When Healing Becomes Rebellion

I never realized just how deep the wounds were until I stopped pretending everything was normal.

Growing up in dysfunction doesn’t always feel dysfunctional while it’s happening. It just feels like life. You don’t know any different. You learn to read the room like a survival skill. You anticipate moods like weather patterns. You figure out how to stay invisible, or how to become the peacemaker, or the one who takes care of everyone else. And over time, those coping mechanisms shape your entire personality—not because that’s who you are, but because it’s who you had to be.

Recently, I finally gave in to something I’d put off for years: the textbook testing of trauma.

I took the ACES test—the Adverse Childhood Experiences questionnaire. Just 10 questions, but it manages to distill a lifetime of pain into a single score.

I scored a 9 out of 10.

And even that number doesn’t fully capture what it was like to grow up in an environment where safety felt unpredictable. Where reality sometimes shifted depending on the day, the mood, or the moment.

But this isn’t about blame. It’s about honesty. About what it felt like to live in a world that constantly kept you guessing.

And here’s what I’ve come to understand: many of us are walking around with fractured pieces of ourselves. No, maybe not with an official diagnosis. But still fragmented in the quietest ways.

We bury grief beneath sarcasm. We swallow our anger because it’s “too much.” We hide the parts of us that feel too needy or soft. We split ourselves into roles—parent, partner, provider, fixer—until we forget what it even feels like to be whole.

And the truth is, we all have different names for the things we carry. But the core wound is often the same: the belief that we are too much, too complicated, too burdensome.

Healing has meant learning to show up for every part of myself. The angry one. The scared one. The one who shuts down. The one who pretends it’s all fine. I’ve been learning to tell each of them: You’re safe now. You belong. We don’t have to live in survival mode anymore.

And that? That’s a miracle in itself.

Because even with all the work I’ve done, I still catch myself shrinking.

I still feel that little voice inside me—the one that learned early on to be small, quiet, and easy. I remember being a child, sitting with my knees tucked to my chest, afraid to need anything. Afraid to be seen.

And sometimes, that part of me still wins.

That’s the thing about trauma. It rewires you. It teaches your nervous system that silence is safety and invisibility is protection. Even when the danger is gone, your body doesn’t always believe it yet.

But now, I do.

Now, I sit with that younger version of myself and whisper, “You’re allowed to need. You’re allowed to speak. You’re allowed to take up space.”

Healing isn’t perfection. It’s not forgetting. It’s gently reminding every part of you that they don’t have to be afraid anymore.

One of the hardest parts of healing, though, is learning to stop defending your truth to people who remember it differently.

I still feel the urge to correct—to explain, to plead for understanding when someone rewrites the past in a way that erases my pain. I try to remind myself: we all see through our own lenses. But my body remembers what it lived through. I don’t need anyone else to confirm it.

Because healing doesn’t mean everyone sees it the same way—it means I finally trust myself enough not to need them to.

And here's something else I’ve had to come to terms with:

So many people have made me second-guess my memories—
Not because my truth is invalid,
But because they haven’t faced theirs yet.

They're still living in the “well, that’s just life” mindset.
Still normalizing the chaos they were raised in.
Still defending the dysfunction because it’s all they ever knew.

And when you start speaking a language they haven’t learned yet—
One of truth, boundaries, and healing—
It threatens the fragile story they’ve told themselves to survive.

But just because someone else hasn’t come out on the other side…
Doesn’t mean I have to stay stuck with them in the middle.

And then there’s the bitter pill of entitlement.

The sting of being made to feel like you owe someone for simply surviving. Like love or help came with a hidden price tag.

It’s a special kind of hurt to realize support came with strings attached—an unspoken tally sheet of “everything I’ve done for you.” Meanwhile, your own memories tell a different story—one where you went without more than anyone knows.

So now, even asking for help feels like a risk. Like a setup for guilt, or shame, or being reminded of your place. And on the rare occasions I do ask, I give something back—money, time, labor—just to avoid hearing, “After everything I’ve done for you…”

Because there are few things more painful than someone holding your struggle over your head like a trophy.

That’s not love. That’s control.

And I don’t want that kind of love anymore.

I want reciprocity that feels like choice, not obligation. I want boundaries that feel like freedom, not punishment. I want healing that doesn’t depend on other people validating my story.

I’ve redefined what family means to me. Blood doesn’t guarantee safety. It doesn’t guarantee love. I’ve learned to stop begging for closeness from people who are committed to misunderstanding me.

I’ve stopped shrinking to fit someone else’s comfort zone.

I’ve started asking the hard questions—even when the answers hurt.

Most of all, I’ve started parenting the younger version of me the way she always deserved to be loved.

If you come from dysfunction, I want you to know: you are not broken.

You were wired for survival. But now? You get to live.

You get to choose softness, safety, and truth. Even if it means walking away. Even if it means being misunderstood. Even if it means letting people down just to finally show up for yourself.

Because healing from trauma isn’t about revenge. It’s about release.

It’s about building a life so full of peace and honesty that your past no longer has the final say.

And maybe the hardest part of all?

When the very people who caused you pain mock your healing.

When they twist the story to make you the villain. When they laugh and say things like, “Some people just love playing the victim,” as if your pain appeared out of thin air.

They don’t see the years it took to even speak your truth. They don’t see the shame you had to unlearn. They don’t see the nights you cried silently, wondering if maybe you were the problem.

No, they only see a version of the story that doesn’t make them uncomfortable—and they cling to it.

Because if they acknowledged your truth… they’d have to face their part in it. And not everyone is ready to do that.

But let me say this:

Speaking your truth is not playing the victim.
Acknowledging pain is not manipulation.
Healing out loud is not attention-seeking.

It is courage. It is reclamation. It is survival.

You don’t owe anyone your silence to protect their comfort.

Your story is yours to tell. Your healing is yours to own.

And if someone ever calls you a victim like it’s an insult—remind yourself:

You may have been one once,
but you are not one now.
You are a survivor.

And that voice they tried to shame into silence?

Let it roar.

-AG-