I was five years old when the abuse happened. That’s a sentence I still have trouble writing, let alone fully grasping, even after all this time. At five, you’re supposed to be discovering the world with wide eyes and open hands, not learning how to protect yourself from the very people meant to keep you safe.

One of the hardest parts of healing, maybe the hardest, is facing the reality that the person I survived was someone I looked up to. Someone I trusted. Someone who, in my child’s mind, was larger than life. They were supposed to protect me, guide me, and be proud of me. Instead, they hurt me.

The Fracture of Trust and Reality

That kind of betrayal doesn’t just leave scars; it fractures your sense of reality. There’s this intense emotional dissonance, like two opposing truths existing in the same space: I loved them, and they hurt me. It’s grief, betrayal, confusion, and rage all twisted into a knot that doesn’t come undone easily.

And here’s the part that’s even harder to explain: the loss isn’t just about them. It’s about the loss of who I thought they were. The version of them I believed in. The safety I thought I had. And it’s the loss of who I was back then, the little kid who believed in them, who didn’t yet know that love could come with conditions or danger.

Healing has meant sitting with that contradiction. It’s meant to honor the hurt without erasing the love I once felt. It’s learning to validate the child in me who didn’t know better and who never should have needed to know better.

The Myth of Moving On

There’s this myth that healing looks like leaving the past behind, but for those of us who lived through complex trauma, healing often looks like turning around and walking straight into the fire we spent years running from. It’s not about forgetting. It’s about remembering safely. On my own terms.

Some days, the remembering comes in flashes, a smell, a tone of voice, a certain silence that wraps around me like it used to. Other days, it feels like I’m dragging the weight of it all behind me, trying to move forward while still giving that part of me the space it never had. Because that five-year-old didn’t get to cry. Didn’t get to scream. Didn’t get to say, “This isn’t okay.” So now, I do it for him.

I used to think healing meant becoming someone new, someone untouched, maybe even someone stronger. But the truth is, healing has made me softer. More honest. It’s cracked me open in ways I never expected, and in those cracks, I’ve discovered things I never knew were there: compassion, depth, connection, and a quiet resilience that doesn’t shout but still stands tall

Grief, But Not Overwhelming Grief

There’s still grief. There probably always will be. But it no longer controls the room. Now, it sits beside me, like an uninvited guest I’ve learned to coexist with. Some days it’s louder than others, but I’ve learned to listen to it without letting it steer my life. It’s still part of the picture, but it no longer defines anything.

And most importantly, I’ve started to believe that the little boy I was, the one who endured more than any child should, deserves a life full of gentleness, safety, and happiness. He’s not a burden. He’s the bravest part of me.

I say this so often throughout this blog because it happens to be true, but healing isn’t linear. It’s also not about forgetting. It’s about living with the truth of what happened and learning how to carry it in a way that doesn’t define me, but doesn’t erase me either. There are days when I still feel that five-year-old’s fear, when the world feels too big and too dark. But there are also days when I feel his strength, his quiet courage, and the love that still exists for the people who failed him.

Learning to Live Alongside the Past

So here’s where I am: moving forward, not by outrunning the past, but by learning to live alongside it. I’m not trying to forget or change what happened; I’ve been learning how to carry it. Healing is not about becoming someone new. It’s about becoming more fully who I already am, someone capable of holding the contradictions, the pain, the joy, and the hope.

The little boy I once was doesn’t need to be fixed. He needs to be honored. And in doing so, I’m learning to honor the person I’ve become, a person who is worthy of gentleness, love, and peace.

This is my healing journey. It’s not perfect, and it never will be. But it’s mine. And I’ve learned to walk through it with compassion, for myself and for the boy I once was, who still deserves to be seen, heard, and loved.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash