There’s a weariness that settles deep into the bones of someone with Complex PTSD — not just from a single traumatic event, but from the slow, repeated erosion of safety and belonging. Unlike shock trauma that strikes like a lightning bolt, Complex PTSD comes from the long ache of being unseen, unheard, and unsafe over time. It’s the trauma of what didn’t happen — the comfort never offered, the truth never spoken, the protection never given.

I know this ache intimately.

My story, like many, holds layers. A childhood shaped by silence, control, and emotional neglect — not out of cruelty, but out of generational pain, passed down like an unwanted heirloom. A young girl who learned to survive by being compliant, high-achieving, and invisible. Who became the emotional caretaker in spaces where no one noticed her own needs.

This kind of trauma isn’t always loud. It hides behind perfectionism, overfunctioning, and people-pleasing. It whispers lies that say:

• “You’re too much.”

• “Your needs are a burden.”

• “It’s safer to stay small.”

• “You can’t trust anyone — not even yourself.”

I’ve spent decades carrying those lies like chains, not realising they weren’t mine to bear.

Healing from Complex PTSD has felt like walking barefoot across shards of my own brokenness — every step tender, but necessary. Through prayer ministry, Holy Spirit gently began to show me the fractured places in my heart where I had vowed never to trust again. He revealed the defence mechanisms I had mistaken for personality traits. He met the little girl hiding in the cupboard — frozen in fear while her world crashed around her — and spoke tenderly: “You didn’t deserve that. You were never meant to carry it alone.”

One of the cruelest effects of Complex PTSD is that it robs you of your internal safety. It teaches you to distrust your intuition, to question your memories, to fear your own emotions. For years, I didn't even realise I was emotionally dissociated — functioning, smiling, achieving… while completely disconnected from my body, my voice, my heart.

And yet, healing is happening. Slowly. Gracefully. One courageous "yes" at a time.

What has helped me most is learning to hold space for both the grief and the glory. To grieve the childhood I didn’t get, without shaming myself for still aching. To celebrate the fierce, radiant woman I am becoming — not in spite of the pain, but because of how Jesus is redeeming it.

I am learning that:

• I am not broken. I was wounded.

• I do not need to be perfect to be loved.

• My body’s reactions are not betrayals — they are invitations to listen deeper.

• I can be both tender and strong, both healing and leading.

The path to healing is not linear. Some days feel like progress. Others like relapses. But every time I fall into old patterns — hypervigilance, self-doubt, emotional flashbacks — I now pause and ask: What is this really about? 🤔What does the little girl inside me need right now? 🤔

Often, the answer is simple: safety, love, and truth and that’s exactly what Jesus keeps offering me.

💛 If you relate to this, know that you are not alone. Healing is not about becoming who you used to be — it’s about discovering who you were always meant to be. The enemy may have tried to silence your voice, but heaven has written your name in love.

A Closing Prayer

Jesus, thank You for never turning away from the messy, fragmented parts of our hearts. You see the wounds that no one else saw, and You bend low to bind them. Teach us to recognise Your gentle whispers above the noise of our trauma. Restore trust where it's been shattered, courage where fear has taken root, and joy where sorrow has lived too long. Make beauty from these ashes. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.