{Author’s Note: The following essay blends personal reflection with composite stories inspired by lived experience, professional observation, and the psychological impact of trauma. Names and details have been altered or omitted to protect confidentiality.}

I’ve spent much of my life learning how trauma shapes us—first as someone healing from it, and then as someone helping others do the same.

One of the most painful truths I’ve come to understand is this: trauma doesn’t just leave scars. It writes scripts.

We inherit patterns long before we’re conscious of them. And unless we pause to reflect, we can unknowingly pass those scripts along—especially in the relationships that matter most.

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

The One Who Chose Repair

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

She had experienced emotional neglect and developmental trauma. Though she had done her healing work, some wounds still flared when triggered. When the little girl in her life began to struggle—emotionally, energetically—she didn’t shut her 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, even afraid of the depth of her own reactions. But she kept coming back 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 One Who Re-Enacted

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

She carried wounds that went deep, but she never learned how to sit with them. So instead, she focused outward—controlling what she could. When discomfort arose, especially around the child, she couldn’t always 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 sided with power—systems, structure, authority. She believed she was protecting herself. But in doing so, she betrayed something much more tender.

She began to see the child as a threat, rather than someone asking for care. She interpreted her pain as manipulation. Her 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’ve begun to wield the tools of those who hurt you.

What breaks my heart is that both women thought they were doing what was right, but only one stopped to ask:

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 child didn’t need perfection.

She needed to be seen—not through the lens of someone else’s past, but through the truth of her 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 child—any child—if you’re still protecting the parts 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. Maybe you pictured a little girl with tangled hair and a wild heart—one who cried too loudly or asked too many questions.

But here’s the truth: the child was never real. 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, 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 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.

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