How Childhood Betrayal Shaped Me — and How I Finally Broke Free
A Journey Through Pain, Healing, and Learning to Trust Myself Again
Trust has never been a constant in my life. From as far back as I can remember, it felt like something I kept reaching for, only to have it slip through my fingers. As a little girl, I idolized my dad. He was larger than life — strong, kind, and safe. But some of my earliest memories tell a different story.
I was four years old, standing frozen in our kitchen doorway. My parents were screaming at each other. My mom’s voice cracked as she cried, raising her hands in frustration, trying to hit my dad while he held her wrists. I can still picture the black-and-white striped camisole she wore that night. It’s one of those memories that doesn’t fade, no matter how much time passes. Even now, I still dream about it.
That night was the first time I realized trust wasn’t guaranteed, and betrayal could hurt more than anything.
When I was five, things fell apart even more. My mom started opening up to me about my dad’s cheating, venting about his mistress in ways I didn’t understand. I didn’t know what words like “affair” meant back then, but I could feel the sadness and anger in her voice. She made me her confidant. Meanwhile, my dad, who I still saw as my hero, took me to meet the woman who was breaking our family apart. Not long after, he moved to another country, leaving us behind.
I think that’s the moment I lost my sense of what trust even was. My mom — angry and hurt — every so often would lash out. When my brother and I misbehaved, she would blame us for my dad leaving. And honestly? I believed her. I carried that guilt on my tiny shoulders for years, feeling like everything bad that happened was somehow my fault. My mom taught me not to trust anyone, but at the same time, she tore down my self-esteem bit by bit.
As I grew up, loyalty felt like something only in fairy tales. By the time I was 16, I saw even more proof of that. I found out my stepdad was cheating on my mom, and I had to be the one to tell her. Watching her fall apart all over again was unbearable. But even then, she stayed with him. I couldn’t understand it — she had so many people around her who loved her and wanted to support her, but she chose to stay. Looking back, I realize she was terrified of being alone. She thought it was better to stay and deal with broken trust than leave and face life by herself.
At the time, I didn’t get it. But now, I see how much I learned from her choices, even when I didn’t mean to. I grew up thinking that if you wanted love, you had to be forgiving — so forgiving you’d put everyone else’s needs above your own. And that is what I did. I forgave when I was cheated on. I forgave when my ex-husband got mean after drinking. I forgave when someone crossed physical boundaries. I even forgave the first time I was hit.
And then I forgave it all again. And again.
The turning point came in 2020. My ex-husband hit me in front of his friends during a camping trip. That was it. I couldn’t keep living like that. I decided to leave, to start over, and to stop chasing loyalty and stability in the wrong places.
But starting over didn’t mean I had everything figured out right away. After leaving my marriage, I went through a period where I felt completely disconnected from myself — especially from my body. I was making choices that didn’t align with whom I wanted to be, getting involved in risky behaviors and relationships I didn’t even want to be in.
It felt like I had no control over my life, so I clung to the one thing I could control, even if it was destructive.
At the time, I was working in a toxic environment where my manager harassed me daily with inappropriate and disturbing comments. My friends had all been my ex’s friends, so when I left, I felt completely alone. I had moved to a different state for him, away from my family, and now I had no one. I didn’t even recognize myself. Those choices I was making, as harmful as they were, felt like the only way to take back some sense of agency in my life.
One of the best decisions I made was going back to school to get my Master’s in Social Work. Grad school became this unexpected haven for me. For the first time in a long time, I felt seen. The people I met there never made me feel like my opinion didn’t matter. I made friends who showed me what real friendship looks like. I met professors whose lessons I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. They all helped me find my voice again.
I still vividly remember one particular moment. After my first week of field training, I went home and sobbed. But this time, it wasn’t because of sadness — it was happiness. For the first time, I felt like I was actually good at something. I had never felt that way before, and it was overwhelming in the best possible way.
Grad school didn’t just help me find my confidence — it also helped me finally accept myself. I found the courage to admit my sexuality and come out as a lesbian. It was terrifying but freeing, like shedding a skin I’d been trapped in for years.
The me from before wouldn’t even recognize the me from now. Honestly, she wouldn’t have believed this version of me was possible.
I’m still healing, still growing, and part of it includes rebuilding my relationship with my family. It’s not perfect, but we’re finding ways to reconnect and rebuild trust.
Now, as I sit in my office — doing work I love, surrounded by people who lift me — I feel proud. Breaking the cycle of betrayal wasn’t easy. It meant facing some ugly truths about me and letting go of patterns I had held on to for years. But it was worth it.
Trust is no longer something I hope from others. It’s something I’ve built within myself. And for that reason, I’ve created a life that feels stable, fulfilling, and, most importantly, mine.