Let Truth Reign

Trauma changes you. It challenges the way you see the world, your relationships, and even yourself. It can also help you become the bravest version of yourself. It can deepen your compassion, allowing you to hold space for others' truths, even when they don't align with your own.

In 2020, I endured a series of events that tested my spirit and sense of self. What started as a relationship rooted in hope and trust evolved into one of profound self-discovery. Though it left me feeling vulnerable, it also led me to find strength and resilience I didn’t know I possessed.

I had started dating someone who seemed genuine and trustworthy. People spoke highly of him, portraying him as someone to believe in. He introduced me to his world of jiu-jitsu, and I embraced it as a chance to connect with him and myself in new ways. We shared dreams and fantasies—both unconventional—and I approached this openness with the intent to honor our individuality and shared partnership. He quickly told me he couldn't wait for me to meet his family, and all of his mates. I believed in his words and in the safety I thought it represented.

After he wanted to spend nearly every single day together for 2 months, my trust was shattered by a traumatic experience. Physically and emotionally, I was left spiraling. My doctor prescribed rest, not just for my body but for my soul, as I faced a healing process that required immense courage. During this time, I grappled with feelings of loss, vulnerability, and the challenge of holding on to my sense of worth amid the pain.

As my healing process began, the relationship didn't end but it changed. The person I had trusted sought distance, and I found myself navigating not only physical healing but also the heartbreak of discovering the truth of his hidden relationship with another woman who had attended his jiu-jitsu classes with me that further challenged my faith in others.

Amid this chapter of pain and betrayal, this woman became my greatest adversary. Like me, she carried the weight of silence and shame from the wounds inflicted by others—not just in adulthood but in the tender years of an unprotected childhood. She, too, grappled with the challenge of admitting someone had hurt her, and I chose to believe she did the best she could with the cards she was dealt. I had never encountered such a foe in my life, but today, I am profoundly grateful for her presence.

 "Our greatest teachers are often our greatest enemies." - Lynn Andrews Medicine Woman

Through her, I learned some of my most powerful lessons. My truth was that I didn't trust the man that hurt me or her, because she had kept the truth from me for so long. I remember being in Jiu jitsu class with her, wondering why she would never look me in the eye. She always kept her eyes to the ground. I remember he never paired her and I together in his classes. In hindsight, I understand why. Her truth was that the man she chose to be in a relationship with beat her when he found out that she had been cheating on him with the man who had hurt me. My truth was that she had pulled me into her love triangle right as my trauma healing had began, and I had no idea what information to trust. Her truth was that I wasn't a victim, but a villian, and the man who hurt me, was her hero. My truth is that I was ripped apart by this man (a truth my husband had to hear first hand from my doctor) and discarded so he could be the hero in her story.

Her bullying didn't stop there, because there were more lessons to be learn. This woman taught me the critical difference between choosing to be a victim or a victor. From her actions, words, and even the pain she co-created, I began to understand that I reign over my story. No one else has the power to write it for me. Her persistent pushes and pokes through bullying awakened a strength within me that I hadn’t realized was there. After years of silence, I found my voice. From the echoes of trauma, I found the power to stand tall and with out shame.

Her and I both kept text messages from the situation, each of us clinging to our versions of events as a way to make sense of the pain we endured. I have all the prove to back my story and time line, and she claims the same. For me, revisiting those messages became an unexpected window into my own growth. Looking back at my words from that time, I saw how far I had come—from confusion and hurt to clarity and healing. It made me wonder: if she ever read the messages I kept, would her understanding of me, and of the responsibility she thought I lacked, change? Could we both see that, as Lynn Andrews says, "The most difficult thing we can do is to allow two opposing truths to coexist in our hearts at the same time without choosing one over the other"? This insight softened my perspective and deepened my understanding that healing is not about erasing someone else's truth but about embracing the complexity of our own.

Through these challenges, I rediscovered the power of compassion—for myself and others. I also came to understand that my mind, at times, was fighting its own battle. As Bessel van der Kolk explains in The Body Keeps the Score: "When people are reliving their trauma, they are incapable of being fully present; their brains are hijacked by the past." The people who cocreated this series of traumatic events with me had no idea that the last time I witnessed so much blood pouring out of me was when I was a child. From nights spent in homes I didn’t recognize, fighting like pit bulls with my brother for the entertainment of my drunk father and his friends. They had no idea that the way I spoke to myself during my adult trauma was the same as when I cleaned my own blood from my body as an eight-year-old little girl—alone, praying for someone to stay with me and help. That voice, the one that demanded I was ok. How could they know if I ,myself, did not know what this new trauma would bring out of me?

I thought I was healed from my past because I had forgiven my father and, to the depth of my soul, love him dearly. I never want to make my father feel guilty or responsible for what happened to me as an adult, who made her own choices. Yet, the trauma brought to light dormant shadows of coping mechanisms, abandonment issues, and a lack of boundaries I had hidden through relationship avoidance and people pleasing. This realization allowed me to give myself grace. Trauma isn’t something you simply “get over.” It impacts your thoughts, emotions, and even your ability to process reality in the moment. Knowing this helped me lean into the healing process with patience and understanding, recognizing that setbacks were not failures but part of the journey. Confrontations held the keys to unlock deeper strong holds on my soul. This trauma taught me how to stay put, to listen, to observe, and to allow the pain to flow out and fully express itself.

"The opposite of depression is expression. What comes out of our body doesn’t make us ill, what stays in there does.” - Dr. Edith Eger

I recognized that hurt people often act from their pain, and while their actions may sting, they don’t define my worth or my healing journey. But that truth isn’t just for me—it applies to everyone involved. As David R. Hawkins writes in Transcending the Levels of Consciousness: “In situations of trauma, all parties involved are victims in the situation, because the energy of trauma is destructive to all.” This insight deepened my understanding of the complex dynamics at play. I slowly learned to respond to negativity not with anger or retaliation but with the quiet strength of understanding and forgiveness, even when it wasn’t asked for.

Healing became an exercise in reclaiming my narrative. I reminded myself daily: my experiences are valid, and my journey is uniquely mine. Despite the judgment and misunderstanding from others, I chose to see their responses as reflections of their own struggles, not as determinants of my value or truth.

Today, I stand stronger because I have learned to hold my story with love and respect. I have discovered that healing isn’t linear or perfect, and it’s okay to stumble along the way. What matters is the courage to keep moving forward, to honor your voice, and to embrace your worth, even when the world feels uncertain.

To anyone who has felt betrayed, silenced, or misunderstood in their healing journey, I want to remind you: you are not alone. Your truth matters. Your healing matters. No one can diminish the value of your story but you. As you navigate your own path, remember that progress is not about achieving perfection but about finding peace with your journey.

Holding your story with compassion, owning your voice, and embracing your strength—that is where healing begins. You deserve to heal, to thrive, and to know your worth beyond any shadow of doubt.