Betrayal blindness is what happens when the truth threatens to take away the love we need—so the body gently hides it.

Not out of weakness.

Not because the truth isn’t there.

But because connection feels like survival.

As a therapist, I often see betrayal blindness in clients sorting through the wreckage of infidelity. Not just the moment the truth is discovered—but all the moments before, when something felt off and couldn’t be named.

A strange text. A shift in energy.

The gut knew, but the mind explained it away. The nervous system whispered something’s wrong, but the heart held on.

This is betrayal blindness.

It shows up when knowing the truth too soon would threaten something still needed: the relationship, the hope, the identity built around being chosen.

Psychologist Jennifer Freyd coined the term to describe the unconscious instinct not to see or know betrayal—especially when the betrayer is someone we rely on for love, care, or stability.

The more we’re attached, the harder it is to see clearly.

And the body is usually the first to know.

There’s a scene in “The Wizard of Oz” that stays with me. Dorothy has come so far. She’s believed in the magic. She’s stayed on the path. She’s nearly reached the Emerald City—her symbol of safety, answers, belonging.

Then comes the poppy field.

It looks beautiful. Red, soft, dreamy. It doesn’t look like danger. But the moment she enters, her eyes grow heavy. Her body slows. She collapses before she can reach her goal.

That’s how betrayal blindness works.

It doesn’t come with alarms. It comes with comfort.

It looks like warmth. Smells like safety. Feels like love.

And just like that, we go to sleep.

In childhood, connection is life. We learn love in a power dynamic.

The caregiver is big, and we are small. They soothe us—or they don’t.

If love is inconsistent, the body adapts.

To stay close, we suppress discomfort. We shift focus. We tune in to what they need, and tune out what we feel.

That’s where the pattern begins.

The nervous system learns that staying attached is safer than being right. That knowing too much can lead to rupture.

So it protects the bond by blurring the truth.

This doesn’t end in childhood.

In adult relationships, it might sound like, “I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t want to believe it.” or, “I blamed myself for their distance. I thought I wasn’t enough.”

Infidelity doesn’t always arrive with certainty. Sometimes it comes in waves—suspicion, then dismissal. Tension, then tenderness. A gut feeling, then guilt for having it.

And so we go quiet.

Not because the truth isn’t there, but because we’re not ready for what it means.

There’s grief in waking up.

Grief for what was minimized.

Grief for the signals we ignored.

Grief for how much of ourselves we put aside just to stay close.

But there’s also awe.

Awe for how wisely the body protected what mattered.

Awe for how clarity emerges when we’re ready for it.

Awe for the steady return to ourselves.

Betrayal blindness isn’t a failure. It’s a survival instinct. And when it begins to lift, it doesn’t need to be met with blame—only tenderness.

The truth doesn’t need to be rushed. It arrives exactly when we’re strong enough to hold it.

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