Healing, Glowing, and Growing – One Act of Self-Care At a Time

(Healing & Recovery / Trauma & PTSD)

There are parts of my story I’ve carried in silence for years—decades, even. Parts that feel heavy in my bones, wired into my nervous system, shaping how I move through the world without me even noticing. And as I stand here now, learning to say out loud what happened to me, one truth keeps returning:

Naming trauma is terrifying.

Even when it’s the truth.

Even when I’m safe.

Even when my body finally wants to speak.

I used to think the hardest part of this process would be remembering or surviving the aftermath. But I’m realizing something deeper:

The act of naming what was done to me might be the bravest thing I’ve ever done — and also the thing that scares me the most.

So today, I’m naming the fears that have lived inside me for so long. Some I’ve already spoken. Some I’ve carried quietly. Some are so old they feel like instincts. But all of them deserve to be acknowledged.

The Fear of Speaking the Truth Publicly

This fear hits me in my throat, my chest, my gut — all at once.

Because once I speak publicly, the story is no longer held in the safety of my inner world. It becomes real in ways I can’t control. It becomes visible to people who may not understand me, support me, or care about me at all.

There’s a vulnerability in public truth-telling that feels like standing naked in a storm.

Will people judge?

Will they misunderstand?

Will they weaponize it?

Will they use my openness as an excuse to dissect my character?

Public honesty feels both freeing and dangerous — and my nervous system remembers the danger more vividly than the freedom.

The Fear of Divorcing Someone Tied to My Trauma

This fear looks different for me than it does for many people. We haven’t lived together in over a decade. We’ve been physically separated for years, living entirely separate lives. So it isn’t the fear of leaving a shared home or navigating daily contact — that part ended a long time ago.

The fear now is something quieter, but sharper.

It’s the fear of how he may use our son as a conduit for his reactions.

The fear of how he’ll treat a child he already barely has a relationship with.

The fear that the distance he’s kept will turn into punishment, manipulation, or emotional neglect directed at the person who deserves it the least.

The fear that my choice to honor my truth will somehow become our son’s burden to carry.

There’s also the fear of what divorce symbolizes — closing a chapter tied to trauma, even though that chapter has technically been over for years. Naming it legally makes the truth undeniable. It forces me to confront the reality of what that relationship always was, not the version I once hoped it could be.

And beneath that is the grief that comes with acknowledging how much of my life — my safety, my voice, my stability — was shaped by surviving him.

Divorce isn’t a separation of two people who are still intertwined.

It’s the final undoing of a story that ended long before the paperwork ever touched a desk.

It’s a release.

But even release comes with fear.

The Fear of Retaliation

This fear is already laced into trauma.

My body learned early that speaking up could bring anger, punishment, consequences — even when I did nothing wrong.

Even now, long after the danger has passed, my body still reacts as if someone might come for me.

What if naming it makes someone angry?

What if someone tries to silence me?

What if there are consequences I can’t predict?

Trauma teaches you to anticipate backlash, even when you’re safe.

Even when you’re grown.

Even when you know you have every right to speak.

The Fear of Being Disbelieved

Some fears don’t fade, no matter how many times you face them.

The fear of being dismissed.

Of someone saying, “That’s not how it happened.”

Of being accused of lying, exaggerating, misinterpreting, or seeking attention.

Of having my reality reduced to doubt or shrugged off as “not that serious.”

For survivors, disbelief isn’t just painful — it’s re-traumatizing.

It reinforces the silence we learned to live in.

It echoes the gaslighting we endured.

It deepens the wound we’re trying so hard to heal.

Being believed should not be a privilege.

It should be the baseline.

The Fear That Comes With Speaking Up Against a Man in the Military

There’s a very specific kind of fear that comes from naming trauma connected to a military environment. It’s not just about the individual man who harmed me — it’s about the entire culture that surrounded him. A system that claims to support you, encourages you to report, teaches “see something, say something”…

and then punishes the very people who do.

Even now, years after leaving, the fear lingers in my body.

Because the truth is: the military teaches silence long before it teaches safety.

It’s a culture where rank protects behaviors, not people.

Where reputation matters more than reality.

Where loyalty is valued — but only if it’s loyalty to the institution, not to yourself.

Where those who speak up are filtered out, pushed aside, labeled as weak, dramatic, unstable, or “a problem.”

And I know this because I lived it.

There were moments when I thought, maybe someone will help me.

Maybe I could open up.

Maybe someone in the system could see past the uniform and see me.

But those hopes were crushed quickly.

I remember sitting with my first therapist.

He didn’t even look at me.

He placed me in a chair next to his desk — separated by a blocking hutch — and faced his computer the entire time.

He asked me questions while staring at his screen, expecting me to expose the deepest pain of my life to a man who couldn’t even acknowledge my presence, let alone validate my suffering.

And then the second time… it was the same. Another male therapist.

Another appointment where I was just a time slot.

Another hour where my pain was met with indifference.

Another confirmation that the system didn’t want to help me — it wanted to process me.

It’s hard to feel safe speaking truth into a culture that repeatedly showed me I didn’t matter.

That my pain was inconvenient.

That my voice was disposable.

That my trauma was easier to ignore than address.

So the fear isn’t about one man.

It’s about what happens when you confront a system built to protect itself — not you.

So Why Name It At All?

Because silence has cost me enough.

Because pretending has taken years from me.

Because my body has spoken through panic, rage, shutdown, dissociation, survival mode — long before my voice could catch up.

Because healing is messy. It’s layered, nonlinear, human, and real.

And because naming my trauma doesn’t just free the story —

it frees me.

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👉 Stan Store: https://stan.store/Shroompy

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