When the Truth Costs You Everything: Grieving the Life You Thought You Had
The Moment It All Changed
I always knew the truth. It lived inside me—tucked deep away, sealed by shame. Throughout my life, I can name at least seven times I almost couldn’t contain it—the truth about the sexual abuse I endured throughout my entire childhood. Each time, it took serious, deep internal work to pull myself out of the depths of hell and suppress the truth, holding it viscerally in my body instead.
I believe the truth began to seep through the cracks during my time as a nurse. Working on the front lines in an inner-city hospital, I witnessed trauma daily. I sat with people at their lowest, watching them crumble beneath the weight of wounds they couldn’t name. Over time, between that job, a move across provinces, and multiple devastating losses, the truth became undeniable. It began manifesting as a slow-growing curiosity to piece together my childhood. “I said something. How did this continue for three more years?”
Finally, one night, I couldn’t sleep. In a half-awake, half-asleep theta state, I decided to be brave and try to piece it all together. I knew I had fragmented memories—but in that space, I was transported through my entire childhood. All the abuse. All the senses. All the feelings of the rooms. The one that stuck with me the most was the actual freeze response that took over my body while the trauma was occurring. That night, my body did the same thing. Even now, thinking of that freeze still scares me. I changed in that moment as an adult.
It was as though the floor gave out beneath me. My entire world shattered. Everything I believed about my family—gone. I woke up the next morning unable to speak. For nearly a week, I was in a state of mortified shock. It was like a penny dropped, and I knew I could never go back.
The Illusion of Safety
Then came the most severe CPTSD symptoms. You name it: silent panic attacks, 10/10 anxiety, rumination, intrusive thoughts, inability to focus, negative self-talk, rage, guilt, shame, emotional and physical flashbacks. The confusion was next-level. Wait—what? My dad? How? Why?
The same man who sat with me on the floor playing, joking, loving me. The man who helped raise me, who was a core part of my development. The duality made me feel like I was going insane. Panic and rage surged through me, but the rage wasn’t focused—it was fragmented, just like my life.
My family wasn’t what I thought. On the outside, we looked like a loving, blue-collar family. Married parents. A mother who advocated for me growing up, especially as I underwent three spinal surgeries before the age of four. Two older sisters. A tight-knit home where you weren’t allowed to fight, and everyone had to contribute.
I was especially close with my dad. We’d garden, work on Harleys, go for walks. He’d tell me we were “twins” so I didn’t feel left out since my sisters were twins. He made me feel important. My mom was the encourager—she worked two jobs and gave everything to her family.
But the love had conditions. Conditions like silence. Like accommodating the family’s comfort. Like smiling, helping out, forgiving quickly, and pretending everything was fine. I had the false belief that love meant safety. But I wasn’t safe—and I wasn’t loved unconditionally.
The Price of Truth
The narrative was always: “Dad was abused too. All families have something. We’ll get through this together.” But when I stopped accommodating their denial and spoke my truth, I was cast out. The family I thought I had turned on me.
The most devastating loss? My oldest sister—my person. We talked every day for hours. She knew. She’s also a survivor. They both are. We were all abused by our dad. But when I refused to make peace with silence, she cut me off. We haven’t spoken in over a year.
I lost every single role I once had—daughter, sister, youngest sibling, and Aunty. I became the scapegoat. And while I was believed (this wasn’t news to them), the refusal to acknowledge it was more brutal than denial. I realized I had spoken up as a child and was gaslit, ignored, minimized. That legacy continued into adulthood.
Being exiled by the women in my family—who also knew the truth—shattered me. The grief for my younger self was unbearable. I kept thinking, “Why did I have to say anything? Couldn’t I just stay silent?” I felt like a terrible daughter. I asked myself, “Did I break the family—or finally stop the lie?”
Grieving What the World Doesn’t See
This is what grief looks like when the person isn’t dead. It’s called disenfranchised grief—losses that are not socially recognized, openly acknowledged, or publicly mourned (Doka, 2002; Cesur-Soysal & Arı, 2024). You grieve in silence, in the aisles of grocery stores, in the car when a song plays. And while the world moves on, you’re still shattered.
My identity crumbled. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Grief researcher Colin Murray Parkes once wrote: “The pain of grief is just as much physical as it is emotional.” That’s how it felt—like my chest caved in every day. I couldn’t recognize myself. And the future? I couldn’t see one.
Rebuilding from Ground Zero
Eventually, I started rebuilding. Slowly. Intentionally. With practices that reminded me I was still here. I started journaling again—10 minutes a day from a Buddhist-inspired journal I found in a back corner of a tiny one-hundred-year-old shop in Washington. I added breathwork. Gentle yoga. Trauma therapy with a highly specialized therapist. Affect labelling—naming what I felt—became essential (Lieberman et al., 2007). So did breathwork during panic attacks. They are a very powerful form of regulation that can be used anywhere, especially in public places. Movement to discharge stored energy. Writing letters to my younger self. Creating a safe, physical space for somatic work.
Learning about CPTSD, family systems, trauma, and human development gave me context. Understanding how the brain adapts and rewires after prolonged abuse helped me realize: My body was not broken. It was protecting me. And now, it’s healing.
Gentle Practices That Helped
Journaling, yoga, and breathwork helped me come back into my body. Strength training has always given me the opportunity to connect with my body and increase my awareness. Reading and studying science helped me make sense of my patterns. Writing gave me back my voice. And somatic work gave me a way to release.
Every day I reconnect with that unshakable part of me—the one who chose to break the silence. The one who knows that truth matters, even when it hurts.
A Truth to Hold Onto
I still don’t know what the rest of my life looks like without them. I wonder who I’ll be without those future moments together—weddings, milestones, aging. But I do know this: I’m building a life rooted in truth. In safety. In self-respect.
The truth cost me everything I thought I had—but it’s giving me back who I really am.
References
Cesur‑Soysal, G., & Arı, E. (2024). How we disenfranchise grief for self and other: An empirical study. Omega: Journal of Death & Dying, 89(2), 530–549. https://doi.org/10.1177/00302228221075203
Doka, K. J. (2002). Disenfranchised grief: Recognizing hidden sorrow. Lexington Books.
Lieberman, M. D., Eisenberger, N. I., Crockett, M. J., Tom, S. M., Pfeifer, J. H., & Way, B. M. (2007). Putting feelings into words: Affect labeling disrupts amygdala activity in response to affective stimuli. Psychological Science, 18(5), 421–428. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9280.2007.01916.x