Armor, Bruises, and the Red Alert Life
Living with CPTSD, I often wonder how other people see us. And what it actually means to be human for us.
For me, being human with CPTSD feels like walking around wearing invisible armor while also nursing invisible bruises. I can be laughing at a joke, or cracking a smile, while my nervous system is screaming danger, danger! I want closeness, but a part of me is always bracing for impact. From the outside, I might look like I’ve got it together, but inside, there’s a version of me that’s scanning every corner, noting exits, reading faces, and listening to tones like they’re secret messages.
When Your Brain Thinks Shadows Are Threats
I notice things most people don’t, rooms, people, little shifts in energy. Someone changes their tone slightly, a glance lingers too long, or a silence stretches just a bit too far, and my brain hits storm warning. Sometimes shadows feel like threats. What once kept me safe now just drains me, like I’m running a race no one else is running.
Check out this post if you’ve ever felt like CPTSD makes failure feel safer. It dives into why self-sabotage happens and how compassion and awareness support healing.
When Happiness Feels Strange
Wanting to feel safe runs so deep that even being happy can feel strange, almost suspicious. When those moments show up, there’s a part of me that whispers, “Don’t get too comfortable; this won’t last.” I catch myself waiting for the rug to be pulled out, like I’ve somehow snuck into a life I wasn’t supposed to have.
The Strange, Hard-Won Tenderness
But it’s not all survival mode. There’s also this strange, hard-won tenderness that comes with it. Being human with CPTSD means I know what it feels like to have nothing, so I don’t take little kindnesses for granted. A smile, a text back, a moment of quiet understanding, these are treasures, proof that I’m not invisible, and that connection is still possible.
It also means I can sit with someone else’s pain without flinching. Because I’ve had to learn how to sit with my own. I don’t need to rush people past their grief, or fix it, or tell them it will all be okay. I know what it’s like when words fall short. Sometimes being human is just being present, and that’s something trauma taught me the long way around.
Rethinking “Normal”
For so long, I second-guessed what “normal” was and assumed everything about me was broken. I thought if I couldn’t relax in a crowd, if I startled too easily, if I froze when things got hard, that meant I wasn’t like everyone else. But maybe being human isn’t about hitting some imaginary standard. Maybe it’s not about “getting over it” or reaching some perfect version of healed.
Holding it All Together
Maybe being human, especially with CPTSD, is about carrying the weight of what we’ve been through and still finding ways to connect, to laugh, and notice beauty when it shows up. Maybe it’s about learning that our scars don’t disqualify us from belonging.
Being human might just be holding it all together, and figuring out, day by day, how to live with them.
What Does Being Human Look Like for You?
And I’d love to hear from you. What does being human look like for you, with all the scars, armor, and tenderness you carry? Share your thoughts. Sometimes just putting it into words is the first step toward feeling seen and connected.
Photo by Aleksi Partanen on Unsplash