What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.
There’s a saying we often hear: "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger." It’s meant to be a reminder that pain, hardship, and suffering can forge us into more resilient versions of ourselves. But for those of us who have lived through trauma, those words often feel more like a hollow promise than a source of comfort.
Trauma isn’t something you simply “bounce back” from. It doesn’t leave you stronger in the way we might imagine—standing tall, unbroken, and entirely healed. No, trauma leaves its mark in ways that aren’t always visible. It reshapes who you are, how you see the world, and how you move through life.
When we talk about trauma, we’re not just referring to the event itself; we’re talking about the aftermath. It’s the weight of invisible wounds that we carry with us, often without even realizing it. The emotional burden clings to you, refuses to let go. It’s the way your mind keeps replaying the memories, over and over, without permission. It’s the way your body holds onto tension even when you try to relax. There’s a quiet, persistent feeling that something inside you has been altered, that it’s broken or out of control—but no one around you can see it.
Trauma doesn’t always scream for attention with tears or loud cries for help. Sometimes it comes in much quieter forms, like anxiety. Sometimes, it’s not just the pain—it’s the way that pain has changed you, turned you into someone you no longer recognize.
The truth is, trauma changes you. It makes you feel like a part of you is lost forever. You may find that things that once felt effortless—trusting others, finding joy, feeling safe—now feel foreign. The path you used to walk with confidence is now shadowed by the ghosts of everything you’ve endured. And you walk it differently, cautiously, with a part of yourself always looking over your shoulder.
My trauma, what I’ve come to call my "truth," has changed me. The little girl I used to be—the one who ran through life with her heart wide open, unafraid and free—no longer exists. That version of me is gone. I am scared now. Scared to open up. Scared to be vulnerable. Scared to just be myself.
Yes, there are days when I feel like that little girl again—the one who was unapologetically herself, full of life and trust. But those days are not the majority. Some days, I just want to be quiet. I want to disappear. I want to hide from the world, from the pain, from the fear of being seen. It’s so hard for me to let people in, to trust that they won’t hurt me the way others have. But it’s not impossible.
What I’ve come to understand is this: healing from trauma, or from your truth, is never a straight line. It’s messy. It’s painful. And it’s unpredictable. Some days you’ll feel like you’re making progress, and other days you’ll feel like you’ve taken ten steps backward. But I’ve learned to accept this. I’ve learned that healing doesn’t have to look like what others say it should. It doesn’t mean I’ll ever be the same as I was before.
But I’ve also accepted this: There will come a day when I’ll return to that little girl—the one who was open, free, and unapologetically herself. I don’t know when that day will be, but I believe in it. And I believe in the possibility of me becoming whole again, even if I look different than before.
