The 4 Uncomfortable Truths About Trauma You NEED To Hear

Have you ever been told that if you kept talking about the past — recounting over and over how people hurt you — eventually you would heal? I was told that, too. At first, when I finally spoke the truth about what happened, there was a brief sense of relief. But very quickly that relief evaporated: I sank deeper into depression, my anger grew, I felt swamped and unable to concentrate. When I asked my therapist, “When will this get better? I don’t know how much longer I can handle this,” she reassured me that I was “processing” a lot and that processing can take time and even feel worse before it improves. But was that really what was happening? I’ve come to understand “processing” as the nervous system’s job of turning full-body, adrenaline-fueled trauma reactions to reminders into neutral memories. That’s what true processing does. What I experienced was the opposite: emotionally charged memories were commandeering my life and my functioning started to collapse. So here are four uncomfortable truths about trauma recovery that almost nobody tells you — and that may be the key to finally moving forward. Uncomfortable truth number one: talking about trauma can be a massive and unnecessary trigger. You’ve probably been taught that healing requires telling every detail, getting it all out. And yes, there can be an initial catharsis in finally speaking the facts. But we now know that retelling can shove you straight back into the trauma response — flooding your body with adrenaline and launching you into dysregulation. When that happens it becomes extremely difficult to think clearly, to process feelings, to communicate, or even to remember specifics. This reaction isn’t a sign of weakness or resistance; it’s a sign that the nervous system isn’t yet regulated enough to revisit those memories safely. That’s why some people feel worse the more they talk: instead of closure, talking reactivates the wound, creating shutdowns, panic attacks, or physical symptoms. What begins as relief can become a loop of retraumatization — you leave a session sobbing and ruined, hoping the next visit will be different, only to have the same collapse repeat. There is another way. You can process memories and feelings through writing — not casual journaling, but a structured daily writing practice I developed that allows you to release the story without triggering a spiral. When I started doing this I didn’t know the neuroscience behind it; I just knew it helped. Writing felt calming. It can also let you communicate what happened to another person: you write it, then read it aloud, avoiding the emotional overwhelm or dissociation that might come from speaking spontaneously. Writing uses different neural pathways and can create the safe distance needed to prevent dysregulation. It brings clarity, helps your brain begin to process rather than relive events, and reduces the mental clutter that fuels dysregulation. Done consistently, this practice lets you notice patterns, build self-awareness, and — crucially — recover the ability to act in your own interest, rather than being paralyzed by trauma-driven nervous system reactions. Uncomfortable truth number two: obsessing over what others did to you can keep you stuck. Yes, at some point it’s necessary to name the abuse or neglect — to tell the truth and receive validation. But making the past and other people the central focus, which is common on many social channels, is only recognition, not the work of healing. It feels good to point out how messed up the other person was, to label them and feel vindicated. But if you stay there, you avoid the harder question: what are you going to do about this relationship? Why are you stuck? Why do you keep rationalizing or remaining in situations that harm you? When you make the problem solely about other people, you miss the one thing you can change: your relationship to the problem. A lot of trauma survivors say things like, “I attract narcissists,” as if they emit some irresistible scent that draws abusers in. That’s a misleading way to think about it. What’s more accurate is that you have patterns — a blind spot, a damaged red-flag detector — that make it easier for certain people to enter and stay in your life. It’s not your fault, but it is your responsibility to change how you respond. Healing begins when you shift attention from diagnosing others to learning how you end up in these dynamics and what you will do differently. Part of that is learning discernment and spotting red flags; another part is distinguishing between genuine gut intuition and trauma-driven hypervigilance. That discernment develops through practice: notice, “I have a bad feeling about this,” and then track the outcomes of staying versus leaving. Over time you become more balanced in reading reality. If you want help with skills for calming internal storms when triggered, I made a free daily practice course with two simple techniques — it’s short but powerful and helps you feel clearer and more focused fast. Click the second link in the description below or use the QR code there to start right away. Practicing discernment and learning to detect red flags is what makes real healing possible. Uncomfortable truth number three: you cannot heal while hiding from life. This one stings because it’s so tempting to withdraw when things feel overwhelming. I did that — convincing myself I needed space to heal or that other people were the problem, and therefore my retreat was justified. But isolation is only a temporary fix. It removes the source of stress for a while but it doesn’t regulate your nervous system or repair the damage. Disconnection itself is often a leftover symptom of early trauma: you may have grown up feeling isolated and never learned how to connect safely. I talk about this extensively in my book — this galley proof copy I have is full of examples of how we isolate to manage dysregulation and how to come back out. Human beings are social by design: our brains develop through interaction and our nervous systems co-regulate with others. Real healing largely happens in connection — in the messy, awkward, sometimes painful friction of real life. By “friction” I mean the everyday moments where things go wrong: a conversation that goes badly, someone getting offended, an argument, a moment of social discomfort. Friction is uncomfortable, yes, but it’s also where you practice being a person with boundaries, expressing yourself, and preserving your integrity without getting needlessly hurt. If you didn’t get that practice in childhood, you can build it now — slowly. Start with tiny acts of connection: say a quick hello to a neighbor, join a small group, volunteer, or ask someone for coffee. My book includes a kind of game of “acts of connection” — small tasks that earn points and gently nudge you toward your edges. The trick isn’t to overhaul your life overnight; it’s to push yourself a little past comfort so you can titrate out of isolation. Beware the urge to do everything at once — trying twenty things and then burning out leads right back to hiding. Life, with all its awkwardness and imperfection, is where you learn and heal. When you show up even a little, you’re telling your nervous system, “I can handle this,” and you give it the practice it needs to grow stronger. Uncomfortable truth number four: healing happens through action. It’s not something that descends because you’ve thought the right thoughts or talked about the past incessantly. Healing requires doing: steady, real, present-time steps. Not dramatic overhauls, but consistent small actions. Face problems bit by bit and do something about them. If you’re dysregulated, start a daily calming practice. If your home is chaotic, clean one drawer — that small, contained task has real therapeutic value and doesn’t overwhelm you. If a friend disrespects you, speak up — calmly and firmly. If your finances are a mess, take one small step toward changing that situation. Action is the antidote to paralysis: it creates momentum when you’re stuck, builds confidence when you’re afraid, and reveals options when you feel hopeless. You don’t need perfect performance — just honest and persistent effort. Don’t wait until you “feel” ready. Begin to move even when you don’t have all the answers, because each positive step reinforces a new pattern and teaches your body and brain who you are now. If you’re wondering whether childhood neglect or abuse is affecting your life today, I’ve put together a quiz that lists signs of childhood PTSD — it can help normalize what you’re struggling with and show that healing is possible. Download the quiz by clicking the top link in the description or scanning the QR code. And finally: you don’t have to be perfect to start. Stop waiting for someone else to fix things. Healing doesn’t come from overthinking, blaming, or endlessly recounting what others did. It comes from noticing what isn’t working in you and taking responsibility to change it — dysregulation, self-defeating habits, character flaws, whatever they are. Insights alone won’t change behavior; change needs courage and action. Healing means becoming someone who protects themselves, who tells the truth, who learns skills, who sets boundaries, who makes the call, who shows up and tries again tomorrow. That’s where the power is, and that’s where the healing lives. And watch out for the trap of clinging to overwhelm as an excuse to lie down and isolate — it can become a perverse comfort that keeps you from doing the brave work of getting better.

Practical tools you can use right now: grounding and regulation techniques to stop a flood of emotion — try the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding (name 5 things you see, 4 you can touch, 3 you hear, 2 you smell, 1 you taste), box breathing (inhale 4 seconds — hold 4 — exhale 4 — hold 4), or a quick progressive muscle relaxation (tense, then release muscle groups head to toe). Carry a small grounding object (a smooth stone, bracelet, or scented hand lotion) to anchor your attention when you feel triggered.

How to structure a safe writing practice: set a consistent time (10–20 minutes daily), pick a focused prompt (facts-only account, a letter to your younger self, or a “what I need now” list), write without editing, stop when time’s up, and finish with a short grounding ritual (three slow breaths and a fact-based statement like “I am safe right now”). If reading aloud helps, read what you wrote to a trusted person or to yourself on audio — this creates distance that often prevents reliving.

Pacing and titration: don’t aim for full exposure all at once. Use the Subjective Units of Distress (SUDS) scale (0–10) to rate discomfort before and after a task. Aim for moderate activation (3–6) rather than overwhelm. If distress repeatedly reaches 8–10, slow down and bring the work to a therapist trained in trauma-focused methods.

When to seek professional trauma treatment: if symptoms are persistent, debilitating, or causing crisis, consider evidence-based therapies such as EMDR, somatic experiencing, cognitive processing therapy (CPT), prolonged exposure, or DBT skills training. Medication can help some people manage severe anxiety or depression; discuss options with a psychiatrist. If you experience suicidal thoughts or are in immediate danger, contact local emergency services or a crisis line right away (in the U.S. dial 988; elsewhere, use local emergency or crisis resources).

Practice building discernment and boundaries with small experiments: write a short “red flag” list of behaviors that feel unsafe to you, then practice one boundary script (e.g., “I need to pause this conversation; let’s talk later when we can be respectful”) in low-stakes situations. Track outcomes briefly — did the other person respect it? How did you feel afterward? Over time these experiments recalibrate your internal detector.

Simple daily action plan (start tiny): 1) one 5–10 minute calming practice (breathing, grounding, or short walk), 2) one small household task (clean a drawer, sort mail), 3) one social step (text a friend, say hello to a neighbor), 4) one tracking step (note a pattern in your journal). Small consistent wins like these create momentum and help your nervous system learn safety.

Limit social-media rumination: public venting and endless replaying of stories often reinforce stuckness. If you use online communities for support, set boundaries: prefer groups that encourage solution-focused steps and skill-building, and avoid feeds that keep you reliving trauma without offering tools for change.

Remember: progress is rarely linear. Expect setbacks, practice self-compassion, and celebrate tiny changes in behavior rather than waiting for feelings to change first. Healing is learned skill-work — steady, imperfect action — and you don’t have to do it alone.