Notes on Trauma, Guilt, and Hope
Some pains don’t begin in us —
but they insist on taking up residence there.
Writing this today is an exercise in vulnerability and an uncomfortable task. The only reason I’m sitting in front of my computer, sipping apple-and-ginger tea and swallowing discomfort in long gulps, is because I want to step outside my comfort zone and, perhaps, process a trauma while putting my feelings into words.
For some of us, throughout life, there is a feeling that walks beside us like a quiet shadow: inadequacy. We move from place to place, from one relationship cycle to another, wearing this invisible garment of shame, its label reading: signed by an impostor.
Every human being longs to be accepted by their peers — to be loved, even. We all carry the need to belong, to commune. We desire an identity that fits us honestly, a tribe to belong to, and a purpose worth living for.
For many of us, however, our human journey has been shaped by the painful reality of trauma. A small word with immense weight. Trauma has the power to shape entire lives when we do not know how to hold it. Often without warning, it arrives with the force of a natural disaster, leaving destruction in its wake.
The reach of trauma is vast and varied. It can begin with a relationship ending in unexpected disappointment, with the loss of loved ones, with serious illness, or with extreme circumstances such as war or accidents. Studies show that traumatic experiences can even affect the anatomy of the brain, triggering profound physical and psychological consequences — but this is not a psychology paper.
It is publicly known that I have lived through many traumas. Some began far too early. Others came with time. Abuse, racism, violence, bullying, my parents’ divorce, toxic work environments, online cancellation driven by political motives in an era marked by virtual public shaming. Each left different marks, but all demanded something from me.
Very early on, I had to make a decision: to seek help. First from pastors and religious leaders, because the Church was the first place where I encountered welcome. Later, from therapists, counselors, and psychiatrists. Still young — around eighteen — I realized I could not carry that weight of pain alone, and I sat down for the first time in a psychoanalyst’s office.
Seven therapists later — and a postgraduate degree in psychoanalysis — I am certain of one thing: the idea of “getting over trauma” is often a lie. Marketed by ego-driven coaches wrapped in slogans like you can do it and be your best self, this narrative suggests that trauma is merely an obstacle you can leap over with enough willpower. It isn’t. And believing that is not only an illusion — it is dangerous.
Trauma becomes part of us like an unwanted wound that, if left unattended, turns into a second, diseased skin. It takes deep, intentional work — self-knowledge, identity, and healing — for those wounds to become scars. Scars no longer hurt, but they remain. Not to define us, but to remind us that we survived.
Some will carry those scars with pride. Others will need time before they can move forward without revisiting the subject. Some turn their pain into service; others even turn trauma into product. Strange times we live in.
Regardless of where we are in the healing process, one thing is common to almost everyone who has experienced trauma: guilt. It does not shout. It whispers. It waits patiently, watching for a moment of vulnerability to ambush us.
Psychology calls these moments triggers. When something similar happens, the brain enters a state of alert. Anxiety. Insomnia. Fear. Confusion. The real problem is that we rarely recognize that we are not facing something new — we are simply encountering an old acquaintance: trauma.
Guilt works like a thick fog. It blurs our vision, distorts reality, and convinces us to step once more into the same stormy sea. The mind persuades us to accept dangerous patterns, unfair treatment, unhealthy systems. Trauma’s lying narrative is simple and cruel: if this is happening again, it must be your fault. So we swallow our tears. And endure.
Recently, I found myself in a situation that, despite different settings and characters, felt like a replay of something that nearly destroyed me psychologically. It took months to recognize that I was immersed in toxic relationships and a harmful culture. I ignored red flags: unclear communication, disguised disrespect, broken promises.
When clarity finally came, I was flooded by a paralyzing feeling. One sentence echoed loudly inside me: this cannot be happening again. For months, I believed the lie that it must be my fault. I dissected every detail, trying to identify where I had failed, which lesson I had missed, what my blind spots might be.
I returned to therapy. I spoke with friends. I prayed. I reflected deeply. I opened my life to people I trust, inviting confrontation and truth. Until a simple sentence formed in my mind — and sounded like liberation:
Maybe the problem isn’t you.
We live in a broken world, inhabited by wounded people. Not even religious environments are immune. Places that should be beacons of refuge are often contaminated by corporate cultures driven by ego or money. We never truly know what environments and relationships will produce in us until we are inside them.
Living life trying to avoid all pain can become a prison disguised as protection. On the other hand, allowing disappointment to harden the heart can turn it into a fortress of hypervigilance, anxiety, and control. In both extremes, we believe we are safe — when in fact, we are imprisoned.
The only viable posture is hopeful acceptance.
Acceptance of broken systems. Of human limitations. Of imperfect structures. And still, a decision to walk the path of hope. Hope that people can grow. That workplaces can be just. That churches can be healthy.
We move forward when we focus our energy on the only thing truly within our reach: becoming, day by day, the best version of who we can be — while offering others the good we ourselves long to receive.
If today you find yourself saying, “I can’t believe this is happening again,” breathe. There may be adjustments to make, lessons to learn. But that does not mean the blame is yours.
Not every repetition is a relapse.
Sometimes, it is simply life asking for courage once more.
And there is a strong chance that this time,
the problem isn’t you.
