My daughter and I had an argument this week. It began with a practical decision about our household and money. During the conversation, she said something about wishing she lived elsewhere, and those words reached a place in me that has never stopped remembering the three years when I was not allowed to be her mother.
She came back. We have built a life together again, and much of that life is happy. We laugh, go places, send each other things from opposite ends of the apartment, and call ourselves besties. I love the ordinary parts of being her mother because I know what it felt like to lose them. Most days, that earlier life feels far enough away that I can enjoy this one.
Then we had an argument, and I discovered how close it still was.
I felt heartbroken and angry. I was trying to discuss something happening in our home now, but I was also feeling the fear of a time when I could not reach my daughter, could not be part of her everyday life, and could not know whether we would ever find our way back to each other. The conversation was happening in the present. Much of what hurt belonged to those years.
I have a doctorate in psychology. I can look back afterward and recognize some of what was happening. During the argument, I was a mother who was frightened and hurt. Knowing about trauma did not give me a comfortable distance from my own.
Afterward, I also learned that my comments about money had touched something painful that I had not understood. I could see more of the conversation once we were out of it, including the effect of words I had thought were practical. That understanding mattered. It did not immediately settle what I was feeling.
This is what surprises me about living with the effects of trauma. I can have months of evidence that my life has changed. I can feel close to someone, trust what we have rebuilt, and be grateful for the home we share. Then a sentence reaches an old fear, and the hurt feels much nearer than I expected.
At first, that makes me question whether I have made as much progress as I thought. If I am still capable of hurting this much, what has all that healing done?
But when I look at our actual life, I can see what has changed. We have ordinary evenings together. We have plans, jokes, and things we look forward to. I can enjoy being her mother. The argument did not erase those things, even though I had difficulty feeling them while I was upset.
My daughter will eventually have a home of her own, and I want her to have a life she chooses. I also know that the subject of her leaving reaches something tender in me. I want to understand that fear well enough to give her room to grow without making it something she has to manage for me. I want room for my own hurt too.
I don’t have a tidy resolution. I know more now about what happened in that conversation, and I still wish it had not hurt so much. Understanding and feeling better have their own timelines, apparently, and mine were not moving together this week.
Tonight she is sleeping, and I am at the computer writing. It is an ordinary evening in the home we share. I am grateful to be here, even while I am still working through what happened.
We have made a great deal of room for happiness. There are also places in me that still need care.
Complex post-traumatic stress disorder, or CPTSD, can develop after prolonged or repeated trauma. Its effects can reach into our relationships long after the experiences themselves have ended.
If you are struggling with PTSD, CPTSD, or painful reactions you don’t yet understand, you deserve support. A qualified mental health professional with experience in trauma can help you understand what is happening and explore treatment. You don’t have to wait until you can no longer manage to ask for help.
I am writing about a moment that still hurt. That does not mean nothing has changed, or that nothing can help. It means there is still something here that needs care.
