Trauma Repair vs. Trauma Re-Enactment: When Survival Roles Collide

Author’s Note: This essay blends personal reflection with composite stories drawn from lived experience and clinical work; identifying details have been altered to protect confidentiality. A version of this piece was originally published on Elephant Journal.

I’ve spent much of my life learning how trauma shapes us—first as someone healing from it, and then as someone supporting others in that healing. One of the most painful truths I’ve come to understand is that trauma doesn’t just leave scars. It writes scripts.

We inherit patterns long before we’re aware of them. And unless we stop to reflect, we can unknowingly pass those scripts along—especially in the relationships we care about most.

This is a story about two women. Both were wounded. But only one chose repair.

The Woman Who Chose Repair

She didn’t step into caregiving with all the answers. She stepped in raw and terrified—not of the other person, but of repeating what had been done to her.

She had experienced emotional neglect and developmental trauma. Though she had invested time and energy into healing, some wounds still flared when she was triggered. When the young person in her life began to struggle—emotionally, energetically—she didn’t shut them down or demand compliance. She leaned in. She asked, “What would I have needed at that age?”

She wasn’t perfect. She got overwhelmed, frustrated, and yes—afraid of the depth of her own reactions. But she kept returning to the same compass: Don’t become what hurt you. Don’t silence what’s trying to speak.

That’s what trauma repair looks like. Not perfection. Presence. It’s when we take the side of the one hurting—even when we were never given that option ourselves.

The Woman Who Re‑Enacted

The other woman had also been hurt. Neglected. Gaslit. Dismissed by those she needed most.

She carried wounds deeply, but she never learned how to sit with them. So instead, she turned outward—seeking to control what she could. When discomfort arose, especially in relation to the younger person, she often couldn’t tell the difference between danger and emotional vulnerability.

She began to believe the child was the problem. She saw defiance where there was confusion. She felt attacked when the child was simply reaching out.

In her trauma response, she aligned herself with power—systems, structure, authority. She believed she was protecting herself. But in so doing, she betrayed something much more tender.

She began to view the younger person as a threat rather than someone asking for care. She interpreted her own pain as manipulation. Her own longing as a challenge.

That’s what trauma re‑enactment looks like. It often wears the mask of control. It convinces you that you’re still the victim—even when you have begun to wield the tools of those who hurt you.

Whose Side Are You On?

What breaks my heart is that both women thought they were doing what was right. But only one asked: Whose side am I really on?

Trauma distorts perception. It whispers stories about danger that aren’t always true. If we don’t question those stories, we may find ourselves defending the very dynamics that once broke us.

The young person didn’t need perfection. They needed to be seen—not through the lens of someone else’s past, but through the truth of their own. Only one of them could do that.

This isn’t about blame. Re‑enactment is a common trauma response. It doesn’t make someone bad—it makes them human.

But the hard truth is: you can’t repair what you won’t acknowledge. And you can’t care for a young person—any young person—if you’re still protecting the part of yourself that never got cared for in the first place.

One woman chose to break the pattern. The other confused control with safety—and in doing so lost sight of what mattered most.

The Twist: Who the “Child” Really Was

It’s easy to imagine this story was about a literal child—a little girl with tangled hair and a wild heart, one who cried too loudly was defiant or asked too many questions.

But here’s the truth: the child was never that person. Not in the way you thought.

She wasn’t someone either woman was raising. She was someone they were still carrying. She was the inner child.

The little girl still aching inside both of them. The one who had never been fully seen or protected or heard. The one who still flinched when someone raised their voice, still held their breath when conflict walked in, still believed she was either too much or not enough.

And only one of them turned toward her. Only one chose to listen instead of correct, to hold instead of shame, to repair instead of repeat.

There’s still time to shift course. There always is. But it begins with one brave question: Am I protecting the child—or protecting my own denial?

The work of healing asks us to slow down. To listen. To ask not just what we’re reacting to—but who.

Because sometimes the most loving thing we can do is pause long enough to see the child in front of us, and realize she’s been inside us all along.

If this reflection resonates with you and you’re seeking compassionate support in undoing old survival scripts, reconnecting with your inner child, or tending to the wounded parts of you that never got held, I’m here. Contact me to learn more about how I work and to see if we might walk this journey together.