Relatable

I probably should have been placed in foster care as a child based on today’s standards. But I can’t say it would have made things much better for me—there seem to be more horror stories about foster care than good ones. Sometimes, the known evil feels safer than the unknown.

I remember being taken to a child psychologist once. On the way there, a parent told me I had to keep our secret—our secret of sexual abuse. I was warned that if I said anything, “they” would take me away. So, I sat there in that office, silent. Too afraid to speak. My voice was stolen from me at a young age.

That moment shaped every relationship that followed. I didn’t know how to protect myself, didn’t feel safe saying no, and learned to accept whatever treatment I received. I had been taught that love came with pain, that affection had a cost. I froze—just like an animal playing dead, hoping the threat would pass. That freeze response became my normal.

I thought I was broken. I watched other kids laugh and enjoy life while I felt numb. But I had nothing to compare my experiences to, so I assumed the problem was me.

There’s so much of my own childhood that comes flooding back when I hear your stories of abuse, neglect, and pain. While I help you process your trauma, you help me process mine. It’s a strange dynamic. You sit in the most vulnerable seat, while I sit in the guarded one. And yet, you trust me—whether it’s because of a recommendation, the letters after my name, or just a feeling you get. You trust me with the hardest parts of your story.

Maybe it’s because we share a language that often goes unspoken, buried under the shame that trauma brings. No one wants to tell their friends that the cupboards were bare growing up, or that they had to clean up after parents who didn’t. No one talks about the violations that came from people who were supposed to protect them. Maybe you were the kid who got teased for being “different,” or the one who was constantly reminded they were an inconvenience. Maybe, despite swearing you never would, you ended up marrying someone just like your abuser. Maybe the child you poured everything into has now turned away from you, and instead of feeling appreciated, you feel rejected.

You’ve had some really bad days. Maybe even bad years. And you’ve started to question everything.

But here, in my office, you set it all down. You let me look at it with you. And even if part of you expects judgment—because that’s what you’re used to—you’re met with compassion instead. And in that moment, something shifts. A small sense of relief. A quiet thought: Maybe I’m not broken after all.

To say “I get it” feels like an understatement. How do you grasp something like trauma when trauma is all you’ve ever known? How do you hold onto love when “love” has only ever hurt you?

I am living proof that love is so much more than what you’ve known it to be. You don't have to hold it all together to be loved. 

Let’s work through the questions together.

Love, 

Eva