“Trauma is not what happens to you, but what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you.” ~ Dr. Gabor Mate
Most people think that trauma scares us.
But not all trauma is rooted in fear. Some wounds come from betrayal – when something violates our sense of right and wrong, and we are left to bear the cost alone.
This type of injury doesn’t just happen because something bad happened. It happens because a moral line has been crossed—a person, an authority, or a system that we believe will protect us. What follows is not just pain but a lasting emotional and relational consequence.
I didn’t have the language for it when it first happened. I was a child.
When telling the truth didn’t save me
I sat in class staring at stacks of worksheets I hadn’t done. My body was there, but I wasn’t.
My teacher walked over and asked if I was okay.
He didn’t ask all year. I often came to school dirty and tired. But that day, he kept pushing. He told me that if I told the truth I would not suffer.
What complicated that promise was that she kept a paddle in her classroom. He used it on other children. I knew it would be my turn eventually.
Still, he was an adult. And at that moment, she felt that I could finally trust.
I told him it was because he had knowledge and power – it looked huge from where I stood. She knew that I didn’t. He could do things I couldn’t. I believed that if anyone could stop what was happening, it would be someone like him.
So I told him.
I told him about the beating. About being afraid to go home. About my stepmother. About my step sister
He promised that he would make sure to stop it.
It didn’t happen.
Child Protective Services came to the house that week. They knocked. No one answered. They left.
And then I ran into trouble.
He was the last adult I ever trusted.
Hurt under fear
The deep wound wasn’t just what was happening at home.
What happened next happened.
Moral injury occurs when someone witnesses, fails to resist, or is betrayed by an act that violates deeply held moral beliefs. Sometimes it comes from what someone does. Sometimes from what they don’t. And sometimes from betrayal—when people in power fail to follow through.
That line was crossed.
I told the truth. An adult has promised protection. Systems designed to intervene did not work. The transgression wasn’t just abuse – it was that abandonment that followed.
What formed inside me was not panic, but something calm. Shame instead of fear. Guilt instead of anger. Belief that speaking was dangerous.
How to follow me into adulthood past
As I grew up, I gravitated towards the supporting role. I became a teacher and later, a school counselor.
It was not accidental.
Some part of me needed to believe that the world was fundamentally good—that if harm was named clearly enough, goodness and safety would follow.
So I became the one who talked about it.
I have reported abuse. I advocated for children not being harmed by people with more power. I documented, escalated, followed procedures. I fought hard while watching others retreat because the fight was too complicated, too much work, too political, or too expensive.
For a long time, I believed that perseverance alone could redeem the system.
But over time, reality answered differently.
I did what I was supposed to do—and still saw the system fail. Children continue to suffer. Responsibilities were spread. The truth is acknowledged and then neutralized.
Letting go of the belief that goodness will automatically prevail required a sadness I didn’t expect.
When Helping Became Reenactment
Finally, I had to face something hard to admit.
Much of my relentless drive to protect others was not just altruism. It was also trauma reenactment.
Every vulnerable child I encounter carries the outline of the little girl I once was—who spoke and was not protected. Each situation triggered the same urgency: This time, it will be different.
What I see more clearly now is how much of a struggle I had with wanting to know that I mattered. Somewhere along the way, it depends on whether that truth is acknowledged by the outside world.
I’m now more specific in what I’m untangling. When a child came to me in need of help, part of me believed that if I could protect them, they would know they mattered. And in some quiet, unconscious way, the little girl inside me will finally know that she matters too.
I didn’t know I was doing it. It was not a trick or a choice. It was the nervous system trying to complete something unfinished—trying to repair a moment when care didn’t come and save energy.
The problem was not compassion. The problem was opportunity.
I was trying to use personal sacrifice to repair systemic failures, taking responsibility for outcomes I had no control over. And every time that effort fails, old wounds are reopened.
Sadness came with that clarity
And now, I’m tired.
After years of struggling—naming the loss, pushing back, insisting on accountability—I reached a point where my body and mind could no longer absorb the cost. Not because I stopped caring, and not because the world became safer or nicer.
But being in constant resistance I can no longer give.
Fighting back was how I claimed agency in a world that once taught me I didn’t matter. I needed to do this until I couldn’t anymore.
I let the anger burn all the way through.
Now, what’s left is embers.
They still flicker when I witness damage that feels familiar or systems repeat the same failure. But I no longer live inside the fire. I am now interested in protecting my peace, my space and the life I am creating.
Trauma reenactment vs. trauma repair
This left me with several questions.
As we watch the world burn—politically, socially, relationally—how do we know when we are responding to the agency of the present and when the past is quietly repeating itself?
Trauma reenactments often feel urgent and compulsive. Trauma repair seems to be selected.
Both can look like caring. Both can look like karma. The difference is not always visible on the outside.
The difference resides within.
Alignment is a different type
So the question becomes: Where do you lean as it comes from your present-day values—and where is an old moral wound telling you to repeat living at once?
That doesn’t mean you have to stop helping. This does not mean that you are cut off from the world.
It simply means you’ve noticed.
And sometimes, that goal changes.
I have come to see that my worth is not dependent on being believed or proven. My defense systems don’t depend on how they respond. What matters now is staying aligned with my inner compass, keeping my boundaries intact, and being careful about what—and who—I allow to close.
It’s like pausing before jumping in and asking: “Am I doing this because it’s right or do I still need to fix it?”
It seems that sleep or peace will no longer be sacrificed for organizations that rely on burnout to win.
It looks like choosing care, but not collapse.
It looks like letting others step in, especially those who were silent. Because going back is no longer the same as going away. And resting when you’re carrying more than your share isn’t complexity—it’s clarity.
There are many who stay quiet, waiting for someone else to do the hard work. That silence is a kind of complication. But carrying on too many functions while others are not working only reinforces the imbalance.
And sometimes, others won’t step up. The damage will continue. And you will face the pain of knowing that justice has not yet come – and may not.
That’s when grief enters. Not panic, not madness. But persistent grief for what breaks.
And with that sadness comes a profound truth: You are one person in a world of eight billion. You are not completely resolved. you never were
It’s not about speed or firepower. It’s about sustainability. Endurance stay intact
So now, I work differently.
I walk next to adults who approach me. Not in the front row but second. They now have agency. They have a choice. And we work together, not so that I can fight their battles, but so that they can reconnect with the child inside them that wasn’t protected and learn how to protect that part of themselves now.
Because when they do—when they fight for themselves—they also fight for others. For every child who was never protected. For each person still finding their voice.
We all have our own way of showing. And one’s path will not need to erase another’s path.
You can say yes but it seems like no. It seems like letting silence suffice when your voice has already spoken.
It looks like respecting your own boundaries as sacred—because they are.
I will never again allow people or systems access to my inner life if they want me to fight for my emotional integrity.
Maybe that kind of prudence won’t save the world.
But maybe it allows us to stay on earth with our wholeness intact. Maybe it allows us to care—without self-erasure. Maybe it calls others forward as well.
And maybe that’s how the real repair begins.
about Alison Briggs
Alison Jeanette Briggs is a therapist, author and speaker who helps women heal from codependency, childhood trauma and emotional neglect. She blends psychological insight with spiritual depth to guide clients and readers toward confidence, boundaries, and authentic connection. Alison is the author of the forthcoming memoir On Being Real: Healing the Co-Dependent Heart of a Woman and shares her reflections on healing, resilience and inner freedom here. on-being-real.com.
