Life slowed down quite a bit last week. Since my fall, I’ve been living in a dimly lit room, the soft gray of a marine layer filtering through the window. Normally, the lack of brightness would unsettle me. As my body heals, and the bruising begins to fade, it feels fitting—like the world itself has dimmed to meet me where I am, revealing the shadowed truths that have been there waiting to be acknowledged.
Today at the doctor’s office, I recounted the incident almost mechanically: my German shepherd lunging to protect me from a ten-year-old with a pitbull mix at the other end of the leash. In her attempt to save me, my dog tripped me, and I broke my fall with my face. Blood was everywhere. A stranger rushed over to help, but my dog, perceiving him as a threat, snarled and kept him at bay. Meanwhile, my Apple Watch automatically called emergency services, but my bloodstained phone couldn’t recognize me.
My husband drove me to the fire station, telling the cyclist who stopped and my husband on the phone the same thing over and over:
“I’m fine. I don’t need an ambulance. I don’t want the attention.”
But the truth is, I wanted to collapse. My body begged for it. Yet a familiar, older voice arose inside me:
“Don’t be a burden. Don’t make a scene. Don’t need anyone.”
When my doctor later asked if I thought I should have taken an ambulance, the word no leapt out before I even thought. But standing there remembering the blood pooling beneath me on the street, I knew the answer was yes.
I just couldn’t let myself say it.
What Trauma Looks Like in Real Life
This is what complex trauma does: it follows you into adulthood, into emergency rooms, into moments when your body is screaming for help.
I grew up in a world where suffering was seen as a personal responsibility. Where self-denial was holy, and any need I had was evidence of weakness or sin. The only instances when a community was truly present beyond just ‘thoughts and prayers’ were if you met the unspoken, unwritten criteria for a meal train or other forms of assistance that could provide relief from daily burdens. In fundamentalist evangelical culture, especially under the shadow of Christian nationalism, pain was meant to be endured—or turned into a testimony for someone else’s inspiration.
Layer on top of that a childhood marked by neglect and financial abuse, and every injury carries an echo:
“Can we afford this? Am I worth this?”
The shame of needing care wraps itself around the fear of the bill. My nervous system learned early that attention was dangerous, help was conditional, and survival meant minimizing myself.
So, lying on the pavement, blood covering my body and beginning to stain the pavement, I wasn’t just refusing an ambulance. I was performing competence to survive a past that lives in my body. I was protecting myself from the vulnerability of being seen and the financial fear of being treated.
Healing Begins With Permission
This is the cruel loop of CPTSD:
Hyper-independence masquerades as strength, but it’s really a shield.
The freeze/fawn response whispers, Stay small. Prove you’re fine.
Financial trauma adds another chain, telling you that safety comes at a cost you can’t risk.
Religious trauma overlays it all with shame: Suffering silently is holy. Don’t ask for help unless it serves God.
I never said out loud that I wasn’t okay. I just whispered it inside, to the part of me that has always known the truth before I could speak it:
I am not okay.
Maybe that’s where healing begins. Not with the fall. Not with the fire station or the doctor. But with the smallest, quietest permission to exist as a person who needs care, even if the world that raised me told me that needing help was a sin.
Growing up in fundamentalist evangelicalism and dealing with childhood neglect taught me how to survive, but it didn’t teach me how to be human. Healing is costly—financially, emotionally, and spiritually. Still, every time I deny myself care to save money or avoid attention, I am paying with my own body.
If this resonates with you—if you’ve ever been hurt and still tried to convince others you’re okay—you’re not alone. Our stories and pain matter. Allowing ourselves to accept care is not a sign of weakness; it is an act of rebellion against every lie that aimed to make us disappear.
At Haven, our advocates understand how hard it can be to ask for help—but we’re here, ready to walk with you when you’re ready.HAVEN Advocates are here to help!
Haven FYI – Friday August 8th 2025
This article speaks to a common pattern among trauma survivors: the tendency to deny they need help. Whether the trauma stems from abuse, loss, violence, or other life-altering events, many people cope by convincing themselves they’re fine on their own.
A Crack in the Stained Glass from Stephanie Jo Warren’s Substack
The Price of Refusing Help
A lifetime of religious and financial trauma taught me to survive at all costs—and to believe my pain was never worth the care
