The somatic wound of being unwanted

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Some people grow up with a bone-deep knowing that their existence was never welcomed. Not planned. Not hoped for. A presence marked by burden rather than celebration. This knowing is felt in the nervous system, informing how someone perceives themselves, navigates relationships, and finds meaning in life. Clinicians might refer to this experience as the somatic imprint of being unwanted.

I recently made a TikTok video about this topic and it has amassed hundreds of comments. One commenter put it plainly: "My mom literally told me I was unwanted as a child... Nothing implicit about it."Another shared: "I was told if abortions were legal at the time I would not be here. I've always felt like I'm not supposed to be here."

These stories reflect a pattern of trauma that often begins in utero and reverberates throughout a person's day to day life, well into adulthood.

Some people grow up with a bone-deep knowing that their existence was never welcomed.

A somatic imprint refers to the way emotional experiences, especially trauma, get encoded in the body. When you are unwanted as a fetus, your developing nervous system registers that lack of welcome. Muscles tighten. Breath shallows. The internal narrative becomes: "It’s not safe to be here."

As one of my viewers wrote, “I feel like I’m not supposed to be here and I don’t belong.”

These experiences are reflective of pre-verbal trauma, communicated through hormonal signals and nonverbal attachment dynamics that occur before the development of language or conscious memory. They can become the foundation of a person’s emotional architecture.

The emotional messages such as “You’re too much,” “You shouldn’t exist,” “I didn’t want you” settle into the body and shape how a person experiences themselves. One commenter described it as, "I need permission to breathe most days." These early experiences shape core beliefs and attachment styles that persist into adulthood. A person may live with chronic shame, dissociation and a gnawing sense that they have to earn their right to exist.

The internal narrative becomes: "It’s not safe to be here."

The imprint of unwantedness doesn’t stop with one generation. It ripples.

In their attachment-based perspective on intergenerational trauma, Meulewaeter and De Pauw (2019) highlight how unresolved trauma in parents, especially mothers, can lead to insecure attachment, emotional dysregulation, and even substance use in the next generation (Meulewaeter & De Pauw, 2019). This experience can shape the emotional landscape of future generations.

Another commenter shared: “My mother had a miscarriage prior to me. Then my abusive father abused my mother and that resulted in me... My mother due to her own trauma let me know I was an unwanted pregnancy.”

This is how trauma begets trauma. When emotional injuries remain unacknowledged or unresolved, they often show up in how we relate to others, sometimes in ways we don’t even notice.

How I work with this in therapy

Clients who carry this wound often arrive in my office carrying more shame than language. They say things like:

“I feel like a mistake.”

“I don’t know why I can’t relax around people.”

“I always feel like a burden.”

The work begins not with fixing but with reflecting back and mirroring what the client’s body and story are already expressing. I might say: “What if the way your body braces is related to feeling like it's not safe to exist?” We begin with the body. Grounding. Breath. Exploring the edges of their embodied experience. Then we work with the core need: “It is safe for me to exist.”

This can be agonizing at first. Many clients have no internalized model of that safety. For example, I might notice how a client's shoulders rise slightly when we talk about belonging and reflect it back by saying, "I notice your body hunching over as we talk about this—does it feel like there's a part of you that wants to disappear?" We build a new sense of safety slowly, relationally. This is where attachment-focused therapy intersects with somatic work. The body needs new experiences of connection and presence in order to shift.

I often use parts work to engage the protective parts that formed early in response to feeling unsafe or unwanted. For instance, if a client begins to cry and then quickly stifles it or apologizes, I might gently reflect, "I notice you're holding back your tears...does it feel like there's a part of you that's learned it's not safe to be seen in your pain?" These parts were never bad. They were brilliant survivors. But now they may be keeping the person from feeling fully alive.

The work begins not with fixing but with reflecting back and mirroring what the client’s body and story are already expressing.

Healing this wound means facing the unbearable. Naming what was never said. Validating what was never acknowledged: You are not a burden. You never were. Your body is not wrong for how it adapted. This is something I hold in the therapeutic space, guiding clients gently toward it, but the insight carries more power when they arrive at it themselves.

We build new neural patterns through safe relationships. That means slowing down. Co-regulating. Learning that it's possible to take up space without being punished. As trust grows, the body gradually lets go of its guarded stance. Breathing becomes easier. The sense of being allowed to exist begins to move from an abstract idea into something the client can feel in their body.

You are not a burden. You never were. Your body is not wrong for how it adapted.

If you’ve lived with the sense that you don’t belong, that your existence is conditional or accidental, know this: Your feelings make sense. Your body remembers things your mind can’t. And that doesn’t make you broken. As clinicians, our job is to eradicate the platitudes and to hold space for the unspeakable. We must help the nervous system learn safety, often for the first time.

References

Meulewaeter, F., & De Pauw, S. S. W. (2019). Mothering, substance use disorders and intergenerational trauma transmission: An attachment-based perspective. Frontiers in Psychiatry, 10, 728. https://doi.org/10.3389/fpsyt.2019.00728

#DID and social media: What happens when a diagnosis goes viral

If you scroll through TikTok or Instagram and you might encounter a creator introducing their "system," listing out alters with names, ages, and personality traits. Some wear different clothes to represent different parts. Others use filters or voice changes to depict internal switches. Hashtags include #DID, #MultiplePersonalities, or #PluralGang, reaching billions of views.

As a trauma psychologist, I’ve spent years treating individuals with complex dissociative disorders. I’ve also spent enough time online to recognize the impact that digital culture is having on how people conceptualize their inner lives. There are powerful possibilities here: social media can demystify mental health and create access for those who feel isolated. But what happens when information drowns out expertise? Or when entertainment and education get conflated? And to complicate it further, what happens when youth with very real struggles begin modeling their symptoms on algorithms rather than on their own experience?

The rise of self-diagnosis in the age of social media

The COVID-19 pandemic changed how we relate to ourselves and our mental health. With clinical services strained during the pandemic, many turned to online spaces for answers. According to Salter et al. (2025), self-diagnosis of psychiatric conditions, especially among adolescents and young adults, has exploded across platforms like TikTok and YouTube over the years. Conditions like ADHD, borderline personality disorder, Tourette's, autism, and DID have found massive digital audiences. In fact, videos tagged with #DID have been viewed more than 2.7 billion times (Salter et al., 2025).

What’s behind this? A mix of isolation, curiousity, algorithmic amplification, and real mental health need. For many, online content provides language and validation that's missing in their offline lives. But this boom in visibility hasn’t come without costs.

One of the most concerning trends in recent years is the gap between clinically accurate information about DID and how it is portrayed online. DID is a complex trauma-based disorder involving identity disruption, amnesia, and significant functional impairment. It typically arises in the context of repeated, early-life interpersonal trauma. Most people with DID don’t talk openly about their symptoms, and they don’t present with fully fleshed-out alters dressed in cosplay.

The reality is often quieter and difficult to narrate: blackouts, memory gaps, flashbacks, suicidal thoughts, and relational struggles. In fact, shame is highly correlated with dissociation (Rudy et al., 2022), and many people with DID resist or even reject the diagnosis. Online portrayals, in contrast, often depict DID as quirky, theatrical, and at times, desirable.

This is what Salter and colleagues (2025) refer to as imitative DID: a presentation that may involve real psychological distress but lacks the phenomenology, etiology, and internal conflict characteristic of genuine DID. These individuals often develop complex self-state systems influenced by online communities and fandoms, but without the amnesia, distress, and comorbidity typical of clinical DID (Boon & Draijer, 1993).

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There is a feedback loop happening between social media and clinical settings. People consume online content, identify with symptoms, label themselves, and at times present to therapy requesting affirmation of those self-diagnoses. Clinicians who hesitate may be accused of gatekeeping or invalidation. In some cases, there’s outright hostility toward any clinical skepticism.

As Chevalier (2024) argues, this looping effect can reshape how psychiatric diagnoses are understood not only by the public but also by professionals. And when this happens, the distinction between subjective identity and clinical syndrome becomes blurred.

To be clear, there is nothing inherently wrong with self-reflection or identity exploration. In fact, many people experimenting with self-state language online may be grappling with trauma, neurodivergence, or unmet relational needs. The problem is misinformation, not exploration.

The diagnostic stakes

It’s important to say clearly that we cannot and should not diagnose or disqualify anyone based how they present themselves online. Clinical diagnosis requires a detailed evaluation, often including structured interviews, standardized measures, and a comprehensive understanding of one's functioning and history. What we see online is a curated sliver of someone’s experience. Some individuals who post about their dissociative experiences may indeed meet criteria for Dissociative Identity Disorder. Others may be expressing identity exploration, trauma-related distress, or seeking belonging in ways that reflect real needs, even if they don’t fit neatly into diagnostic categories. To assume that all online expressions are fake is as misleading as assuming they all reflect DID.

DID is not an aesthetic. It’s a significant, often debilitating disorder with high rates of suicidality, hospitalization, and functional impairment. People with DID have extremely high rates of PTSD, substance use, eating disorders, and medical issues linked to chronic trauma (Felitti & Anda, 2010; Webermann et al., 2021). Many remain vulnerable to ongoing abuse into adulthood (McMaugh et al., 2024).

This is why accurate diagnosis matters. When clinicians use validated tools like the SCID-D (Steinberg, 2023) and MID (Dell, 2006), they can differentiate DID from conditions with overlapping symptoms like borderline personality disorder, psychosis, or an underlying dissociative disorder. But if we collapse everything under the umbrella of multiplicity, we risk mislabeling distress and missing opportunities for targeted care.

What should clinicians and educators do?

We need to stop reacting with moral panic. Dismissing all online self-diagnosis as fake or attention-seeking is clinically reckless. Many people exploring DID language are suffering. But we also cannot afford to treat self-diagnosis as synonymous with clinical diagnosis.

Here’s what we can do:

1. Show up online with credibility and compassion. Mental health professionals need to occupy more digital real estate. That doesn’t mean dancing on TikTok, but it does mean providing grounded, research-informed content that can be accessed by the public. It means writing, speaking, commenting, and showing up with nuance.

2. Validate distress. We can honor the pain behind someone’s self-diagnosis without automatically endorsing the label. That means asking better clinical questions and using validated tools. It also means being honest when symptoms don’t align with a diagnosis.

3. Teach about dissociation. Dissociation reaches beyond alters. It includes amnesia, depersonalization, derealization, and sensory numbing. Educating the public (and professionals) about these less sensational features can help create more accurate narratives about trauma and its effects.

4. Respect the intelligence of the public while upholding clinical rigor. People want information. They want language. They want to be understood. If clinicians and researchers aren’t providing that in accessible ways, someone else will. And they might be wrong.

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Social media is not going away, nor should it. The democratization of mental health language has empowered countless people to seek care and find community. Clinicians need to recognize that the problem is not the internet. The problem is not having enough qualified, trauma-informed voices in digital spaces.

We need more psychologists, social workers, educators, and survivors to contribute to the conversation online. We need digital literacy campaigns that teach people how to discern credible sources. We need to train clinicians to understand online cultures rather than fear them so that they can better serve the clients who live in them.

Most of all, we need to stay curious. When a client walks in with a list of alters or uses language they learned online, we shouldn’t roll our eyes. We should ask: what are they trying to express? What pain is underneath this identity? And how can we support their exploration of memory, of emotion, and of the self?

References

Boon, S., & Draijer, N. (1993). The differentiation of patients with MPD or DDNOS from patients with a cluster B personality disorder. Dissociation, 6(3), 126–135.

Chevalier, O. (2024). "It starts on TikTok": Looping effects and the impact of social media on psychiatric terms. Philosophy, Psychiatry, & Psychology, 31, 163–174.

Dell, P. F. (2006). The Multidimensional Inventory of Dissociation (MID): A comprehensive measure of pathological dissociation. Journal of Trauma & Dissociation, 7(2), 77–106.

Felitti, V. J., & Anda, R. F. (2010). The relationship of adverse childhood experiences to adult medical disease, psychiatric disorders and sexual behavior. In R. A. Lanius, E. Vermetten, & C. Pain (Eds.), The hidden epidemic: The impact of early life trauma on health and disease (pp. 77–87). Cambridge University Press.

McMaugh, K., Roufeil, L., Salter, M., & Middleton, W. (2024). Incestuous abuse continuing into adulthood: Clinical features and therapists’ conceptualisations. Journal of Trauma & Dissociation, 1–16.

Rudy, J. A., McKernan, S., Kouri, N., & D'Andrea, W. (2022). A meta-analysis of the association between shame and dissociation. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 35(5), 1318–1333. https://doi.org/10.1002/jts.22894

Salter, M., Brand, B. L., Robinson, M., Loewenstein, R., Silberg, J., & Korzekwa, M. (2025). Self-diagnosed cases of dissociative identity disorder on social media: Conceptualization, assessment, and treatment. Harvard Review of Psychiatry, 33(1), 41–48. https://doi.org/10.1097/HRP.0000000000000416

Steinberg, M. (2023). The SCID-D Interview: Dissociation assessment in therapy, forensics, and research. American Psychiatric Association Books.

Webermann, A. R., Brand, B. L., & Kumar, S. A. (2021). Intimate partner violence among patients with dissociative disorders. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 36(3–4), 1441–1462.

The Trauma of Forced Life Support

In Georgia, a woman named Adriana Smith has been declared brain dead for more than three months. At nine weeks pregnant she suffered a catastrophic medical event involving a series of undiagnosed blood clots. Despite being declared brain dead, her body remains on life support. This is because Georgia law mandates the continuation of life-sustaining measures in an effort to preserve the pregnancy.

Adriana's family has been forced to witness her body maintained by machines as an incubator for the fetus. Smith's story lays bare how reproductive laws, when rigidly enforced without ethical nuance, can override medical judgment, strip families of agency, and compound psychological suffering. This is a case where autonomy and grief collide with legislation and where trauma flourishes in the absence of choice.

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There is a unique kind of grief that haunts cases like this. Psychologist Pauline Boss named it ambiguous loss; a term that captures the pain of mourning someone who is physically present but psychologically gone (Boss, 1999). It's the kind of grief that offers no rituals and no closure.

Adriana's mother is not planning a funeral. Her son cannot say goodbye. Instead, they are caught in limbo, watching a body sustained by machines while knowing the person they love is no longer there. The illusion of life prolongs their agony. The rituals of mourning are delayed, and with them, the process of healing.

Research on ambiguous loss consistently shows that it can lead to complicated grief and trauma responses (Betz & Thorngren, 2006). For families like Adriana's, the inability to exercise agency around navigating their loss adds a layer of helplessness that is profoundly destabilizing.

The ethical tensions in these cases are tremendous: What does consent mean when a person is brain dead? Who does the body belong to?

Georgia's "heartbeat law" bans abortion once fetal cardiac activity is detected, usually around six weeks. In theory, exceptions exist for medical emergencies. In practice, those exceptions are vague and often do not account for cases like Smith's. This legal mandate strips clinicians of discretion. Medical teams are compelled to continue care that has no bearing on the patient's prognosis. Families are denied agency over a loved one's body. The ethical tensions in these cases are tremendous: What does consent mean when a person is brain dead? Who does the body belong to?

As noted in the AMA Journal of Ethics, the preservation of life in pregnant brain-dead patients is one of the most ethically complex scenarios in modern medicine. Yet when Georgia law dictates a one-size-fits-all response where nuance  and critical thinking has become lost.

This is a case where autonomy and grief collide with legislation and where trauma flourishes in the absence of choice.

Adriana Smith was a Black woman. This matters.

Black women in the U.S. face disproportionately high maternal mortality rates, are more likely to have inadequate access to prenatal and emergency care, and are less likely to have their medical concerns taken seriously (Creanga et al., 2014). These disparities are structural.

In this context, reproductive legislation functions not only as a denial of bodily autonomy but as an extension of historical control over Black women's bodies. To ignore race in cases like Smith's is to erase a critical dimension of how reproductive trauma is experienced in the United States.

Adriana Smith’s story is not just about life support or legal definitions of death. It is about what happens when policy dehumanizes people in the name of ideological purity. It is about what grief looks like when it is legislated.

Her family will carry this trauma long after the machines are turned off. They will carry the memory of being sidelined and overruled. If we are to prevent this kind of harm in the future, we must craft reproductive policy that centers real lives and real families. That means grounding laws in empathy, clinical wisdom, and respect for the complexity of human grief.

References

Betz, G., & Thorngren, J. M. (2006). Ambiguous loss and the family grieving process. The Family Journal, 14(4), 359–365. https://doi.org/10.1177/1066480706290052

Boss, P. (1999). Ambiguous loss: Learning to live with unresolved grief. Harvard University Press.

Creanga, A. A., Berg, C. J., Syverson, C., Seed, K., Bruce, F. C., & Callaghan, W. M. (2014). Race, ethnicity, and nativity differentials in pregnancy-related mortality in the United States: 1993–2006. Obstetrics & Gynecology, 120(2, Part 1), 261–268. https://doi.org/10.1097/AOG.0b013e3182952f5e

Rethinking the bystander effect through the murder of George Floyd: What if everything we thought we knew about bystander behavior was wrong?

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For decades, the "bystander effect" has painted a chilling picture: when emergencies unfold, the presence of others correlates with inaction. Psychologists have taught this principle in classrooms, cited it in publications, and invoked it in public discourse. But a new study analyzing the murder of George Floyd dismantles that narrative in the most painful, visible way.

In their new paper, Levine, Walton, Philpot, and Keil (2025) present a frame-by-frame breakdown of the events that took place on May 25, 2020, in Minneapolis. Their findings challenge long-standing assumptions about group inaction and reframes the role of bystanders in the face of police violence. The findings are clear: bystanders did not fail to act. The authorities refused to respond.

As a psychologist specializing in trauma, I believe this study marks a turning point. It shows that during some of the most urgent moments, it's not apathy that kills. It's power.

The findings are clear: bystanders did not fail to act. The authorities refused to respond.

Using 12 synced video sources (bodycams, smartphones, CCTV), the researchers created a microbehavioral transcript of the interactions between bystanders and police during Floyd's final 11 minutes. This triangulated dataset included 205 direct verbal interventions and several forms of nonverbal protest. These interventions were not random. They were strategic, evolving attempts to disrupt the escalating violence.

The bystanders used five primary forms of verbal intervention:

  1. Assessments (e.g., "He's not responsive")
  2. Interrogatives ("Does he have a pulse?")
  3. Imperatives ("Get off him!")
  4. Declaratives ("He is human")
  5. Insults ("You're a bum")

Most interventions were directed at officers, with assessments (number one on the list above) leading the way. Bystanders were far from passive observers; they attempted to assert epistemic authority by presenting what they observed to challenge what was happening.

What this research reveals is far more tragic and infuriating: bystanders can scream, plead, reason, and demand, and still be rendered invisible by the power structure imposed upon them.

The "bystander effect," as popularized by Latané and Darley (1970), suggests that individuals are less likely to help when others are present. But newer research has begun to challenge this in contexts involving violence. Philpot et al. (2020) found that intervention is actually the norm in public conflict. This paper adds another layer: even in the presence of an armed and authoritative figure, bystanders do try.

Why does this matter? Because the traditional framing of bystander inaction blames the public. It assumes cowardice and confusion. But what this research reveals is far more tragic and infuriating: bystanders can scream, plead, reason, and demand, and still be rendered invisible by the power structure imposed upon them.

In George Floyd's case, the power differential was undeniably evidenced by a man in uniform, sanctioned by the state, with a knee on another man's neck. And behind him were other officers who either enabled or ignored the escalating harm.

As mental health professionals, we must recognize that powerlessness in the face of moral clarity can be psychologically wounding.

The study identifies that the most frequent verbal strategies were assessments, or statements that made visible the distress and deterioration of Floyd's condition. These assessments served as entry points for further action: interrogatives and imperatives followed, building urgency. But here is where the trauma response collides with social power: the officers did not reciprocate the dialog.

Officer Lane showed five moments of alignment with the crowd's concerns. He echoed bystander observations, suggesting movement or checking a pulse. Yet none of these suggestions were taken up by the other officers. In trauma terms, we see a system where the activation of concern is consistently met with denial.

This creates a specific kind of collective trauma. Witnesses are left not only with the horror of what they saw, but the futility of their resistance. As mental health professionals, we must recognize that powerlessness in the face of moral clarity can be psychologically wounding.

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It’s tempting to believe that bystanders don't act because they lack empathy. But the transcript reveals that the crowd cared persistently. They repeated their assessments as Floyd's condition worsened. They tried multiple strategies, escalating only after being ignored. They coordinated movements through shared attention and emotion. This kind of collective caring disrupts the assumption that all people freeze.

Implications for bystander intervention training

We often train people with models like the "4Ds": Direct, Distract, Delegate, Delay. But these tools falter when the person causing harm is the one wearing the badge.

This study forces us to rethink the following:

We need bystander training programs that incorporate power-sensitive strategies, informed by real-world cases like this. And we need trauma-informed frameworks for supporting those who witness state violence.

What clinicians must understand

From a clinical perspective, this study has urgent implications. Many clients, particularly in marginalized communities, carry the weight of both direct and vicarious trauma. When someone watches another die and believes they could have or should have done more, the emotional aftermath is heavy. This paper offers a reframe: They did act. And they were ignored.

This article exposes a fault line in our understanding of intervention, authority, and moral action. It shows that the bystander effect, as traditionally conceived, is inadequate for describing what happens when ordinary people face institutional violence. In the murder of George Floyd, silence wasn’t the problem. The problem was that the crowd knew - and the officers didn’t care. That realization should haunt us. And more importantly, it should change how we teach, train, and talk about responsibility in the face of harm.

References

Levine, M., Walton, C., Philpot, R., & Keil, T. (2025). Bystanders and the murder of George Floyd: Analyzing bystander intervention in the course of a police killing. American Psychologist. Advance online publication. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0001531

Latané, B., & Darley, J. M. (1970). The unresponsive bystander: Why doesn’t he help? Prentice-Hall.

Philpot, R., Liebst, L. S., Levine, M., Bernasco, W., & Lindegaard, M. R. (2020). Would I be helped? Cross-national CCTV footage shows that intervention is the norm in public conflicts. American Psychologist, 75(1), 66–75. https://doi.org/10.1037/amp0000469

Understanding Shame-Induced Dissociation in Trauma Survivors

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POV: You're looking in the bathroom mirror when an old shameful memory suddenly surfaces. A sense of detachment creeps in and you feel like you're staring at a stranger. Your reflection stares back at you, unfamiliar. This is what shame-induced dissociation can feel like—a sudden rupture between the self and the present moment, often triggered by past trauma. For mental health providers, this visceral survival response to traumatic experiences is one we must understand to help our clients navigate it.

Shame as a Catalyst for Dissociation

Shame is a deep sense of self-judgment that comes from believing one has failed or broken important social or moral rules (Cunningham, 2020). This emotion, intimately tied to identity, often triggers withdrawal and avoidance behaviors. For trauma survivors, particularly those exposed to interpersonal violence during childhood, shame can become pervasive and overwhelming (Matos & Pinto-Gouveia, 2010).

Research by Kouri et al. (2023) demonstrated that recalling shame-related memories elicited significantly higher dissociation levels than neutral memories. Participants reported experiences of depersonalization and emotional numbing when revisiting these moments, suggesting that shame operates as a gateway to dissociative coping mechanisms. Dissociation, in this context, acts as a mental escape from the pain of confronting a diminished self-image. For example, a person might find themselves zoning out during conversations, losing track of time, or feeling emotionally numb when reminded of past shameful experiences.

Clinicians must create a nonjudgmental space for clients experiencing shame-induced dissociation. This means fostering an environment where clients feel comfortable discussing difficult emotions without fear of criticism. It involves validating their experiences, using dual awareness techniques to keep them present, and gently challenging avoidance patterns while maintaining a compassionate stance.

The Moderating Influence of Experiential Avoidance

Experiential avoidance is the tendency to resist distressing thoughts, emotions, or sensations. This avoidance plays a key role in the connection between shame and dissociation, often intensifying dissociative responses. Kouri et al. (2023) found that individuals with high levels of experiential avoidance were more likely to dissociate when recalling shameful memories compared to those with lower avoidance levels.

This phenomenon is particularly pronounced in trauma survivors who internalize shame. As Dorahy et al. (2017) highlighted, internalized shame fosters a desire to withdraw from an internalized ‘contemptible self,’ amplifying the need for dissociative escape. In therapy, avoidance can present as “resistance” during sessions.

Reducing experiential avoidance helps lessen dissociation. Individuals with high experiential avoidance often struggle to remain present in therapy, reinforcing shame-driven dissociative patterns. Integrating approaches such as EMDR can help clients process distressing memories safely while fostering an increased tolerance for difficult emotions. Mindfulness-based strategies may also support clients in gradually confronting and integrating their experiences, ultimately reducing the need for dissociative coping mechanisms.

The Psychological Impact of Self-Reflection

For individuals with a history of interpersonal violence, literal and metaphorical mirrors can become sources of alienation. Studies have shown that mirror-viewing tasks—where participants confront their reflections while recalling traumatic memories—can heighten feelings of shame and dissociation (Caputo, 2010; Kouri et al., 2023). In these moments, the reflection becomes a painful reminder of a fragmented self.

Kouri et al. (2023) hypothesized that the mirror might amplify dissociative experiences. While their findings did not show a significant increase in dissociation compared to control conditions, participants often described a profound discomfort and estrangement from their reflections. Prior research (Freysteinson et al., 2018) also links sexual trauma histories to mirror-related disconnection.

Therapists might consider using controlled mirror-exposure techniques as part of interventions, helping clients re-establish a compassionate relationship with their self-image. For example, a therapist might guide a client through a mirror-viewing exercise where they describe what they see without judgment, gradually shifting their focus from self-criticism to self-acceptance. Over time, this approach can help reduce avoidance and foster a more integrated sense of self. Gradual desensitization and narrative therapy can support this process by providing structured opportunities to process shame while fostering a sense of safety and self-acceptance.

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Shame-induced dissociation represents a complex challenge for trauma-informed care. Its roots lie in the interplay between identity, avoidance, and self-perception, creating a cycle of withdrawal and fragmentation. As Kouri et al. (2023) emphasize, addressing these dynamics requires clinicians to focus not only on the traumatic events but also on the emotional states and self-concepts that perpetuate dissociation.

By incorporating approaches that target shame, reduce experiential avoidance, and repair fractured self-images, mental health providers can help clients reclaim a sense of self. These strategies empower individuals to confront and integrate their experiences, fostering greater emotional resilience. The journey is arduous, but with the right tools—such as EMDR, mindfulness practices, and compassionate self-inquiry—it can lead to healing and resilience.

References:

Kouri, N., D'Andrea, W., Brown, A. D., & Siegle, G. J. (2023). Shame-Induced Dissociation: An Experimental Study of Experiential Avoidance. Psychological Trauma: Theory, Research, Practice, and Policy.

Cunningham, K. C. (2020). Shame and guilt in PTSD. In M. T. Tull & N. A. Kimbrel (Eds.), Emotion in Posttraumatic Stress Disorder: Etiology, Assessment, Neurobiology, and Treatment. Elsevier Academic Press.

Dorahy, M. J., McKendry, H., Scott, A., et al. (2017). Reactive dissociative experiences in response to acute increases in shame feelings. Behaviour Research and Therapy.

Caputo, G. B. (2010). Apparitional experiences of new faces and dissociation of self-identity during mirror gazing. Perceptual and Motor Skills.

Freysteinson, W. M., et al. (2018). Body image perceptions of women veterans with military sexual trauma. Issues in Mental Health Nursing.

The impact of childhood trauma on pregnancy and childbirth: understanding and preventing traumatic reenactment in maternity care

When you think of childbirth you might imagine personal transformation, joy, and even empowerment. For many parents, this is true. But for individuals with a history of childhood sexual abuse (CSA), pregnancy and childbirth can kick up unwelcome reminders of past trauma. And because trauma healing is not linear, the journey to bring new life into the world can reopen old wounds.

I want to take you on a quest to explore the ways in which maternity care can reenact past abuse, even when care is provided with the best intentions. As a psychologist specializing in perinatal mental health and trauma, I have come to understand how inextricably intertwined a person’s trauma history can be with their experience of pregnancy and childbirth. Understanding this connection is critical for therapists working with women and pregnant individuals during this meaningful period of their lives.

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What do you think happens when the process of childbirth itself—the intimate procedures, the potential for perceived loss of control, the encounters with strangers—feels hauntingly similar to the past experiences of abuse? The answer can be found in a qualitative study conducted by Montgomery et al. (2015), where the experiences of nine women who had been sexually abused as children were analyzed to understand how maternity care can unintentionally mirror past abuse. Despite efforts to provide sensitive care, the study found that certain aspects of childbirth can still replicate aspects of past sexual abuse.

One of the most striking findings of this study was the role of intrusive medical procedures on triggering memories of abuse. For women who had been sexually abused, vaginal examinations—a necessary part of maternity care—could evoke feelings of violation and fear, even when the procedure was done with care. For example, one participant in the study shared that she felt violated during a routine examination, linking it directly to her childhood experiences.

What do you think happens when the process of childbirth itself—the intimate procedures, the potential for perceived loss of control, the encounters with strangers—feels hauntingly similar to the past experiences of abuse?

Pain is an inevitable reality of childbirth, and for women with a history of CSA, labor pain can disturbingly overlap with the emotional and physical pain they experienced during past traumatic events. In the study, several women described how the anticipated and experienced pain of childbirth transported them back to their abuse. One woman expressed fear that her childhood trauma memories would “get into her head” before she gave birth. Another participant reported finding herself unable to breathe during labor and delivery; a response that she later connected to her childhood abuse. In the throes of labor, her body remembered what her mind could not consciously hold. This research suggests that, for sexual trauma survivors, pain management in childbirth is not just about physical relief; it is about creating a space where they can feel safe and in control of their bodies.

It comes as no surprise that control is a central theme in both trauma and childbirth. For sexual abuse survivors, the legacy of their trauma often centers around the loss of control over their bodies. In childbirth, this loss of control can be re-experienced, particularly when medical interventions become necessary. Even pregnancy itself can make expectant parents feel disempowered. One of the participants in the study described feeling like the “baby was taking over” her body. Her words echo the experience of many trauma survivors who feel as though their bodies are once again being controlled by an external force during pregnancy. This loss of agency, combined with the medicalization of maternal healthcare and childbirth, can destabilize the expectant parent.

These research findings highlight why working with survivors during pregnancy requires a clear understanding of their trauma history and a sensitivity to how medical interventions can inadvertently trigger a trauma response. Trauma-informed providers and therapists alike must recognize how the body can remember past trauma. Even when the rational mind knows that a medical procedure is distinct from abuse, the body can respond as if it is the same.

In the throes of labor, her body remembered what her mind could not consciously hold.

What can be done to protect CSA survivors from re-experiencing trauma during pregnancy and childbirth? Building trust between healthcare providers and women with a history of CSA is essential. Montgomery et al. (2015) emphasizes the importance of creating a safe, respectful environment where women feel in control of their care. This might mean allowing them to make decisions about how procedures are conducted or ensuring continuity of care so that they can build a trusting relationship with their provider. Therapists working with pregnant women and individuals can prepare their clients for how pregnancy and childbirth might bring up traumatic memories and equip them with resources to navigate childbirth effectively. Therapists can also help women advocate for themselves during pregnancy and childbirth. They can support them in articulating their needs, setting boundaries, and ensuring that they feel empowered throughout the process. Trauma-informed care is not just about avoiding triggers; it’s about creating an environment where women feel safe, respected, and empowered.

If you’re a provider interested in learning more about birth trauma and recovery, I encourage you to take my Birth Trauma Recovery Training. Together, we can create a community of trauma therapists dedicated to supporting women through one of the most meaningful experiences of their lives.

References:

Montgomery, E., Pope, C., & Rogers, J. (2015). The re-enactment of childhood sexual abuse in maternity care: A qualitative study. BMC Pregnancy and Childbirth, 15, 194. https://doi.org/10.1186/s12884-015-0626-9

Understanding masking through Taylor Swift’s “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart”

Taylor Swift’s sparkly ballad “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” highlights a harsh reality for many individuals struggling with their mental health: the need to hide their pain behind a mask of resilience. As a clinical psychologist, I see this behavior often—individuals who, due to societal expectations or internalized shame, feel compelled to conceal their emotional distress. This is commonly referred to as “masking."

Lights, camera, bitch, smile, even when you wanna die

Masking refers to the conscious or unconscious camouflaging of one’s true emotions or mental state in order to fit in, appear "normal," or meet societal expectations. People who mask often present a facade of well-being or competence while struggling internally with trauma, depression, anxiety, or other forms of mental distress. The phrase “Lights, camera, bitch, smile, even when you wanna die” from Swift’s song concisely reflects this performative pressure: smiling through overwhelming emotional pain.

For trauma survivors, masking can operate as a coping mechanism that ensures survival in environments that are not conducive to vulnerability. Furthermore, unresolved trauma can hijack the nervous system in a way that makes individuals feel perpetually unsafe, even in neutral or safe situations. As a result, masking for the trauma survivor becomes a reflexive protective mechanism against anticipated harm.

If we were to unpack the psychological factors that drive the need to mask emotions, we’d find three central determinants: survival, social pressure, and fear of rejection. Related to survival, it is commonly accepted that trauma activates the brain’s survival system. As a result, when a person feels threatened, they may hide their distress to avoid further emotional or physical harm. Research has shown that childhood trauma, in particular, is associated with chronic hypervigilance, where individuals are constantly on alert for danger (van der Kolk, 2015).

Concerning social pressure, we live in a society where there is extraordinary pressure to conform to social norms and expectations. Swift's lyrics, "I'm a real tough kid, I can handle my shit,"underscore the societal demand to appear “tough” and in control, even when it feels impossible. For many, masking becomes a way to meet social expectations that value stoicism and independence, even when their internal reality is one of excruciating struggle.

Finally, a driving force behind masking is fear of rejection. Recent studies on social stigma and mental health reveal that people often hide emotional distress out of fear of being judged or ostracized (Jones & Grubbs, 2020). Many trauma survivors have a deep-seated fear of abandonment stemming from past relational experiences. Consequently, they may cloak their emotions to prevent others from seeing them as “weak” or “broken.”

All the pieces of me shattered as the crowd was chanting, “More”

While masking may offer short-term protection from emotional pain, it can have serious long-term effects on mental health. Chronic masking can lead to emotional burnout, isolation, and delayed healing. The constant effort of pretending to be okay is mentally and physically draining. Swift’s lyric, “All the pieces of me shattered as the crowd was chanting, ‘More’” refers to the exhaustion of maintaining a facade when you feel like you’ve crumbled inside. Over time, this leads to burnout and emotional fatigue, making it even harder to engage in daily life or form authentic connections. Masking often creates an incongruence between a person’s true self and the image they project to the world. This discordance can create feelings of isolation, as it becomes harder for others to truly understand or support the person behind the mask.

I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday everyday

One of the most tragic consequences of masking to me as a therapist is that it can prevent people from accessing the support they need. When trauma survivors mask their pain, they are less likely to seek help from therapists, friends, or family members. This prolongs their suffering and can worsen symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), depression, and anxiety. A 2019 study on emotional suppression in trauma survivors found that individuals who chronically suppressed their emotions were more likely to develop long-term mental health issues, including PTSD (Cloitre et al., 2019).

Swift’s “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” opens up an important dialogue about mental health that can help break down the barriers that force people to mask their pain. As a society, we need to challenge the “fake it till you make it” mentality and embrace vulnerability as a form of strength, not weakness.

References:

Understanding the red flags of narcissistic abuse through Taylor Swift's “The Tortured Poets Department”

In Taylor Swift's moody synth-pop track “The Tortured Poets Department,” one particular lyric stands out for its raw portrayal of manipulation and control: “You told Lucy you’d kill yourself if I ever leave.” This line sheds light on a troubling dynamic often found in abusive relationships, where threats of self-harm or suicide are used as a tool to maintain power and control over a partner. As a clinical psychologist specializing in trauma, I aim to unpack the implications of this behavior, exploring how it reflects the hallmarks of narcissistic abuse and the psychological impact on those entangled in such relationships.

“You told Lucy you’d kill yourself if I ever leave.”

Narcissistic abuse involves a pattern of behavior characterized by manipulation, control, and exploitation, driven by a narcissist’s need to maintain power and bolster their own fragile self-esteem. Research indicates that narcissistic individuals often employ various tactics to dominate their partners, including emotional manipulation, gaslighting, and coercion.

The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, Fifth Edition (DSM-V), identifies narcissistic personality disorder (NPD) by a pervasive pattern of grandiosity, a need for admiration, and a lack of empathy. Individuals with narcissistic traits frequently manipulate their partners to meet their emotional needs, often using threats and emotional blackmail to keep them ensnared in the relationship.

By telling Lucy that he would kill himself if his partner leaves, the character in the song is not just expressing despair but is exerting pressure to force compliance.

Threatening suicide to manipulate a partner is a particularly insidious form of control. This tactic preys on the partner's empathy and fear, effectively coercing them to stay in the relationship out of a sense of duty or terror of the potential consequences. According to a study published in the Journal of Interpersonal Violence, such threats are a common feature of abusive relationships and are strongly associated with psychological distress in the victim (Davis & Richardson, 2015).

The lyric from Swift’s song captures this dynamic succinctly. By telling Lucy that he would kill himself if his partner leaves, the character in the song is not just expressing despair but is exerting pressure to force compliance. This behavior is a classic red flag of narcissistic abuse, revealing a toxic pattern where the abuser manipulates the partner’s emotions to maintain control.

Research highlights the profound psychological toll that such threats can have on victims. A study from the American Journal of Public Health indicates that victims of this type of emotional manipulation often experience heightened levels of anxiety, depression, and feelings of entrapment (Smith, White & Holland, 2013). The threat of suicide creates a hostage-like situation, where the partner feels responsible for the abuser’s well-being, leading to a relentless cycle of guilt and obligation that is difficult to break free from.

The National Coalition Against Domestic Violence (NCADV) reports that one in four women and one in nine men experience severe intimate partner violence, which often includes threats of self-harm by the perpetrator. These threats are not only manipulative but also serve to reinforce the abuser’s dominance, making it exceedingly challenging for the victim to leave the relationship.

The threat of suicide creates a hostage-like situation, where the partner feels responsible for the abuser’s well-being, leading to a cycle of guilt and obligation that is difficult to break free from.

Recognizing these red flags is crucial for identifying and escaping narcissistic abuse. Key indicators include:

Understanding these patterns can help victims identify the signs of abuse and seek the necessary support and resources to escape the toxic dynamic.

References

  1. American Psychiatric Association. (2013). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (5th ed.). American Psychiatric Publishing.
  2. Davis, B. A., & Richardson, C. (2015). Manipulation and Coercion in Abusive Relationships: An Empirical Review. Journal of Interpersonal Violence, 30(12), 2301-2323.
  3. National Coalition Against Domestic Violence. (2020). Statistics on Intimate Partner Violence. Retrieved from ncadv.org.
  4. Smith, P. H., White, J. W., & Holland, L. J. (2013). A Longitudinal Perspective on Dating Violence Among Adolescent and College-Age Women. American Journal of Public Health, 93(7), 1104-1109.

Resources for survivors of intimate partner violence:

RAINN

The Safe Helpline

The Voices and Faces Project

It’s On Us

It Happened to Alexa Foundation

About Us

At Center Psychology Group in New York, we specialize in providing compassionate and evidence-based therapy tailored to your unique needs. Whether you’re seeking EMDR therapy, Somatic Experiencing, or integrative trauma-informed psychotherapy, our experienced team is here to support you. Learn more about our services and how we can help you on the path to healing. Ready to take the next step in your healing journey? Book a free 15-minute phone consultation here.

A leaked letter shows how OBGYNs disregard emotional health in childbirth. Here is how this traumatizes birthing people

As a clinical psychologist specializing in birth trauma, I’m all-too-familiar with the many ways the medical experience of childbirth – which 33-45% of birthing people report as being a traumatic experience – can lead to poor mental health outcomes. My clients say, and research confirms, that the most profound components of birth trauma are the experiences of being stripped of dignity in the birthing process, feeling uncared for, and feeling like the birthing person wasn’t treated as an individual.

But I’ve never seen written evidence that some doctors practice in a way that directly causes these adverse outcomes – until now. Late last week, a letter addressed to “expectant mothers” (though not all birthing people identify as women) from a group of obstetricians affiliated with Weill Cornell Medical College of New York Presbyterian Hospital in New York caused outrage among parents and providers alike after being circulated online. The reach of online birth justice communities meant that, moments after being shared, the post ricocheted far beyond its origins.

But I’ve never seen written evidence that some doctors practice in a way that directly causes these adverse outcomes – until now.

In the letter, reportedly included in new-patient information packets, the doctors discouraged patients from creating birth plans, which expectant parents use to outline the experience they hope to have during labor and delivery, from whether they prefer epidurals to what sort of music should play in the birthing room.

The doctors wrote that, while they would love for their patients to have the “perfect birth,” they feel that “the use of birth plans too frequently sets up unrealistic expectations and conditions for potential conflict. We are your care givers and would like to use our knowledge and experience to act in the best interest of you and your baby.”

Weill Cornell has since disavowed the letter, writing in an instagram post that it was “erroneously” included in recent information packets to patients (some recent patients expressed doubt about that in the post’s comments).

"We are your care givers and would like to use our knowledge and experience to act in the best interest of you and your baby."

But it doesn’t much matter whether the letter was given out in error or the hospital is backtracking for PR. The fact that it exists at all is concrete evidence of the widespread trauma birthing people experience regularly at the hands of medical professionals: perinatal mood and anxiety disorders are the most common complications of childbirth. And it shows what my clients have been telling me for years: that medicalized birth is in crisis, and urgently needs reform.

The United States has the worst childbirth-related mortality and severe maternal morbidity (i.e. “near misses”) rates of any other developed nation, with higher adverse outcome rates in birthing people of color. This is related to a confluence of factors, including systemic oppression and racism in medicine, and the U.S.’s profit-driven healthcare system. But it’s also due to the way physicians are still trained to prioritize medical interventions ahead of the people on whom they perform them (Lown, 2014).

Medicalized birth is in crisis, and urgently needs reform.

This includes when doctors diminish patient birth plans, which in my clinical experience is a tool for empowerment and education for the birthing person. To discount patient priorities around labor and delivery is to look at them as bodies rather than people, which leaves emotional health out of the care equation.

This is a recipe for birth trauma in and of itself, but the letter goes even further.

The doctors write, “Some of you may have specific questions about episiotomies, labor induction or augmentation, forceps or vacuum delivery, fetal monitoring or anesthesia in labor. We believe in giving our patients the best of care. In modern obstetrics, this may still include the aforementioned procedures.” This is a scary series of sentences meant to frighten birthing parents into compliance, further silencing any person-centered dialogue in the medical relationship.

In a country where the future of reproductive rights hinges on the opinions of a small group of conservative judges, the medical system must do better.

This is the opposite of what should be happening to start lowering the numbers of people who experience trauma symptoms after childbirth. Given that many birthing people are also survivors of sexual trauma or assault, we need to be focusing on improving trauma-informed obstetric care to this population. Nixing birthing plans does not accomplish this. Doctors need to take time to get to know their patients as human beings to protect their physical and emotional health during the birthing process.

In a country where the future of reproductive rights hinges on the opinions of a small group of conservative judges, the medical system must do better. Obstetrics must do better. People have a right to agency and choices in childbirth. Life-threatening emergencies happen where swift intervention is necessary, but there is no need to shut down communication prematurely.

About Us

At Center Psychology Group in New York, we specialize in providing compassionate and evidence-based therapy tailored to your unique needs. Whether you’re seeking EMDR therapy, Somatic Experiencing, or integrative trauma-informed psychotherapy, our experienced team is here to support you. Learn more about our services and how we can help you on the path to healing. Ready to take the next step in your healing journey? Book a free 15-minute phone consultation here.

Prince Harry swears by EMDR. Here's what it is

Prince Harry talking to Oprah on the Apple TV+ docuseries "The Me You Can't See"

When Prince Harry recently started speaking out about the harmful ways that both his family and the media treated his wife, Meghan -- and how it re-triggered his trauma around his mom’s reminiscent experience and premature demise -- he mentioned what has helped him heal: Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy, or EMDR. He told Oprah in “The Me You Can’t See” that the modality, which he found while exploring ways to save his relationship, ultimately saved his life.

"One of the biggest lessons that I've ever learned in life is you've sometimes got to go back and to deal with really uncomfortable situations and be able to process it in order to be able to heal," he said.

That’s the purpose of EMDR, one of the modalities central to my clinical practice, and one that has tremendous power to relieve clients’ trauma and anxiety responses. I’d go so far as to call it transformative: I’ve regularly seen clients who complete courses of the therapy go on to make permanent positive changes in their lives, like changing jobs, moving, or setting healthy relationship boundaries for the first time. And while I can’t speculate on Prince Harry’s emotional process, it’s possible to observe that, since starting therapy, he stepped back from royal life, disengaged from his family, moved to California, and started new work in content production.

"One of the biggest lessons that I've ever learned in life is you've sometimes got to go back and to deal with really uncomfortable situations and be able to process it in order to be able to heal"

Prince Harry let the public peek into a remote EMDR session in “The Me You Can’t See,” where it showed him, hands crossed on either shoulder, tapping lightly on one side and then the other while moving his closed eyes toward the taps. In-person versions can include following a therapist’s moving finger, tracking a light board, or holding pulsing tappers in either hand.

But how does EMDR work, exactly?

The evidence-based, integrative psychotherapy approach, developed in the 1980s by psychologist Francine Shapiro, alleviates emotional distress associated with disturbing memories through bilateral brain stimulation. By activating both hemispheres of the brain while following a specific protocol guided by a trained therapist, unintegrated memories and experiences are reprocessed fully, providing remarkable relief.

EMDR is based on the idea that emotional distress is rooted in unprocessed and persistently disturbing memories. The brain, usually able to hold onto what is useful from an experience and discard what is not, can be short-circuited by traumatic events, preempting that integration process and leaving a memory stuck in its raw form. When that memory surfaces, brain and body react like it’s something happening now rather than in the past. This is what causes emotional symptoms, negative beliefs about the self, and even physiological effects.

EMDR is based on the idea that emotional distress is rooted in unprocessed and persistently disturbing memories.

In EMDR, clients are guided in a safe environment through the upsetting memory in a way that allows it to be metabolized fully so that it feels like it is truly in the past. This frees them from the painful symptoms formerly intertwined with the memory. Positive self-beliefs replace the negative ones, allowing space for people to refocus their priorities on moving forward instead of treading water.

As Prince Harry put it, “I really feel that we should be focused more on the things that feed our soul.”

About Us

At Center Psychology Group in New York, we specialize in providing compassionate and evidence-based therapy tailored to your unique needs. Whether you’re seeking EMDR therapy, Somatic Experiencing, or integrative trauma-informed psychotherapy, our experienced team is here to support you. Learn more about our services and how we can help you on the path to healing. Ready to take the next step in your healing journey? Book a free 15-minute phone consultation here.