When Trust Changes

When I wrote When Survivors Lose Control of Their Story Again, I believed I was writing about one experience. I have since realized I was writing about something much larger. I wrote about what it feels like when a survivor begins to lose control of their story again. I did not realize I was also writing about what happens when trust begins to change.

Since publishing that article, survivors, advocates, colleagues, friends, and complete strangers have reached out to me. Many shared stories that sounded different from mine, yet carried familiar emotions: fear, uncertainty, grief, and the quiet exhaustion that comes from trying to heal while continuing to function. Those conversations reminded me that trauma rarely ends when the crisis is over. It changes shape. Sometimes it becomes hypervigilance. Sometimes it becomes self doubt. Sometimes it becomes emotional exhaustion. Sometimes it quietly changes who you are.

Since my last article, I have been verbally told that I did not violate policy in the way I handled my daughter's case. I have also been told that my job is secure. I appreciate hearing those words. As I write this, I have not yet received written confirmation of those conclusions. More importantly, I have realized that reassurance and healing are not the same thing. An investigation can end. A meeting can conclude. An organization can move forward. But trauma does not operate according to administrative timelines. For survivors, reassurance does not immediately quiet a nervous system that has spent years learning to anticipate danger.

I have noticed it in myself. I reread emails before responding. I overthink conversations that once would have seemed routine. I wonder whether a meeting request is simply a meeting request. I replay interactions long after they are over, searching for meaning that may or may not exist. Survivors often recognize these patterns. Hypervigilance is one of trauma's longest lasting companions.

The irony is not lost on me. Today, I supervise advocates in a domestic violence program, but my career has never been defined by a single program or discipline. It has been defined by service. Whether I was helping someone navigate the healthcare system, connecting families with resources, leading community initiatives, preparing organizations for emergencies, training future leaders, improving systems, or supporting survivors through crisis, the work has always been about people. It has always been about meeting individuals where they are, helping them navigate whatever challenges they are facing, and believing that communities are strongest when we care for one another.

That belief has guided every chapter of my professional life. It is why I returned to school as an adult. It is why I earned my doctorate. It is why I have spent years building programs, mentoring others, strengthening partnerships, and walking alongside communities, not because I believed I could solve every problem, but because I believed people deserve someone willing to walk beside them through difficult moments.

That commitment to service never ended when my workday did. For years, my evenings and weekends were filled with community meetings, mentoring, planning events, serving on committees, volunteering, answering phone calls, and finding ways to help wherever help was needed. My work was never just a profession. Service became part of who I was.

Today, I hardly recognize that version of myself. When the workday ends, I do not have the emotional capacity that I once did. Phone calls go unanswered, not because I do not care, but because I have nothing left to give. Messages sit unanswered longer than they should. Invitations that I once would have accepted without hesitation are met with silence because I am emotionally exhausted. That loss has been one of the hardest parts of this journey, not because I miss being busy, but because I miss feeling connected. I miss showing up for my community in the way I always have. I miss answering the phone knowing I had the emotional energy to help someone through whatever challenge they were facing.

Trauma does not always take away your ability to work. Sometimes it quietly takes away the parts of yourself that brought you purpose. For someone whose identity has always been rooted in service, that loss feels profound.

That belief in service has not changed. What has changed is something I never expected: trust.

Trust is difficult to build and remarkably easy to lose. This experience has fundamentally changed the way I view the systems I once believed would protect survivors. Whatever the intentions behind the decisions that were made, I now find myself questioning whether those systems consistently respond in ways that survivors experience as safe, transparent, and truly trauma informed, or whether, at times, the survivor's experience can become secondary to the process itself.

That question has stayed with me, not only as an employee, not only as a supervisor, but as a survivor and as the mother of a survivor.

While conversations have taken place and investigations have progressed, my family's healing continues. My daughter's healing did not end because meetings were held. Our family's healing did not end because questions were answered. Healing is not measured by administrative milestones. It unfolds in its own time.

As all of this unfolded, I recognized something I never imagined I would say. I asked to be considered for reassignment. I also asked that my education, leadership experience, and professional skills be evaluated for opportunities where I could continue serving in a different capacity. That request was not about giving up. It was not about walking away from public service. It was because I wanted to continue serving in a place where I could bring my whole self to the work again.

There is another conversation that has remained with me. At one point, I was asked whether I intended to resign. Perhaps it was simply a question. But it stayed with me because resigning was never what I wanted. What I wanted was support. What I wanted was to continue contributing while acknowledging that my family was still living through the aftermath of domestic violence.

Helping professionals are often expected to leave their personal lives at the door. Sometimes we can. Sometimes we cannot. We are advocates. We are supervisors. We are public servants. But we are also parents, grandparents, neighbors, community members, and human beings. We are not immune from the very crises we spend our careers helping others navigate.

Perhaps that is the question I hope every organization asks itself. Trauma informed care is not measured only by whether policies were followed. It is also measured by how people experience those policies. Did the survivor feel safe? Did they feel heard? Did they understand what was happening? Did they leave with more trust than they had

before?

Because survivors remember. We remember how people made us feel. We remember whether our voices mattered. We remember whether we were treated as human beings.

My first article ended by saying that survivors deserve to own their own stories. I still believe that. Today, I would add something else. Survivors deserve systems worthy of their trust. Those of us who have devoted our lives to serving others deserve workplaces that recognize an important truth: the people caring for our communities are part of those communities too.

Sometimes we become the ones carrying unimaginable burdens. Sometimes we become the ones who need understanding. Sometimes we become the ones trying to find our way back to ourselves.

The greatest measure of a trauma informed organization is not simply how it responds to people who walk through its doors seeking help. It is whether every interaction, whether with a client, a colleague, or an employee, reflects the dignity, compassion, transparency, and humanity it hopes to offer the world.

Because trust is not built through policies alone. It is built through people. And once it is broken, rebuilding it takes far more than words.

It takes the courage to earn it back.