Life after trauma
Rebuilding everyday life after trauma
For years, a letter arriving on my doormat could change the whole day. Before I had read it, I was already imagining what might go wrong. Someone wanted something from me. There might be a deadline. I might misunderstand it. Paperwork carried much more weight than its few printed pages.
I live in Heemskerk, in the Netherlands. My childhood included violence at home and prolonged bullying. I was sometimes locked in the cupboard under the stairs. Later, when those situations were behind me, the fear remained. I watched people's moods and expected rejection. I could be offered kindness and still struggle to feel safe.
Between roughly 2016 and 2025, my world became very small. Much of my contact happened through messages, email and CB radio. At home, I knew what to expect. Going out or answering a call could feel difficult. People sometimes suggested I simply spend more time outside, without seeing the fear that made that step so large.
My animals helped give those years some structure. Rocky and Kitty needed feeding, cleaning and attention. They brought company into the house without asking me to explain my past. Radio offered another kind of connection. I could listen to voices, join a conversation and step back when I had had enough. Those contacts mattered.
On 7 July 2025, I stopped drinking alcohol and using hard drugs. That date marks a change I am proud of. It did not remove my PTSD or make every day easy. I still smoke cannabis before bed, and I want to be honest about that. My story is about the changes I have made, with the difficulties still present.
Then, in October 2025, my mother was hit by a vehicle while walking. Her injuries changed everyday life for both of us. There were hospital and rehabilitation reports, appointments and questions about support. I wanted to understand what had happened and what she needed. Love gave me a reason to act, even while I felt frightened.
I began collecting the documents and putting them in order. I wrote down dates, separated questions and kept records of what had been sent. A pile of papers became something I could follow. Having a clear next task helped when everything felt too much. I could ask for a report or write one question instead of trying to solve everything at once.
Gradually, I started helping other people with letters and case files too. I recognise the feeling of being trapped by a process you do not understand. Sometimes the useful first step is quite small: finding the deadline, putting events in order or helping someone say what they want. I am not a lawyer. I help organise information and prepare questions.
Helping also requires boundaries. My mother's needs matter, and so does my ability to keep going. I cannot be available for every problem at every hour. I have had to learn that rest belongs in the diary too. The best help leaves another person with more confidence to act, rather than making them dependent on me.
Helping others is my own way forward. I would not expect everyone with a painful past to do the same. Finding enough safety to live your own life matters in its own right.
Writing my memoir, Finally Living, let me connect these parts of my life. I could describe the frightened child, the years of withdrawal and the responsibilities I carry now. Writing gives me time to find the words. It has also made it possible to share my experience with people far beyond my own town.
I still have difficult days. What has changed is that I can be afraid and do something useful anyway. I can help my mother, finish a letter and return to the cats. Those ordinary moments are part of the life I am building. They give the title of my book its meaning.
