always meant to be — not alone, but in the company of others who care.