#CPTSD, #UnderstandingTrauma, emotional-wellness, mental-health, sense of self, the-trauma-compass, trauma-recovery

It was never there

Go with me on this: imagine you’ve never seen a bike before. You’re walking down the street, and suddenly, you’re in Amsterdam. Bikes are everywhere; everyone has one, balancing perfectly as they weave through the streets. You see this strange contraption and have no idea what to do with it—how it moves, how to balance it, or how your feet are supposed to push the pedals unconsciously. Some people have helmets or other protections, and some don’t. The bikes come in all colors and styles. In this world, not only is it expected that you own a Bicycle, but you’re also supposed to have preferences about it, the right equipment, and the skills to ride it as though it’s second nature.

Our Selves (big S) are a lot like that when it comes to living with Complex Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (CPTSD). Everyone else seems to know who they are, what they like, and how to live in the moment. They navigate their lives as though on autopilot, without shutting down, effortlessly connected to their sense of self. But it can feel like we don’t even know where to start. Maybe your sense of self feels shattered, or perhaps it was never given the chance to form in the first place. Trauma and attachment wounds can make it nearly impossible to connect with yourself. These wounds are so deep that even the thought of trying to build a connection to who you are feels like a threat to your survival.

When someone told me, “You just need to love yourself,” I couldn’t grasp the idea. Love who? How do you love someone who isn’t there? All I knew was pain. The emptiness, the aching, the sense of disconnection was so overwhelming

that I didn’t believe I could do anything about it. For years, teachers told me, “You just need to build your confidence,” but their advice left me even more lost. I was doing my best to create the perfect mask, the version of me that could survive the world’s expectations. It was as if the ability to ride the bike was somewhere inside me. Still, I had no way of accessing it, and the longing and frustration of that disconnection hurt deeply.

The act of thinking about ourselves isn’t the same as knowing ourselves. As Tasha Eurich writes in Insight, thinking alone doesn’t bridge that gap. Trauma complicates this further because, as Bessel van der Kolk explains in The Body Keeps the Score, the brain structures responsible for self-recognition and those tied to self-experience are often disrupted. It’s not just that we don’t know ourselves—the systems are meant to help us connect with who we are, maybe offline.

What’s worse, the body keeps screaming for help. Suppressing our inner cries doesn’t stop our stress hormones from coursing through us, leaving us tense and restless. Often, we don’t even recognize emotions as emotions—they show up as physical problems instead. We might feel tightness in our chest, a churning stomach, or chronic pain without ever realizing these sensations are signals calling for attention, not just symptoms to endure.

Shame deepens the disconnection. Pete Walker highlights this in Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, pointing out how shame often takes root in solitude. The neglect we face, or the desperate need to make sense of a world without any support, reinforces the belief that there’s something wrong with us. It becomes a barrier, a wall keeping us from even approaching the bike, much less learning to ride it.

Still, even in the face of all this pain, the ability to ride is there. The connection to ourselves isn’t gone—it’s just waiting to be discovered. That’s where the work begins: finding your bike, learning to balance, and figuring out how to take that first wobbly ride forward.

Understanding yourself with CPTSD can feel as foreign as seeing a bike for the first time, surrounded by people who ride with ease.
Trauma disrupts our ability to connect with our true selves, leaving us feeling like we lack an identity or a foundation to build upon.
Messages like “just love yourself” or “build your confidence” often feel hollow when your sense of self has never been nurtured or developed.

Getting your bike and getting on it

Once we realize we don’t know what a bike is, we must figure out how to get one. It’s like stepping into a bike store for the first time, staring at rows of shiny bicycles, and thinking, “Yep, those are bikes.” Without any support to say, “Here’s one that looks like it would fit you,” or, “Maybe we should start with training wheels,” we’re confused. We don’t want to approach the store employees because shame, guilt, and dissociation from our bodies and minds keep us quiet. We’re left guessing about everything—the size, the cost, the upkeep, and even what preferences we might have. To avoid being “found out,” we follow the crowd, assuming they know best, even if we don’t.

I vividly remember this stage, and unfortunately, so do many others. It felt like trying on something I didn’t understand. For me, it started in eighth grade after moving to Virginia. I became hyper-aware of the little things—like my laugh. I started experimenting, trying different laughs like outfits in a dressing room: the snort, belly laugh, and suppressed laugh. None of them felt right. I’m unsure when my laugh finally settled into something confident and natural. Still, I had to shop around to figure it out.

For many of us, this stage of figuring out who we are begins with recognizing our bodies for the first time. Initially, we might not notice that we’re disconnected from our physical experience. Then, as we start to pay attention, we see the pain that comes from moving into a body we haven’t entirely inhabited. One of my clients once described it as “feeling like a parasite in my own body.” That’s what it can feel like—trying on a body for the first time, moving it awkwardly, finding it strange, exhausting, and even annoying. We must start small to make progress, recognizing the effort it takes to move and feel our body again.

Getting on the bike—that next step—is about managing discomfort. Think about the experience of sitting on a bike seat for the first time: it’s uncomfortable. Even before you start pedaling, you’re trying to figure out if the bike fits, is the right size, or can even swing your leg over the frame without toppling. For many of us, the discomfort also extends to our inner world. Without support or guidance, the thought of getting on that bike—beginning to engage with ourselves—can feel impossible.

This is where the inner critic starts to show up. As Tasha Eurich points out in *Insight*, “The ruminator is ready at a moment’s notice to second-guess our choices and remind us where we come up short… it can masquerade as a productive reflection” (108). Rumination keeps us stuck. We overthink every step, convinced we’re getting it wrong. I remember times when overthinking led me to the worst decisions—staying in places or relationships where my rational brain said everything made sense, but my body screamed otherwise. Managing rumination means focusing on learning instead of perfection, being curious instead of critical, and giving ourselves gentle reality checks (113–114).

For trauma survivors, the challenge goes deeper. The famous philosophical phrase *cogito ergo sum*—”I think, therefore I am”—might seem logical. Still, it

falls apart when the brain systems responsible for recognizing the self are disrupted. We might be able to think and know we exist, but what we see in the mirror or feel in our body doesn’t feel real. As Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, “Understanding why you feel a certain way does not change how you feel” (207). Healing requires an alert and present brain; without that presence, integration and resolution can’t happen (222).The journey forward isn’t about directly confronting the pain but working with its reflections—mirrored in our instinctual responses and how we react to the world around us (Tiger, 65). The inner critic makes this more challenging, layering perfectionism, guilt, toxic shame, and harsh self-judgments on top of a complicated process. Pete Walker’s work on Complex PTSD outlines just how pervasive these critical attacks can be, from catastrophizing to obsessive worrying, all of which keep us trapped in cycles of inadequacy (170–172).

When I think about how trauma robs us of basic emotional necessities, I’m reminded of a time when I lived in a condo, and the dumpsters suddenly disappeared. Without warning, the HOA sent an email saying there wouldn’t be new dumpsters for five days and that residents should “keep” their trash at home. It was frustrating and unsanitary—basic sanitation was stripped away, leaving us to manage the mess on our own. That’s what childhood trauma can feel like: being left to hold onto something toxic, without support or a way to dispose of it, and being told to “just deal with it.” This lack of basic emotional care leaves us struggling to manage what feels unmanageable.

Despite the discomfort and chaos, there’s a way forward. Finding your bike and learning to ride means sitting with that discomfort, starting small, and permitting yourself to wobble, fall, and try again. It’s not about being perfect—it’s about getting on the bike and taking the first step.
The process of self-discovery can feel like stepping into a bike store without any guidance, overwhelmed by choices and unsure where to begin.
Shame and self-doubt often keep us from seeking help or exploring our preferences, leading us to follow the crowd rather than finding what truly fits.
Starting small—acknowledging our discomfort and experimenting with new ways of being—is essential to moving forward in the journey of self-discovery.

Peddling Forward

Once we have the bike and start to figure out how to get on it, we’re faced with the challenge of moving forward. For many of us, this process is where self-discovery starts to feel excruciating. It’s not that the resources aren’t out there—there’s an endless supply of TED Talks, books, and lecture series about finding yourself. But when you don’t have a strong sense of self and feel pain about who you might become, those resources often feel like psychobabble or nonsense. They don’t speak to the unique challenge of finding something you’ve never known while managing the grief of feeling like it’s missing. It’s like trying to use a mirror to locate a phantom limb—a reflection of something that isn’t there—and realizing that the mirror is distorted, like one from a funhouse.

This process is messy and uncomfortable; it often feels like we’re working against our instincts. But peddling forward isn’t about perfection; it’s about movement. As Tasha Eurich explains in Insight, translating our emotions into language helps deactivate the fight-or-flight center of our brain. It brings us back into control (102). In other words, simply noticing and naming what we’re experiencing can create a sense of agency in the face of chaos.

One way I’ve tried to build this sense of control has been through mindfulness and meditation. I’ll admit, I’m an “every other day” meditator at best. I’ve had the apps—Headspace is fantastic, especially for its soundscapes—and I’ve gone through spurts of consistency. I feel more in control, even-tempered, and loving each time I practice. However, committing to mindfulness as a habit has been a struggle. What I’ve learned, though, is that it’s not about achieving a perfect meditation practice. It’s about actively noticing new things—what’s happening in your body, in your thoughts, or in the world around you. As Eurich points out, this active noticing is key to centering yourself and staying present (126).

Part of peddling forward also involves understanding how our bodies communicate with us. Bessel van der Kolk emphasizes the importance of interoception—our awareness of subtle, body-based sensations. This awareness lays the foundation for agency, the ability to control our lives (97). If we’re not tuned into the basics—eating, sleeping, and maintaining routines—our bodies will remain in a state of panic (207). That’s why focusing on foundational needs is so critical. It’s not just about survival; it’s about giving yourself a stable platform to start building.

As we begin to move, we also feel the sensations of connection. This might happen through something as simple as play or physical touch. Van der Kolk reminds us that playing together helps us feel attuned and connected, bringing joy into our lives (217). Similarly, touch—a hand on your shoulder or feeling your body against a chair—can be an incredibly grounding tool (218). If you’re working with a therapist, even sitting with someone attuned to you can help you develop better pathways for connection and relationships (Dana, 46).

When we’re starting to pedal forward, it’s helpful to practice noticing our “felt sense,” the totality of physical sensations we experience in the moment. This can be as simple as sitting still and paying attention to how your body feels against the chair or how your skin feels under your clothes. Does this awareness grow or shift as you focus on it? Approaching this process with compassion and gentleness can help you become more comfortable with your body. Much like learning to ride a bike with a caregiver’s support, we start by feeling small, instinctual sensations and slowly build confidence in our ability to move forward.

But pedaling forward isn’t just about the body—it’s also about the stories we tell ourselves. Our inner critic often appears to derail us, layering perfectionism,

shame, and overthinking on top of everything else. Pete Walker identifies how inner critic attacks—things like catastrophic thinking, comparisons, or unrealistic expectations—keep us stuck in patterns of inadequacy (Complex PTSD, 170–172). These thoughts aren’t just unhelpful; they block us from moving forward.

Part of managing these patterns is learning to recognize the ways we fight against the discomfort of inadequacy. Whether through constant self-improvement projects, keeping busy, or withdrawing from the present moment (Radical Acceptance, 12–15), these strategies often lead us away from the very connection we’re trying to create. Instead, we must focus on actions aligning with our identity and values. As Tara Brach reminds us, “Every action you take is a vote for the type of person you wish to become” (Radical Acceptance, 38).

Ultimately, pedaling forward means embracing the awkward, unsteady process of learning who we are. It means allowing us to wobble, fall, and try again. It’s about building habits that align with our sense of self rather than striving for perfection. With time, these small actions become part of our identity, and moving forward, they feel natural. Just like riding a bike, we might not master it right away, but every pedal forward brings us closer to the freedom and confidence we’ve been searching for.

Progress requires action, even when it’s messy and uncomfortable; it’s about moving forward rather than being perfect.
Tuning into the body through interoception and mindfulness is key to creating a sense of agency and grounding.
Healing involves tolerating discomfort, challenging the inner critic, and embracing small, intentional steps that a

Key points

CPTSD often disrupts our ability to connect with ourselves, leaving us feeling disconnected and uncertain about our identity.
Trauma creates barriers like shame, rumination, and self-criticism that make self-discovery overwhelming and emotionally painful.
Reconnecting with ourselves requires starting small, tolerating discomfort, and focusing on foundational needs like sleep, nutrition, and routine.
Awareness of bodily sensations (interoception) and practices like mindfulness or focusing on the “felt sense” help create grounding and self-awareness.
Connection and healing happen through supportive relationships, attunement, and engaging in playful or grounding activities.
Self-discovery is a gradual, imperfect process where small, intentional actions aligned with your values build confidence and authenticity over time.

Thank you for taking the time to read this post and explore the journey of self-discovery with me. If these reflections resonated with you or offered new perspectives, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below! Your insights and experiences can help create a meaningful dialogue for everyone on this journey. Don’t forget to subscribe to stay updated on future posts and resources.

In two weeks, we’ll dive into The Science of Trauma and Brain Function, exploring how trauma impacts the brain and how understanding this can support healing. Don’t miss it—subscribe now and join us as we continue to uncover the pathways to growth and resilience.

References

Brach, T. (2003). Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life with the Heart of a Buddha. Bantam Books.

Dana, D. (2018). The Polyvagal Theory in Therapy: Engaging the Rhythm of Regulation. Norton Professional Books.

Eurich, T. (2017). Insight: The Surprising Truth About How Others See Us, How We See Ourselves, and Why the Answers Matter. Crown Business.

Schwartz, R. (2021). No Bad Parts: Healing Trauma and Restoring Wholeness with the Internal Family Systems Model. Sounds True.

Tiger, D. J. (2020). Trauma-Informed Healing: A Somatic Approach to Overcoming Pain and Restoring the Body. Somatic Press.

Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Penguin Books.Walker, P. (2013). Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving. Azure Coyote Publishing.