Parenting with Complex PTSD (cPTSD): Breaking the Cycle of Childhood Trauma
Something was off.
I thought that as I woke up the other morning.
How come I feel this fear that something bad is going to happen, even though everything is just fine?
And it had been fine for a few years now.
Why can’t I just let go of the past and live here and now?
My husband used to say that whenever I tried to share my feelings with him.
“We have a lovely house. Healthy children. A stable income. Interesting jobs.”
He wasn’t wrong.
So why couldn’t I simply enjoy it?
I must be broken.
The thought came immediately.
I recognised it.
It wasn’t new.
I used to think the same thing as a teenage girl, growing up in a place that never really felt safe.
From the outside, we looked like a decent Catholic family. Modest. Hard-working. Ordinary.
I was the youngest of three children, with two older brothers.
My father was an angry man. He had little empathy and little interest in his children—unless we misbehaved or disappointed him.
I learned that it was safer not to be too visible, too loud or too demanding.
Very early on, I discovered that I was intelligent. I hardly had to study to get excellent grades.
So I became the best.
Or at least, I tried.
It seemed to be the only way to receive some attention from my parents.
Perhaps some of this sounds familiar.
Maybe you get angry with yourself because you can’t simply enjoy what you have.
Maybe you’re unable to relax, to sit down with a book just for pleasure, or spend time doing something that isn’t connected to achievement or productivity.
Whenever you try to do something creative, you immediately start thinking about how you could turn it into work—or whether other people would admire what you’ve created.
You worry about your relationship with your partner or your children. You wonder whether you’re enough. Whether they’d be better off with another mum. Another spouse.
When someone shows you warmth or kindness, you become suspicious. You wonder whether it’s genuine—and how long it will take before they realise you’re not as likeable as they first thought.
Whenever something good happens, you’re careful not to get too excited because you’re never quite sure how long it will last.
You’re highly sensitive to other people’s opinions. One criticism can overshadow ten compliments.
You’d rather give up your own opinion than risk conflict or disappoint someone because, somehow, you end up feeling responsible for other people’s emotions.
If you recognise yourself in these words, there is a chance that what you’re experiencing isn’t simply anxiety, perfectionism or low self-esteem.
It may be the legacy of growing up in an environment where love felt conditional, safety was unpredictable, and your nervous system learned that staying alert was the only way to survive.
And then one day, the day you had dreamed about for so long, you become a parent.
You hold this tiny little person in your arms. So small that you’re afraid you might hurt them. Afraid you might disappoint them.
Maybe you cried because you suddenly realised how easy it was to love this little human being—without expecting them to be anyone other than who they already were. Unlike the love you had known as a child.
Maybe you felt overwhelmed because, for the first time, you were responsible for another human being, while no one had ever taught you how to take care of yourself.
Or maybe you felt an almost desperate need to protect this little child because you remembered, somewhere deep inside, how unsafe the world had once felt to you.
And then came the first falls.
The first tears.
The first tantrums.
No one had prepared you for that.
For this little bundle of energy, curiosity, anger, joy and love.
For emotions that are fully lived rather than frozen.
Sometimes your child cries, screams, refuses to listen or tells you they hate you.
You know they are overwhelmed.
But your body doesn’t hear a child.
It hears danger.
It hears rejection.
It hears the echoes of your own childhood.
How do you teach a child that the world is safe when your own body still expects danger?
How do you comfort a frightened child when no one knew how to comfort you?
How do you teach self-worth when you’ve spent most of your life believing your value depended on what you did rather than who you were?
Parenting with cPTSD is not only about raising a child.
It is also about slowly raising the child within yourself.
The one who learned to stay quiet.
The one who believed love had to be earned.
The one who still waits for something bad to happen, even when life is finally peaceful.
Perhaps this is why parenting can feel both deeply healing and incredibly painful.
Your children don’t only need your love.
They also invite you—often without knowing it—to meet the parts of yourself that have been waiting for love all along.
It can feel like a cycle you don’t know how to break.
You try so hard—sometimes too hard—because you’re terrified of hurting your own children. You don’t want them to suffer the way you did.
It can feel like a painful mismatch.
On the outside, you’re loving, warm, kind and gentle.
Inside, you still carry the voices of the adults from your childhood—the voices that scolded, humiliated and frightened you.
Your nervous system became accustomed to criticism, rejection and impossible expectations.
There was no one to protect you or reassure you that everything was going to be okay.
But there was a child.
So young, and yet so wise.
A child who knew exactly what she had to do to survive.
She learned to notice every change in someone’s voice.
Every look.
Every sigh.
She became vigilant.
Responsible.
Perceptive.
She shouldn’t have needed those skills.
No child should.
But they saved her life.
She is still with you.
Perhaps this is why becoming a parent can feel so overwhelming.
Your child doesn’t only awaken your love.
They also awaken the child within you.
So maybe, instead of trying to silence her or run away from her, it’s time to turn towards her.
Give her the attention, love and understanding she never received.
Hold her gently.
Tell her how grateful you are that she found a way to survive.
Tell her how much you admire her courage.
Invite her to walk beside you—not alone anymore, but with the adult you have become.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You can’t control everything.
And staying on guard all the time is exhausting.
Perhaps one of the greatest gifts you can give your children is to love your own inner child with the same tenderness that you so freely give to them.
I miss her.
I don’t always know exactly what I miss.
Perhaps the love I imagined.
The afternoons spent daydreaming.
Playing outside until sunset.
Writing poems.
Falling in love so innocently.
One day my daughter asked me whether I had ever been in love at school.
I smiled.
There are sweet memories.
And bitter ones too.
The bitter ones can wait.
Today I want to remember the girl who wrote poems.
Who listened to French music.
Who dreamed of adventures and theatre.
Who loved to sing.
Who smiled.
She was my refuge.
She saved me.
And today I return to her as though I were finally coming home.
I am no longer asleep.
I am awake.
Even when life is difficult.
I choose love.
I choose life.
Even though I don’t know how the story ends.
Because trauma is part of my story.
It is no longer the author of it.
A note
Everyone’s story is different. cPTSD can look different from person to person, and this essay reflects my own experience as well as themes I often encounter in my work as a therapist. If reading this brings up painful memories, please be gentle with yourself and consider reaching out to someone you trust or to a mental health professional.
