Lately, I’ve been hearing more and more experiences of people carrying trauma, whether recent or deep-rooted. And it’s got me thinking that everyone is fighting a battle. Whether loud or quiet, visible or hidden, heavy or seemingly small, it’s still a battle.
One of the most important things I’ve learnt, especially training in trauma-informed care as a social worker, is never to diminish your pain because someone else has it worse. Never shrink your story in comparison to someone else’s. Trauma is trauma. It’s all relative.
Whether you were raised in a home where violence was the norm, whether you’ve lost someone who meant the world, or whether you’re trying to make sense of heartbreak that still lingers longer than expected, your experience matters and your feelings are valid. You don’t need to justify them.
What I’ve come to understand is healing doesn’t come from suppressing the hard stuff. It comes from sitting with it. Letting yourself feel it. Allowing yourself to be uncomfortable, and learning that even in discomfort, you are safe and supported, even if it doesn’t feel that way.
I’ve carried my own trauma too. For me, it centres around my father. Or, more specifically, his absence. He was never really present. Never played with us. Never really held us as kids. He wasn’t there through the dark times, and he’s never supported my brother and I emotionally or financially – beyond the basic child support, which stopped the moment it legally could.
That absence left a hole. It shaped how I moved through the world, constantly craving validation, struggling with self-worth, and entering relationships, already preparing for them to fail. I didn’t want children for the longest time, and then when I finally came around to the idea, before dating anyone, I’d think, ‘If we have children and then broke up, would we co-parent well?’ Because I didn’t want my future children to feel what I felt. And that’s not love. That’s trauma talking.
I’ve had my share of toxic patterns. I’ve stayed in relationships longer than I should have. But one thing I’ve never done is cheat. Loyalty, for all its weight, is one of my strengths. And that’s mainly due to the fact that I don’t want to be like my father, as well as fundamental values.
It’s no surprise that every therapy session circles back to him. And now, years later, the same man who wasn’t there for me, who blew his inheritance, and who contributed to my wounds asks me for financial assistance to help him with food. And I give it. Because how can I not? What kind of person would I be if I didn’t? I’ve inherited manaakitanga (hospitality and care) from my mum and Gran! That value is stitched into my being until the day I die.
My last visit with him wrecked me; I felt like I was working as his social worker, trying to find solutions to his problems. It ends up being all about him, and if and when he finally asks about me, it doesn’t even feel like he’s listening.
The moral of the story is your trauma is valid. You don’t have to shrink it or apologise for it. Acknowledging it doesn’t make you weak; it makes you human. And healing? It doesn’t come all at once. It comes little by little.
There may be pain in the night, but joy comes in the morning.
So, if you’re walking through something right now, whether it’s heartbreak, grief, anxiety, abandonment, or whatever it may be, know that you’re not alone; you’re not broken beyond repair; you’re worthy of healing. Be gentle with yourself; that’s where it begins.
Shanlivvy 