Relationships have always been a driving force in my life–which I think is a very human thing! But as someone who grew up inside high control religion which resulted in complex trauma, I can now recognize that the relationships I had with others were a source of significant harm (and healing too…but I’ll get to that later!)

I grew up being taught the acronym JOY: Jesus first, Others second, Yourself last. At its most basic level is that I needed to love Jesus, serve others and not really think about myself. Most of my life I believed that thinking about myself–especially thinking about myself over other people–was selfish. Most of the time I thought it was sinful. 

Relationships are the cornerstone of many high control religions, cults, and fundamentalism. It’s the relationships that draw you in: the promises of built in community, people that you can “do life” with, people who will show up for you, meet your needs, and who have common goals and purposes. Systems like this understand our very basic human needs for relationships and use that to sell us whatever they are pedaling. 

It is those same relationships, however, that are often used to manipulate, exploit, and control us and often end up causing us much harm, damage, and even trauma. 

There came a point during my healing “journey” where people and relationships felt scary. It was confusing. On the one hand I really wanted to be in relationships with people–I really wanted to have a romantic partner who I could lean on and build a future with but no matter how hard I tried and how many times I put myself out there, each relationship ended in such a way that made me want to crawl into my turtle shell even more.

I could recognize my world was growing smaller and smaller, but I wasn’t sure why. There came a point where I knew I couldn’t “put myself out there” any more in the dating arena. I had long-since left my church and the built-in community that it offered. I didn’t really know too many people outside of that context. On top of that, spending time with people, even the teeny tiny group of people that my nervous system could tolerate, was exhausting. 

I was the walking poster child for the memes that talk about never having to explain yourself if you cancel your plans with me because I am probably pretty glad you did.

I think it’s pretty common that when we have been harmed and traumatized by people, we often need to take a break. Though I didn’t have words at the time to articulate what was happening, I can look back now and see that I was living in a constant state of terror whenever the possibility for any sort of a relationship arose: romantic, friendship, acquaintance. 

I felt raw all the time. Any interaction that was even neutral left me feeling hypervigilant, second-guessing myself, worried I had done something wrong, scared of what they would think about me, and always terrified that they would leave me, like so many people in the past had. I was exhausted by patterns of relationship that required me to be in an over-functioning role; where I became a person of convenience to others until a new, shinier object came along and I was discarded. I worried about ever showing up authentically because past experiences taught me that if I was unpalatable, even slightly, that would be considered “too much” and reason for someone to reject me altogether. 

I know now that I was triggered by relationships–constantly feeling like the present was the past but not having any way to escape it. 

So I did the only thing I knew how to do: isolate myself from others. 

I spent a few years with minimal outside interaction. I went to work and I came home. A couple times a month I would go out with one or two individuals and then come home and hibernate. It was the only way I felt I could survive. 

At some point during those few years, I decided to get a dog. I had never been an animal person growing up; we didn’t grow up with family pets (even though I lived across the street from a horse corral and petting zoo–which I frequented quite often. However, one day a client of mine showed me a picture of her dog and I fell in love. She had a Bichon Frise Shih Tzu dog (also called a Teddy Bear dog) and as soon as I saw the photo of this breed online, I knew that I was a dog person. 

I got Phoebe several months later. I was wise enough to know that a dog was a big commitment and wanted to make sure I was ready for it. My client had put me in touch with a breeder and I was the top of the list: once the dogs were born, I got first pick. I anxiously awaited the day where I would get the call to schedule my visit and pick out my dog. 

Not having done this before, when I got to the breeder’s house, I asked how I would know which dog to pick. After all, there were 8 of them to choose from! She had done this for years and kindly told me that my dog would pick me more than I would pick it. 

She brought the tiiiiiiiiiiiny puppies out and placed them in a playpen. I was immediately enamored and wondered if I could take all 8! Six of the dogs rushed toward me, excitedly sniffing and licking me but tiring of it after a few moments. I noticed two of the dogs hung toward the back of the litter as if they were waiting their turn. Tentatively after all the other dogs had lost interest, the final two dogs came up to me, tails wagging, and didn’t leave. I was getting closer to being chosen by a dog.

I knew that if I had the choice, I preferred a female dog and I hoped that of the two that waited for their turn, that one of them would be a girl–I didn’t know how I would choose between the two if they were the same gender! Luckily, of the two dogs, one was a boy and one was a girl. I took her out of the playpen area to see if we would keep choosing each other and she crawled up my chest so she could curl up in the nape of my neck.

Ahhhhhh, that was it. She had chosen me!

My heart had never felt so full; I continued to hold her and play with her. At one point she waddled over to the playpen with the rest of the dogs in such a sassy way, as if she was saying “I’m out here and you’re in there!” She was the perfect mix of sassy and sweet and I knew she was mine. It felt physically painful to leave her that day, but at only 5 weeks old, she was still too tiny to take home. Each day of the next three weeks went by painfully slow but finally the day came where I got to take her home. Phoebe, my sweet gift from the Universe. 

Dogs and horses are often used in therapeutic settings due to the way they interact with people and are able to reflect back attachment styles, boundaries, and other characteristics. I quickly realized how petrified I was of abandonment and how it impacted my ability to even love my dog. 

The thing was I loved Phoebe. Like I really, really loved her. But there was something in me that held back from telling her that or showing her to the fullest extent. The fear that was present in my heart would feel so visceral that I wondered if I would have physical side effects. I felt like I couldn’t give in to how I really felt about her–because if I did, I feared I would lose her. I didn’t know how I could possibly cope with losing more love. So I held back; I restrained myself. I swallowed the love that would try to bubble up and out for Phoebe because the fear felt greater than the potential for the reward for a long time.

Phoebe is wickedly smart and intuitive. I really believe that she understood the pain that I felt in loving her but being terrified to feel it and admit it. But she never got mad at me, backed away from me, or ignored me even though I couldn’t match her excitement, cuddliness, or willingness to forget my yucky moments. 

I didn’t have the language of the nervous system yet, but I look back now and I see that my nervous system was slowly learning that it was ok to trust, to love, and to connect. One night, when she was a little over 18 months old, Phoebe was sitting on her oversized dog bed playing with a toy. My heart was smiling so big at her cuteness that it came bubbling up and out my mouth and I heard myself saying “hey Phoebe? I love you!”

Tears came rushing down my face immediately as I understood what a big deal it was to utter these words that would show just how broken hearted I would be if something happened to her. Phoebe knew what a big moment this was too. She stopped playing with her toy, walked over to me, jumped on the couch and curled up into my lap. A beautiful moment of vulnerability that led to connection. 

A few months prior to this, Phoebe and I had moved into a new neighborhood. I had successfully avoided meeting anyone–people were still too scary. One night, however, on our evening walk, we rounded the corner and heard laughter and yelling (the fun kind). I noticed up ahead that some of the neighbors were outside playing cornhole; my heart sunk. I knew we would have to walk by them and I was terrified they would want to…talk. 

Before I even realized what was happening, Phoebe also saw them and started running toward them–to turn back now would have been obvious and rude, so I kept walking forward. I quickly formulated a plan that included a cordial hello and then telling them I was on my way to something and couldn’t talk. That was technically true…I did have dinner plans with one of my few friends that night, though I didn't have to leave for a half an hour.  

Phoebe scampered on ahead and by the time I caught up with her one of the women was already sitting on the ground playing with Phoebe. She looked up at me with a grin and introduced herself, her husband, and the other people who were playing yard games. I began with my ‘cordial act’ but her friendliness wore off and I somehow found myself agreeing to come over the next day to grill out and watch football. 

When the next day came, I gave myself a pep talk: I would go over for the Alabama game and fake an excuse as to why I had to leave. I reasoned that my house was less than 100’ from theirs and getting away would be easy. Heck, if it went really bad, I could move! I hesitantly knocked on the door and my neighbor greeted me with a hug–as if she had known me for years. 

Something about the atmosphere felt safe. Football was a great distraction, and it helped that there was a football game to make small talk about. Before I knew it, I found myself laughing, smiling, talking and…having a good time! Six hours went by before I recognized how exhausted I was and needed to go home. I thanked them for a wonderful evening and accepted their invitation to dinner a few days later. 

I wish I could say it was easy from that point forward–that something inside me broke and I was able to feel safe in relationship again.

The truth of the matter is, something did break in me that day and it was something good–but it wasn’t without difficulty. I had, what I call, a vulnerability hangover the next day. I was petrified that they would never want to spend time with me again. But they did. They kept inviting me to things and I kept showing up. Football weekends turned into spontaneous drop-ins, turned into long patio conversations, turned into neighborhood block parties, turned into weekend getaways…turned into the people I could count on to be there for me in every situation…the people who are still some of my dearest friends today.

It’s at this point whenever I am talking or writing about this that I start to cry (I am right now!)...there was something magical that happened when I got my sweet Phoebe and then moved into that neighborhood. My heart cracked open and the pain, anguish, and fear of being abandoned, betrayed, and discarded was instead replaced by people who loved me for me, who didn’t care about what I could do for them, and who kept showing up over and over again.

I think the tears are there because in my body I feel the contrast–the contrast of the anxiety I experienced in high control religion leading to isolation to the fullness and relief that I feel today when I think about the people I love the most in this world. 

Developing relationships–healthy relationships–after trauma is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. It requires feats of courage, strength, and bravery as we put ourselves back out there, knowing that we could be crushed again, but trusting that it’s possible to have what satisfies our souls the most: connection to others.