“Other People Do It”—Why That Sentence Nearly Broke Me

I was 30 years old when the abuse began. 

In college full-time. A single mom of seven.

Working part-time. Cleaning houses full-time.

Trying to keep our world from falling apart—while mine already was.

Behind closed doors, I was being abused. Strangled. Beaten. Abused in many other ways.  Controlled. But I kept showing up.

Because I had to.

At 33, child welfare stepped in—not because I hurt my kids, but because I was being hurt. I thought they would help protect us. Instead, they punished me.

They took my children away.

For five months, I lived without them. Every room too quiet. Every moment aching.

And then I gave birth to my youngest son.

He was only two days old when they took him from the hospital— even though I had already completed everything they asked of me.

Later, they called it a mistake. But it didn’t feel like one. It felt like my heart had been ripped out and locked away.

When I finally got him back, he was a month old. But the damage didn’t end there. Three of my children were placed with their father— not the abuser in the case, but someone who had abused me in the past.

That triggered a years-long battle, outside the courts, to keep my children safe again.

Everything I Was Carrying

I was autistic, but I didn’t know it yet.

I had complex PTSD that no one had diagnosed since my teen years and when it was diagnosed as a teen, they called it “dissociative disorder”. Years of more trauma added to it. 

I was living with a traumatic brain injury from strangulation and physical blows to my head.

I was trying to survive with memory loss, sensory overload, and constant shutdowns— thinking all of that was just personal failure.

I had no support. No village. No room to breathe.

Just survival.

Then Came the Words That Cut Me

Five years later—when I was 38 and still navigating the lifelong aftermath of trauma—

someone looked at me and said:

“Other single moms do it.”

Maybe they meant it to be encouraging.

But to me, it felt like a punch in the gut.

Because I wasn’t just a tired mom.

I was a woman still healing from abuse.

Still dealing with a nervous system in survival mode.

Still recovering from trauma that had rewired my brain.

What they said didn’t help me.

It erased me.

Why Comparison Is Harmful

When people say, “Other people do it,” they’re not offering support. They’re adding shame.

They’re saying:

“You should be better by now.”

“Your pain isn’t valid unless you hide it well.”

“Your trauma only counts if it doesn’t inconvenience anyone.”

But healing doesn’t work like that.

It’s not a timeline. It’s not a contest.

It’s sacred. Personal. Messy.

What They Didn’t See

They didn’t see the panic attacks at red lights.

The brain fog so thick I couldn’t remember my own schedule. The fear that stayed in my body even when I was “safe.”

They didn’t see how much it took just to function.

I wasn’t lazy.

I wasn’t weak.

I wasn’t ungrateful.

I was still healing from something that nearly destroyed me.

I’m Not “Other People”

I’m autistic.

I have complex PTSD.

I’m a survivor of domestic violence, raising children while managing invisible wounds.

So no—I’m not “like other moms.”

And no one else is like me either.

We each carry our own story.

Our own weight.

Our own reasons for why some days are harder than others.

What I Needed Instead

What I needed wasn’t comparison.

It was compassion.

If someone had said:

• “You’ve survived more than most people will ever understand.”
• “It makes sense that you’re tired.”
• “You’re not failing—you’re healing.”
• “You don’t have to keep proving yourself. You already made it through.”

If someone had seen me instead of measuring me,

I might’ve found peace a little sooner.

To Anyone Who’s Heard Those Words

If someone ever told you,

“Other people do it”—

and it made you feel ashamed, erased, or unseen—

Please hear me now:

You are not other people.

You are you.

And what you’ve been through matters.

How long it takes you to heal is not a sign of weakness—

It’s a sign of how deep the wound was.

You don’t have to match anyone else’s journey.

You don’t have to minimize your pain to make others comfortable.

You don’t have to hide your healing.

You are enough.

Right now.

Exactly as you are.

And your healing deserves space.

💜

#YouAreNotAlone #ComplexPTSD #AutisticSurvivor #TraumaRecovery #DomesticViolenceSurvivor #StopTheComparison #HealingIsNotLinear #YourStoryMatters #YouAreEnough

The Inheritance We Don’t Choose

 “Some wounds are not visible on skin, but etched in memory,

passed like heirlooms in the marrow of our bones.”

We are all born into stories already in motion.

Before we take our first breath, before we speak our first word, we are shaped by the emotional weather systems of our families—storms we didn’t start, seasons we didn’t set. Some of us inherit laughter, lullabies, and strong names. Others receive silence, shame, and survival maps drawn in shadows.

This is the quiet power of generational trauma: a legacy of pain passed down through body, behavior, and belief. We often don’t know we’re carrying it—only that we struggle to feel safe, worthy, or whole. Trauma doesn’t always arrive with obvious scars. Sometimes, it’s a child learning not to cry. A teenager who trusts no one. An adult who never stops running. The echo of pain stretches beyond memory—rooted in the unsaid, the undone, the unresolved.

But by naming it, we can unearth it. And in unearthing it, we begin to heal.

What Is Generational Trauma?

Generational trauma (also called intergenerational or ancestral trauma) is the transmission of distress, pain, and dysfunction from one generation to the next. This isn’t just a metaphor—it’s measurable. Studies in epigenetics show how the emotional experiences of one generation can alter gene expression in the next. Trauma doesn’t just break hearts—it reshapes bodies and brains.

This kind of trauma often arises from:

• Violence or abuse (physical, emotional, or sexual)

• Addiction and mental illness

• Neglect or abandonment

• Racism, colonialism, and systemic oppression

• War, forced migration, or poverty

• Religious or cultural repression

• Secrets and unspoken grief

But it isn’t only the big, visible traumas. It’s also the quiet absence of what we needed most: safety, connection, attunement, and unconditional love.