Six reasons why you might struggle with the term "childhood trauma."

Mental Health & Wellness • August 18, 2024

LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026

Nervous system dysregulation means your body’s natural alarm system is stuck — either on high alert, always scanning for danger, or shut down, numb and disconnected — regardless of what your conscious mind knows about safety. It’s not about being ‘weak’ or ‘overreacting,’ and it’s not something you can simply think your way out of. For you, this matters because your nervous system’s survival strategies, developed in childhood when you had limited resources to process emotional pain, continue to shape how you feel, respond, and relate today. Understanding this helps you realize that your reactions aren’t personal failings but signs that your body is still trying to keep you safe in the only ways it knows. It opens the door to gentler, more effective ways of healing that honor both your mind and body.

• You might resist calling your experiences ‘childhood trauma’ because the term feels too heavy or invalidates the subtle but deep injuries caused by repeated emotional neglect and feeling unseen in early relationships.
• Relational trauma happens when your nervous system is repeatedly triggered by patterns of emotional unavailability or inconsistency in caregivers, shaping how safe or unsafe you feel in yourself and others long after childhood.
• Understanding that trauma isn’t only about catastrophic events but about how your nervous system was shaped by what you had—or didn’t have—to process those experiences opens a clearer path toward healing your attachment and nervous system regulation.

First, let me begin by saying that the terms developmental trauma, complex trauma, childhood trauma and relational trauma can be used interchangeably. 

But throughout my writing over the last nine years, I’ve predominantly used the term relational trauma versus childhood trauma and this largely centers on the fact that it’s been a struggle for many people to see their lived experience as “counting” as a childhood trauma experience.

I talked about that in my last essay but today, I want to provide more psychoeducation and share six reasons why you might struggle with the term.

But first, let’s ground ourselves in what used to be considered a childhood trauma experience.

1. What counts as childhood trauma?
2. Signs You May Be Carrying Relational Trauma
3. Six reasons why you might struggle with the term “childhood trauma.”
4. Finding Validation Through Professional Support
5. Wrapping up.
6. References

What counts as childhood trauma?

Historically, my field has used the concept of ACEs, or Adverse Childhood Experiences, to diagnose and understand it. 

This framework was established by the landmark CDC-Kaiser study in the late 1990s, which aimed to identify and categorize experiences that could be classified as trauma leading to long-term health issues.

The study identified ten types of ACEs: emotional abuse, physical abuse, sexual abuse, emotional neglect, physical neglect, mother treated violently, substance abuse in the household, mental illness in the household, parental separation or divorce, and having an incarcerated household member. 

Surveying over 17,000 adults, the study found a strong correlation between the number of ACEs and negative health outcomes. This includes heart disease, diabetes, depression, and substance abuse. 

It was an incredible contribution to the field of traumatology.

However, while the ACEs framework was and is invaluable in terms of concretizing childhood abuse experiences and elevating conversation about this in the field of mental health, the study still has its limitations. 

I’ll talk more about those limitations in a minute. But first let me talk about the one other dominant way most people historically diagnosed childhood maltreatment experiences. This was through the definition provided by the World Health Organization:

“Child maltreatment is the abuse and neglect that occurs to children under 18 years of age. It includes all types of physical and/or emotional ill-treatment, sexual abuse, neglect, negligence and commercial or other exploitation, which results in actual or potential harm to the child’s health, survival, development or dignity in the context of a relationship of responsibility, trust or power. Exposure to intimate partner violence is also sometimes included as a form of child maltreatment.” 

I think that the WHO’s definition of childhood trauma provides a more expansive lens than that of the Kaiser ACE’s study but still, even with the Kaiser ACE’s checklist of experiences and the WHO definition, many people – and my clients – still wouldn’t find themselves in the definition of childhood trauma/relational trauma.

Why? Let’s discuss that more.

What are six reasons you might struggle with calling your experience ‘childhood trauma’?

In my clinical experience, I’ve found a range of reasons why people wouldn’t and couldn’t see themselves in the more “classic” definitions of childhood trauma.

And frankly, I include myself in this group. Because until my mid-twenties and I began my healing work at Esalen, no one has talked to me about how my own set of experiences “counted” as childhood trauma.

So, again, going back to the reasons why people wouldn’t see themselves in the definition of childhood trauma. This list includes:

The subtlety of certain experiences.

Like being raised by a well-meaning but suicidally depressed mother may not be seen as “neglect” by someone. The gaslighting endured by someone raised by a sociopathic father may be hard to spot as “abuse” or something that created “harm to the survival” of the individual (inside such strong words in the WHO definition and Kaiser ACE’s checklist, many people are quick to write off their experience as “not counting”).

Another reason? Because mother was the abuser.

And this isn’t really accounted for in the Kaiser checklist at least. It frames mother as the recipient of DV vs the abuser towards partner or children.

Because the abusers may not have been guardians/parents.

But instead siblings or organizations and communities (think boarding schools, cult or extremist religious groups) and the parents didn’t actively harm but they didn’t actively stand up for the child, either, leading to harm.

And piggy backing on that comment, another reason I found people couldn’t or wouldn’t see their experience “counting” as childhood trauma was because they viewed the privilege they had also experienced as some kind of neutralizer of the experience. Comments like, “Sure, dad was always in a rage when he came home, but we had food to eat and vacations every summer, so it couldn’t have counted as trauma, right?”

And beyond the personal gaslighting people would do to themselves, we can’t not acknowledge the gaslighting – the diminishing or dismissing of their lived experience – that they might experience from their family which would lead them to doubt their experience. “Dad’s just being dad. It’s no big deal.” “What are you talking about? That didn’t happen.” “Your sister isn’t upset, it’s not a big deal, Get over it.”

And then, finally, there were the preconceived notions many held about what “counted” as abuse or trauma, largely informed by those historical perceptions but also informed by lack of “palatability” as seeing someone who was abused/came from trauma.

How can professional support help you find validation for your experience?

When your childhood experiences don’t match traditional trauma definitions, working with a therapist who understands the broader spectrum of relational wounds becomes essential for healing.

A trauma-informed therapist won’t require your story to fit the ACEs checklist or meet specific abuse criteria—they understand that being raised by a suicidally depressed mother, enduring sibling cruelty dismissed as rivalry, or navigating religious shame can be as damaging as more recognized forms of trauma. In therapy, you can finally stop wrestling with whether your experience was “bad enough” and instead focus on how it affected you, exploring the subtle yet profound ways these experiences shaped your nervous system, relationships, and sense of self.

This validation process is crucial because many people have spent decades minimizing their pain, believing that because they had food and shelter, or because no one hit them, their suffering doesn’t count.

For those grappling with this internal debate, exploring whether your childhood was actually harmful to your development can help validate experiences that have been dismissed or minimized. The therapeutic relationship itself becomes a corrective experience—finally having someone who believes your subjective reality matters more than whether your story fits predetermined boxes.

Wrapping up.

Again, while I certainly have a high ACE score (and found that out later in grad school when I was introduced to the concept of ACE’s) but still didn’t see an appropriate, expansive definition of trauma that reflected and/or could capture what I personally experienced, I started using the term relational trauma in my online writing, defining it in a particular way, and, as far as I understand it and as far as the internet tells me, was one of the first to really use the term back in the early days of expanding the conversation online (Spring, 2015).

In my next essay, I’m going to share my now-evolved definition of relational trauma with you. And vignettes of what clients would express as lived experiences that they didn’t see reflected in more “typical” childhood trauma definitions.

But, for now, hopefully by sharing this high quality psychoeducation with you in today’s essay, you can see yourself and why the term “childhood trauma” might have not always felt palatable for you.

And now I’d love to hear from you in the comments:

Do you relate to struggling with applying the term “childhood trauma” to your own story? Did you see yourself in any of the six reasons I listed?

If you feel so inclined, please leave a message. Our community of 30,000 blog readers can benefit from your share and wisdom.

Here’s to healing relational trauma and creating thriving lives on solid foundations.

Warmly,

Annie

Both/And: You Can Honor Your Family and Still Name What Happened

One of the hardest things about healing from a difficult childhood is the pressure — internal and external — to pick a side. Either your parents did their best or they failed you. Either your childhood was “that bad” or you’re being dramatic. In my practice, the women who make the most progress are the ones who stop trying to resolve this tension and learn to hold it instead.

Jordan is a startup CEO who grew up in a home that looked enviable from the outside — good schools, family vacations, a mother who volunteered at every event. It took Jordan years to name what was missing: emotional attunement. Her achievements were celebrated; her feelings were dismissed. “You have nothing to be upset about” was the family refrain. By the time she reached my office, she’d internalized that message so deeply that she felt guilty for being in therapy at all.

Both/And means Jordan can love her parents and still be honest about the ways their limitations shaped her. She can acknowledge that they did their best with what they had and simultaneously acknowledge that their best wasn’t enough in some critical ways. These aren’t contradictions. They’re the full truth of most family stories, and particularly the stories of driven women who learned early that performance was the price of belonging.

The Systemic Lens: Why Generational Trauma Is a Systemic Issue, Not Just a Personal One

The message that love must be earned — through performance, compliance, achievement, or self-erasure — doesn’t originate in individual families. It’s transmitted through culture at every level. Schools reward compliance. Workplaces reward output. Social media rewards the curated life. By the time a driven woman arrives in therapy, she’s been marinating in conditional acceptance for decades, and her family of origin was simply the first classroom.

This matters because without the systemic lens, childhood healing can become another form of self-blame. If the problem is just “my family,” then the solution is just “my therapy” — and the structural forces that perpetuated the pattern remain invisible and intact. When a driven woman understands that her parents were themselves products of systems that didn’t teach emotional intelligence, didn’t provide mental health support, and actively punished vulnerability, she can begin to locate the injury more accurately.

In my work with clients, I’ve found that the systemic lens doesn’t diminish personal responsibility — it contextualizes it. Your parents are accountable for their behavior. And your parents were also shaped by forces larger than themselves. Both things are true. Understanding the systemic layer doesn’t excuse harm. It helps you stop carrying the shame of harm you didn’t cause.

If what you’ve read here resonates, I want you to know that individual therapy and executive coaching are available for driven women ready to do this work. You can also explore my self-paced recovery courses or schedule a complimentary consultation to find the right fit.

How Childhood Trauma Shapes the Driven Woman’s Interior Life

One of the most consistent things I observe in my work with driven, ambitious women is the way relational trauma from childhood quietly organizes adult life from the inside. Not loudly, not obviously — but persistently. The woman who over-prepares for every meeting because not being prepared once felt dangerous. The woman who can’t delegate because trusting others means risking disappointment that her nervous system has catalogued as catastrophic. The woman who finds herself inexplicably flooded by emotion in a conversation that seemed, on the surface, entirely ordinary.

Tessa is a 34-year-old chief of staff at a major tech company. She’s meticulous, highly competent, and deeply respected by the executives she supports. She also spends the last hour of every workday reviewing her performance — cataloguing what she said wrong, what she could have anticipated, where she might have fallen short. “I know it’s excessive,” she told me. “But it feels like the only way to stay safe.” The scanning, the reviewing, the preparation — these aren’t character flaws. They’re survival strategies that made complete sense in an environment where being caught off-guard was genuinely threatening.

Understanding that framework — seeing your patterns as adaptations rather than defects — is often one of the first shifts that happens in trauma-informed therapy. And it matters, because you can’t heal what you’re still pathologizing.

Dani (name and details changed) is a thirty-nine-year-old physician who spent the first year of our work together adamantly insisting that her childhood had been “fine.” Her parents had provided, loved her, wanted the best for her. There was no abuse, no neglect, no dramatic ruptures. What there had been — which took longer to surface — was a persistent emotional unavailability from a father who was physically present but relationally absent, a mother who expressed love through criticism, and a family culture in which emotional expression was treated as weakness or inconvenience. “Fine” was the only container she had for an experience that was, in its quieter way, genuinely difficult. Learning to use more precise language — learning that “fine” and “without harm” are not synonymous — was itself a significant part of her therapeutic work.

Peter Levine, PhD, psychologist and developer of Somatic Experiencing, writes that the nervous system doesn’t evaluate experiences by how they score on an external scale of severity — it evaluates them by how they register in the body. A child who grew up in a household without dramatic trauma but with chronic emotional cold can carry the same physiological activation as a child who experienced more visible harm. The body keeps score in both cases. The work of healing in both cases involves the same fundamental process: acknowledging what actually happened, feeling the feelings that were suppressed, and gradually building the capacity for the safety that wasn’t available in childhood.

Why Professional Support Feels So Difficult to Seek

Here’s a particular irony of childhood relational trauma: the very attachment wounds that create the need for therapeutic support also create the relational barriers that make seeking that support feel impossible. If you grew up in an environment where showing need was unsafe, where vulnerability was met with criticism or dismissal, where needing help was coded as weakness — then reaching out to a therapist feels like the most threatening thing in the world.

Add to that the specific psychology of driven, ambitious women. Many of my clients are women who have built their entire identity around being the person who handles things — the one who doesn’t need rescuing, who figures it out, who keeps going. Seeking help feels like a betrayal of that self. Like an admission that the armor wasn’t as solid as it looked.

Nadia is a 42-year-old emergency physician who spent three years telling herself she didn’t “qualify” for therapy because she’d had a “mostly normal” childhood. Her father wasn’t abusive. Her mother was loving. There was no obvious trauma. What there was: a household where emotions were treated as inconveniences, where her job was to be capable and undemanding, where her distress was consistently minimized with variations of “you’re fine, you’re strong, you don’t need to make a big deal.” She reached out for support only when she found herself dissociating during patient consultations. “I kept waiting to feel bad enough,” she told me. “But the bar I was using was wrong.”

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in Nadia’s story, I’d gently invite you to question the bar you’re using. The threshold for seeking support isn’t severity — it’s the recognition that something is affecting your quality of life, your relationships, or your capacity to be present in your own story. You don’t have to be in crisis. You just have to be ready. Reaching out is the first step.

Bessel van der Kolk, MD, psychiatrist and trauma researcher and author of The Body Keeps the Score, has written extensively about how relational trauma changes the way the brain processes threat, attention, and self-perception. The amygdala becomes hypervigilant. The medial prefrontal cortex — the part of the brain that helps you contextualize what you’re feeling — goes quiet. The default mode network, where the felt sense of self lives, becomes muted. None of this is metaphor. It’s measurable, and it’s reversible. The therapies that actually move the needle for driven women — somatic work, EMDR, IFS, attachment-based relational therapy — are all therapies that engage the body and the implicit memory systems where this material is stored.

Medical Disclaimer

Medical Disclaimer