Are YOU Married to YOUR Pain and Trauma?

That’s a hard question to sit with, huh?

It was for me, too.

I have experienced some thangs, honey. So this question is coming from a woman who knows what it means to hurt, to keep going anyway, and to discover that some of what she thought she had overcome was still shaping how she lived.

For a long time, my pain was my security blanket. I wrapped myself in what had happened to me until I could barely recognize where the experience ended and my identity began.

I remember being told I was a victim, and baby, I was ready to fight.

A victim? Me? Do YOU know what I’ve overcome? What I’ve experienced? What I’ve had to pull myself through?

I am a VICTOR. How dare YOU tell me I’m a victim?

I could have presented my whole life as evidence. Every obstacle. Every time I got back up. I was ready to defend the woman I had fought so hard to hold together.

Then I came across a definition that made me sit my defensive self down.

One definition of “victim” includes “a person who is deceived or cheated, as by their own emotions or ignorance.” 

Cheated by my own emotions.

Whew. Sit with that for a minute. I had to.

That phrase made me examine how much authority I had given to what I felt. If I felt afraid, did that automatically mean I was unsafe? If I expected disappointment, was I actually seeing what was happening, or preparing for what had happened before?

But I also had to stop treating “victim” like an insult. Being harmed never made me less worthy. Acknowledging that somebody hurt me did not erase what it took to survive them. I could have been victimized and still have victories worth celebrating.

The part I needed to confront was how much of my present I was still organizing around my pain.

I wasn’t wearing a scarlet letter announcing every wound. Inwardly, though, those wounds were present. And they were bleeding into how I saw myself, how I understood other people, and how I responded when something touched a tender place.

I knew how to keep going. That did not mean I was HEALthy. I had gotten good at explaining why I hurt. I needed to get honest about what happened when I hurt.

There is a difference.

Knowing where a reaction comes from does not erase its impact. I could have a valid reason for being guarded and still shut out someone who had done me no harm. I could be hurting and still hurt somebody else. Their pain deserved my attention, too.

That was uncomfortable to face because I wanted my history to be understood. But understanding my history could not be the only thing I asked of the people trying to love me. There also had to be room for them to tell me how I was treating them.

My pain explained some things. It could not keep answering for everything.

And that security blanket? I had held it so tightly that loosening my grip felt unsafe.

I knew how to prepare for disappointment. I knew the beliefs I had formed around what happened to me. Even when those beliefs hurt, they were familiar. Questioning them meant admitting that some of the ways I had learned to protect myself were costing me something.

So I kept coming back to a harder question: What am I afraid will happen if I stop living this way?

Would I be caught off guard again? Would people assume it hadn’t been that bad? Would healing feel like letting somebody off the hook? Who would I be if pain no longer supplied so many of my answers?

Those questions deserve honesty. They also deserve more than “just let it go.”

Because let it go and do what? Trust whom? Start where?

I needed to understand what I was reaching for that blanket to do. Was it helping me feel prepared? Giving me a reason to keep my distance? Protecting me from the possibility of wanting something and being disappointed again?

Calling it a security blanket made me confront the comfort I found in it. That comfort had a cost. I could stay prepared for hurt and still miss the chance to experience something good.

This is where the marriage question gets personal.

Had I become so committed to the beliefs my pain taught me that I defended them even when they were hurting me?

“I can’t depend on anybody.”

“People always leave.”

“This is just how I am.”

Those statements can sound settled. Final. Like the conversation is over. But what happens when someone shows up consistently? Do we allow that experience to count? Or does the old story get to dismiss every piece of evidence that challenges it?

Discernment still matters. Nobody earns access simply because YOU want to heal. Someone who continues to harm YOU does not become safe because YOU have done some inner work.

But people who have earned trust deserve to be seen for how they actually treat us. And we deserve the chance to find out who we are outside the expectations pain handed us.

Psalm 147:3 says, “He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.”

What stays with me is the care in that verse. The wound receives attention. There is room to admit it exists.

I can bring GOD the part of me that still hurts without presenting a polished testimony first. I can say, “I’m still angry. I’m scared. I know this pattern is costing me, and I need help changing it.”

That is an honest prayer.

And I can let that honesty reach beyond the prayer. Into the conversation where I name what I actually need. Into seeking counseling or support. Into the apology that acknowledges the impact of my behavior without making the other person comfort me for it.

“I was hurt, too” cannot be the only response when someone tells me I hurt them.

Sometimes the next step is small enough to miss: pausing before treating a familiar feeling as proof. Asking, “What happened here, and what am I expecting because of something else?” Letting the answer challenge the reaction I was ready to defend.

A decision can begin that work. It does not finish it. Having another hard day does not cancel the work already done.

I also don’t believe I have to stay wounded to prove that what happened mattered. My pain was real before anybody understood it. It will still have been real when I’m able to enjoy more of my life.

I do not owe anybody continued suffering as evidence.

So when I ask, “Are YOU married to YOUR pain and trauma?” I am asking YOU to look at the relationship. What does it ask of YOU? What beliefs does it keep alive? What does it cost YOU to keep defending them?

And what support would help YOU loosen YOUR grip?

We can be honest about what happened and about what needs attention now. We can acknowledge the ways we protected ourselves and examine whether those same habits still serve us.

I want a life where pain can be acknowledged without being consulted on every decision. Where I can recognize a wound, tend to it, and take responsibility for how I treat people while it heals.

I never made a vow to my pain.

I don’t owe it the rest of my life.

Neither do YOU. 💜🫶🏽