The Second Betrayal: The Hidden Factor That Makes Childhood Trauma So Devastating

Why Being Alone in Your Trauma Hurts More Than the Trauma Itself

Your Trauma Therapist by Lauren Auer, LCPC is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. For more content follow me on Instagram.

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"The body keeps the score, but the heart measures the distance between harm and healing."

I remember sitting across from a client—let's call her Jasmine*—as she shared her story of childhood trauma. What struck me wasn't just the painful event she described, but the way her voice dropped to a whisper when she said, "And I never told anyone. I thought no one would understand." In that moment, I felt the weight of her words settle into the room between us. The trauma wasn't just what happened to her; it was the profound aloneness that wrapped itself around the experience like a second skin.

This insight resurfaced when I heard Mel Robbins sharing her own story with trauma specialist Dr. Gabor Maté. Mel was only nine years old, fast asleep in a vacation rental, when she woke to find an older boy touching her. She carried this experience silently for decades—not just the memory of the assault, but the deep, pervasive aloneness surrounding it.

Dr. Maté's response to her was illuminating: "Trauma is not only in what happened. It's that you were alone as it happened, and that aloneness was yours before this traumatic event ever occurred."

I've turned this insight over in my mind countless times since hearing it. It fundamentally shifts our understanding of what makes an experience traumatic. Perhaps the most damaging aspect isn't the event itself, but the isolation that envelops it.

*Client names and identifying details have been changed to protect confidentiality.

The Silent Sacrifice: When Children Become Protectors

"I didn't tell my parents," Mel confessed to Dr. Maté. "They seemed so stressed already."

His response revealed another critical dimension: "You may not have even wanted to bother your parents because they were already stressed enough. You were protecting them. That's the primary traumatic situation."

This role reversal—where the vulnerable child becomes the protector of supposedly stronger adults—creates a profound internal conflict that I've witnessed in my therapy room more times than I can count. It's not just the original hurt that damages us; it's the way we learn to carry it alone, to make ourselves smaller so others can remain comfortable.

Consider what this really means: The child who most needs protection becomes the protector. The one most deserving of care becomes the caregiver. The person who should be seen becomes invisible.

I once worked with a client* who described her childhood as "walking on eggshells around my mom's depression." She'd learned to read her mother's moods before she could read books, to adjust her own needs based on the emotional weather in their home. By age seven, she was making her mother tea when she was sad, telling her jokes to cheer her up, and hiding her own sorrows to avoid adding to her mother's burden.

"I became so good at being what everyone else needed," she told me, tears streaming down her face, "that I forgot I was allowed to need anything myself."

This inversion doesn't just compound the original trauma—it becomes the trauma, creating a profound disconnection from one's own needs and feelings that can last decades.

When Speaking Truth Meets Silence: The Double Wound

Then there's the particularly devastating experience that many of my clients have shared—when they did gather the courage to tell someone, only to be met with disbelief, minimization, or even blame.

Jamie* sat in my office last year, her hands trembling as she recalled telling her mother about her uncle's inappropriate touching when she was eleven. "She told me I was making it up for attention," Jamie whispered. "Then she told the rest of the family I was 'going through a phase' of telling lies." Her voice broke. "Do you know what's worse than being hurt? Being hurt and then being told you're a liar when you ask for help."

I felt my chest tighten as I listened. This wasn't just about the original violation—this was about what happens when we reach for connection in our most vulnerable moment and instead find another door slammed shut.

The child who summons the courage to speak their truth only to be silenced faces a devastating message: not only are you alone in your pain, but there's something wrong with you for feeling it. Your reality is invalid. Your boundaries don't matter. Your pain is inconvenient.

Thomas*, another client, described telling his basketball coach about the bullying he experienced in the locker room only to be told to "toughen up" and "stop being so sensitive." Twenty years later, Thomas still struggles to validate his own feelings or ask for help when he's hurting.

"I learned that my pain was a burden," he told me. "So I just... stopped having it. Or at least stopped showing it."

The Particular Ache of Invisible Wounds

What I've come to understand in my years of practice is that there's a specific quality to the pain of being alone with trauma that's different from any other kind of suffering. It's not just loneliness—it's the bone-deep knowing that your reality doesn't matter to anyone else.

It's carrying a secret so heavy it changes the shape of your spine.

It's learning to split yourself in two: the person who smiles and says "I'm fine" and the person who curls up in bed each night replaying what happened, wondering if it was real, wondering if it was your fault, wondering if you'll ever feel normal again.

It's the exhaustion of performing normalcy when nothing inside you feels normal.

Maria* described it perfectly: "It was like being trapped under ice, watching everyone else live their lives above the surface. I could see them, but I couldn't reach them. And they couldn't see me drowning."

This isolation doesn't just hurt in the moment—it rewires our nervous system. Our brains, designed for connection, begin to operate from a place of chronic disconnection. We learn that we are fundamentally alone, that our pain is too much, that love is conditional on our ability to hide our wounds.

The Biology of Aloneness

Our nervous systems weren't designed to function in isolation. From our first breath, our brains develop through relationships, not in solitary confinement. When we're securely connected to trusted others, our biology undergoes measurable changes. Stress hormones decrease. Our capacity for resilience expands.

But most trauma survivors never experienced this biological safety net. The disconnection becomes chronic, like a fracture that never set properly.

I think about Sarah*, who came to therapy because she "couldn't stop attracting toxic people." What we discovered together was that her nervous system had been shaped by years of isolation following childhood abuse. She'd learned to expect disappointment, to anticipate abandonment, to read danger in every relationship.

"I don't know how to let people love me," she whispered during one session. "What if they see who I really am and decide I'm too much?"

When Connection Becomes Medicine

But here's what gives me hope every day in my work: the same system that was wounded by isolation can be healed through connection. Not just any connection—safe, attuned, consistent connection that shows up even when things get messy.

Maria*, the client I mentioned earlier, first came to see me at age 42, after her third abusive relationship ended. "I feel like there's a target on my back," she said during our first session, twisting her wedding ring even though she was now divorced.

Three years later, after intensive trauma work focused not just on processing past abuse but on building connection, she reflected: "I finally understand—the void wasn't something wrong with me. It was something missing. And things that are missing can be found."

I wrote her words in my journal that night. They captured something essential about healing this fundamental wound of disconnection.

The healing didn't happen through techniques or insights alone—it happened through the slow, patient building of trust. It happened in the moments when Maria would share something shameful and I would respond not with judgment but with understanding. It happened when she would test boundaries and discover they held. It happened when she would dissociate during sessions and I would gently guide her back to the present moment, to the safety of the room, to the reality that she wasn't alone anymore.

Small Moments, Profound Healing

I've learned that healing from this kind of aloneness doesn't require grand gestures. It happens in small moments of genuine connection.

Rachel*, another client, described her turning point: "My therapist just sat with me while I cried. She didn't try to fix it or make it better. She just said, 'I'm right here with you in this.' It sounds basic, but it changed everything."

These moments of witnessing—really being seen in our pain without judgment—begin to repair something fundamental. They teach our nervous system that we don't have to carry everything alone.

I think about David*, who'd never told anyone about his father's emotional abuse until he was 45. When he finally shared his story in group therapy, his voice shaking, another group member simply said, "That sounds terrifying. I'm so sorry you went through that alone."

David later told me, "That was the first time anyone had ever validated that what happened to me was actually painful. I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that it wasn't my fault, that my feelings made sense."

Building Your Constellation of Support

Healing from relational trauma requires relational medicine. But this doesn't mean you need to find one perfect person to save you. It means building what I like to call a "constellation of support"—multiple connections that together create a pattern of safety and belonging.

This constellation might include:

A therapist who creates genuine safety for your story. A friend who listens without trying to fix you. A partner who responds with compassion to your triggers. A support group that validates your experience. Your own developing relationship with yourself—learning to be the protector and ally you needed but didn't have.

For some of my clients, online communities have been lifesaving. Others find healing through spiritual communities, trauma-informed yoga classes, or creative groups where they can express themselves without words.

The key isn't finding perfect people—it's finding people who can show up imperfectly but consistently, who can repair when they miss the mark, who can hold space for your healing without making it about them.

The Courage to Connect Again

I won't lie—learning to trust again after betrayal takes immense courage. Every person who's been hurt while vulnerable knows the terror of opening up again. But I've watched clients take this risk thousands of times, and what I've learned is that healing happens not in spite of our fear, but through it.

Anna* put it beautifully: "I thought courage meant not being afraid. But real courage is letting people see me even when I'm terrified they'll leave."

The process of healing relational trauma is inherently relational. We have to risk connection to heal from disconnection. We have to practice vulnerability with safe people to learn that vulnerability doesn't always lead to harm.

For Those Who Love Someone in Pain

Before I close, I want to speak directly to the parents, partners, friends, and family members reading this who love someone walking through trauma. I see you in my office too—sitting next to your loved one, tears in your eyes, asking "What can I do? How can I help? I feel so helpless."

Let me tell you something that might surprise you: your presence is not small. Your showing up is not insignificant. Your willingness to sit with someone in their pain without trying to fix it—that's everything.

I watch parents beat themselves up because they can't take their child's trauma away. I see partners who feel inadequate because they don't have the right words. I witness friends who worry they're not doing enough, saying enough, being enough.

Here's what I need you to understand: you don't have to be perfect. You don't need to have all the answers. You don't have to say the exact right thing every time.

What you need to do is stay. Show up. Believe them. Sit with them in the mess.

When Jamie* told her mother about the abuse and was met with disbelief, it wasn't just the original trauma that wounded her—it was the multiplication of aloneness. But when Sarah* finally told her best friend about her childhood abuse at age 35 and heard the words, "I believe you, and I'm so sorry that happened to you," something fundamental shifted. Not because her friend had magical healing powers, but because Sarah was no longer alone with her truth.

The research is clear: having just one supportive adult can reduce the lifetime impact of childhood trauma by up to 72%. One person. One relationship. One consistent presence that says, "Your pain matters, your story matters, you matter."

You might be that person for someone right now, and you might not even know it.

You Were Never Meant to Carry This Alone

As I finish writing this, I'm thinking about all the people sitting with trauma right now, believing they have to handle it by themselves. I want you to know: you were never meant to carry this alone.

Your trauma may have occurred in isolation, but your healing doesn't have to. The aloneness that amplified your pain can be replaced by connection that facilitates your healing.

You were not alone because you were unworthy of connection. You were alone because the people around you lacked the capacity to connect. And that was never, ever your fault.

The wound of aloneness runs deep, but connection runs deeper. What was missing can be found. What was broken can be mended. And you—all of you, including the parts that feel too damaged or too much—deserve to be seen, held, and loved.

Your healing begins the moment you're no longer alone with your pain.

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Your Trauma Therapist by Lauren Auer, LCPC is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. For more content follow me on Instagram.

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References

Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. Viking Press.

Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, and self-regulation. W. W. Norton & Company.

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2023). About adverse childhood experiences. CDC.gov.