Betrayal trauma is one of the hidden truths of trauma, frequently swept under the rug, often misunderstood, and rarely given the clinical attention it deserves. Yet the emotional and physiological impact of betrayal by someone we deeply trust can mirror the symptoms of PTSD: flashbacks, triggers, sleep disturbances, hypervigilance, emotional dysregulation, and chronic anxiety.

So, what is betrayal trauma?

Betrayal trauma occurs when a person experiences a significant breach of trust by someone with whom they share a close, personal relationship, such as a spouse, caregiver, family member, or institutional figure. Goldsmith, Chesney, Heath, and Barlow (2013), writing in the Journal of Traumatic Stress, note that betrayal trauma, when the perpetrator is someone close, is more strongly associated with symptoms of anxiety, depression, and post-traumatic stress than trauma caused by a distant or unknown person. The proximity of the relationship intensifies the injury (p. 376).

To explore this topic more personally, I sat down with Megan, a fellow intern at Community Recovery Counseling Center and a graduate student specializing in trauma. Megan shared her lived experience of betrayal trauma following her husband’s affair, a disclosure that occurred less than a year ago. Although some might see that as “in the past,” trauma does not operate on a fixed timeline.

“People were rushing me to make decisions when I could barely think clearly,” Megan shared. “I felt like my senses were overloaded, I wasn’t ready to take action because I hadn’t even had time to process what had happened.”

This is a crucial truth for supporters, friends, or professionals working with those navigating betrayal trauma: give people room to breathe. Trauma affects cognition, memory, and executive functioning. Pressuring someone to "decide" before they’ve processed is often counterproductive.

Megan emphasized another key point: not all betrayals lead to separation. In her case, she and her husband chose to remain together and pursue therapy. That decision, however, didn’t erase the pain or restore trust overnight. “Some people say trust never fully returns,” she said. “Right now, it’s too early for me to know. But I do know that rebuilding it is a long process.”

From the betrayer’s side, there must be patience and accountability. As Megan put it, “You can’t just say, ‘That was a year ago, aren’t you over it yet?’ It doesn’t work like that. The wound is significant, and reminders, anniversaries, behaviors, or triggers, can send someone right back to that original moment of pain.”

One recent example Megan shared involved her husband reactivating a Facebook account. What seemed like a minor action triggered intense anxiety for her. “I found myself spiraling, wondering who he might be talking to. I didn’t even realize I was being triggered until the anger hit. My body knew before I did.” This illustrates how trauma can live in the body, even when the mind believes it’s “moved on.”

It’s also important to dismantle a common myth: that infidelity is always about sex. “Sometimes it’s not about intimacy at all,” Megan explained. “It can be about emotional neglect, loneliness, or disconnection, someone looking for attention or validation they weren’t getting at home. And one thing leads to another.”

Despite being educated in trauma and mental health, Megan still struggled deeply. She was juggling motherhood, graduate school, and the overwhelming emotional aftermath of betrayal. The psychological impact was visible, her concentration was fragmented, her emotions volatile, especially as the anniversary of the affair neared. Even with insight and training, trauma doesn’t discriminate.

“Now imagine how much harder this would be for someone without that knowledge,” I reflected. “Someone who might assume they’re overreacting or going crazy. Someone who doesn’t know that the emotional fallout of betrayal can mimic PTSD.”

This is why naming betrayal trauma matters. When we fail to name it, we minimize its effects. We leave people questioning their reality. Victims may internalize blame, believing the betrayal was their fault or that they somehow caused it. As Goldsmith et al. (2013) point out, trauma within trusted systems (e.g., family, school, military) can lead victims to suppress valid emotions like anger and sadness and adopt maladaptive beliefs, including that they deserved the betrayal (p. 376).

Healing takes time. It requires honesty, support, and safe spaces. One of Megan’s greatest strengths was her willingness to be honest, with herself, with trusted friends, and with the process. She gave herself permission to grieve, to rage, to doubt, and to question. And in doing so, she started to heal.

For those experiencing betrayal trauma, know this: your pain is real. You are not overreacting. And you don’t have to rush your healing. Whether you choose to stay in the relationship or not, what matters most is that you honor your own timeline, and that you give yourself space to understand what’s happened to you, and how to move forward from it.


If this post resonated with you, we invite you to explore additional resources on trauma, relational healing, and post-traumatic growth. You can also check out the article referenced above:

Goldsmith, R. E., Chesney, S. A., Heath, N. M., & Barlow, M. R. (2013). Emotion regulation difficulties mediate associations between betrayal trauma and symptoms of posttraumatic stress, depression, and anxiety. Journal of Traumatic Stress, 26(3), 376–384. https://doi.org/10.1002/jts.21819

When Functioning Isn’t Living: A Therapist’s Wake-Up Call
There I was, sobbing in my car after volunteering at Alpha Grand Rapids. Not just tired, not just overwhelmed, completely emotionally spent. And there I was, crying to the sound of Rachel Hollis’ Girl, Wash Your Face like it was my first time hearing any of it. It wasn’t. I’ve sat through years of professional training on therapeutic techniques and self-care. I’m a mental health professional. Most of my friends are too. I knew the material. So why couldn’t I stop crying?

Because knowing and doing are not the same thing. Because despite being surrounded by supportive people and equipped with clinical knowledge, I was running on fumes. My body ached from chronic pain. Fatigue from narcolepsy dulled every moment. And the truth I didn’t want to face hit me hard: if I didn’t change something soon, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep going.

Outwardly, I was holding it together, volunteering, making meals, handling logistics, being “fine.” But inside, I felt trapped. Like I was chained to a life I couldn’t fully show up for.

That drive home was a breaking point. But it was also a beginning. Here’s what I’ve learned so far, not just as a therapist or mother, but as a person finally learning to show up for herself.


What Helped Me Start Moving Forward
1. Dress like you matter.
This isn’t about fashion. It’s about self-respect. If you show up in clothes that say, I’ve given up on being seen, you start to believe it. You don’t need to wear a blazer, but at least wear something that tells the world, and yourself, you still care.

2. Stop abandoning yourself.
It’s easy to put yourself last, especially when other people depend on you. But I realized I was showing up for everyone else and slowly disappearing in the process. If that sounds familiar, it might be time to reassess what you actually need, mentally, emotionally, physically.

3. Rewire one habit at a time.
Hollis talks about quitting diet soda; for me, it was a handful of small, destructive patterns I had normalized. I didn’t overhaul my life overnight, but I started with small shifts. You don’t need perfection, you need momentum.

4. Drink water. Seriously.
I wasn’t even replacing water with coffee or soda. I just… wasn’t drinking anything. My half-full morning coffee would sit untouched all day. That’s how far gone I was. Not caring for myself wasn’t a choice, it was my default setting.

5. Tell the truth.
When I finally admitted to a close friend how badly I was struggling, it felt terrifying and freeing all at once. I said it plainly: “If I don’t start making real changes, I’m not sure I can keep doing this.” Saying it didn’t make me weak, it reminded me I wasn’t invincible.

6. Respect your energy.
As an introvert with multiple roles, business owner, parent, volunteer, I’ve learned I have to manage my schedule like my life depends on it. Because it kind of does. I can’t take on more than I can physically or emotionally carry. Saying no is no longer a luxury, it’s a necessity.

Caring for a loved one with a serious medical condition is hard. Caring for a loved one with dementia is something else entirely. Unless you’ve walked in a caregiver’s shoes, you can't fully understand the heartbreak, the exhaustion, or the emotional layers that come with being the primary support for someone slowly slipping away.
I know this intimately. I was that daughter. The full-time caregiver. The mother of four—one still in diapers—trying to hold everything together while watching my own mother change in front of me.

This is a reflection I began while my mother was still living with us, and now, I share it again in her memory. On this anniversary of her passing, I’m honoring not just who she was, but everything we lived through together during her illness. My mother had Frontal Temporal Degenerative Dementia, a particularly aggressive and personality-altering form of cognitive decline. It’s not just memory loss. It’s a complete rewriting of who your loved one is.

Truth One:I didn’t always want to do this.
I was angry. Tired. Emotionally divided. Raising four small kids while caring for a declining parent stretched me to the edge. I constantly questioned myself: Am I being a good mom? A good daughter? A good person?

Truth Two:Placing your parent in long-term care is not a betrayal.
I’ve learned that honoring your parent sometimes means making the hardest decisions—not out of convenience, but out of love. My mother deserved safety, structure, and skilled support. Letting go of being her daily caregiver didn’t mean I stopped being her daughter. It meant I stepped into a different kind of role—one that still held love, but also held boundaries.

Truth Three:Even with all the education and coping tools, I still hit my breaking point.
There was a moment—a true collapse—when I ended up in the ER with a nervous breakdown. Between motherhood, internship, and caregiving, I broke under the weight. And I say this not with shame, but with clarity: even caregivers need care.

Truth Four:She wasn’t “still in there.”
One of the most painful things people say about dementia is, “Your mom is still in there somewhere.” But she wasn’t. Not in the way I remembered her. The woman I could talk to, laugh with, share stories with—she was already gone, long before her body gave out. It’s okay to say that. It’s okay to grieve the living. Dementia doesn’t steal in silence; it rewrites your parent while you watch.

Truth Five:I finally learned to say out loud, “I’m not okay.”
I didn’t enjoy this. I didn’t want this. But I did it. And I know that honesty—raw, unfiltered honesty—is what saved me. I stopped pretending I could handle it all. I started naming what I felt: grief, guilt, rage, loneliness, fear.

I remember when a friend gently asked, “Are you worried you won’t visit your mom once she’s in the nursing home?” And the honest answer was yes. Not because I didn’t care, but because seeing her decline hurt so deeply, and because I was so stretched, so worn, I could barely keep up with my own life.
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To the adult child who hasn’t visited their parent in a while: I see you.
To the caregiver crying in the car after each visit: I see you.
To the person who knows their parent’s body is alive, but their essence is gone: I see you.

In MemoriamTo my mother,
On the anniversary of your passing, I remember the fierce woman you were before dementia took hold—and I honor the version of you I cared for when you could no longer care for yourself. You trusted me in your most vulnerable season, and though I stumbled and grieved and broke more times than I can count, I never stopped being your daughter.

​You were deeply loved.
You are still deeply missed.
And I am still learning how to carry both those truths at once.

Blessed Through Brokenness: A Veteran Wife’s Reflection on Service, Struggle, and Healing
First and foremost, I hold the deepest respect for those who have sacrificed their lives, those who came close to losing them, and those who silently battle the lasting effects of trauma. As a proud wife of an Army veteran—with multiple deployments and long stints of garrison duty—I know firsthand the complexity of life after service. My husband, a soldier through and through, was deeply committed to serving our country. He carried himself with discipline, purpose, and devotion—values that continue to define him. But like many who transition from military life, the most difficult battles began after the uniform was put away.

Our story didn’t follow the script of traditional PTSD symptoms. There were no flashbacks or exaggerated startle responses. What we encountered instead was something quieter—but no less destructive: a deep emotional dysregulation, persistent irritability, drinking to cope, and relationship strain that intensified after separation from the Army. These experiences align with what many veterans face but don’t recognize: Adjustment Disorder, one of the most prevalent yet overlooked mental health challenges in the post-military community.

Adjustment disorders arise when the stress of transition—such as leaving military structure, identity loss, or moral injury—leads to intense emotional or behavioral symptoms. My husband experienced exactly that. Once bound by duty and a chain of command, he was suddenly unbound, drifting between soldier and civilian. Drinking worsened, emotional distance grew, and the man I had once admired became increasingly unpredictable. I often found myself walking on eggshells, managing my own emotions to keep peace in our home. The tears, the silence, the miscommunication—they all took their toll.

There were moments I was breathless with grief, collapsed in prayer, asking God to intervene in ways I couldn’t even name. And yet, we endured. Through God’s grace and a long, painful reckoning, my husband began to understand not just the pain he carried—but the pain he caused. He learned that I didn’t need solutions—I needed presence. He began to soften, to listen, and to reach for me, not as a soldier, but as a man learning to love again in the unfamiliar terrain of post-service life.

This is what it looked like for us when the wounds weren’t labeled PTSD, but were no less real. Our marriage bore the marks of grief, confusion, and isolation—but also resilience and redemption. I still work to untangle what is trauma, what is temperament, and what is simply life. And while our path has been muddy and complex, I now see that we are not broken—we are blessed through our brokenness.
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To the spouses navigating this journey: your story is valid. Your pain is not invisible. Adjustment disorders are real, common, and treatable. If this resonates, know that you are not alone. Healing is possible—not by erasing the past, but by walking together toward a future with understanding, compassion, and grace.

Boundaries are more than just geographic lines dividing countries, states, and towns. They represent the personal parameters we establish in relationships—guidelines that help define how we interact with others and how we expect others to interact with us. But why is there so much emphasis on boundaries? Why do entire books focus on setting and maintaining them? Shouldn’t this all come naturally? After all, it seems obvious: if someone doesn’t want to be hugged, you don’t hug them. If someone is busy and declines your call, you don’t keep calling every few minutes.

In counseling, boundaries are frequently discussed in the context of codependency—a relational pattern where individuals struggle to make decisions without external validation, or overly invest in another person’s emotions and needs at the expense of their own. Boundaries become especially important when we are on the receiving end of excessive emotional or physical reliance. They help us define our comfort zones and teach us to recognize what behaviors feel acceptable or intrusive. You’ve likely heard someone say, “They just don’t have healthy boundaries.” Such comments often stem from witnessing a pattern of enmeshment or boundary violations.

As parents, teaching children about healthy boundaries begins with modeling appropriate emotional connections. This means taking an honest inventory of your own behavior. Are you demonstrating respect in your own relationships—through the way you express affection, resolve conflict, or honor personal space? Children learn what is acceptable by watching their caregivers. Pay attention to how your child engages with peers. Do they offer excessive affection, such as hugging even after being asked to stop? Are they trying to "buy" friendships with gifts or rewards? These behaviors offer teachable moments to reinforce respectful and balanced social interactions.

When raising teenagers, boundaries take on a new level of complexity. Adolescents need guidance that blends structure with autonomy—a concept sometimes called autonomous love. This is especially challenging in a world saturated with social media and digital connection. As a parent, establish boundaries that support your teen’s mental, emotional, and physical well-being, knowing full well that these limits will be tested. Boundary-pushing is part of adolescent development. Rather than relying on the outdated phrase, “Because I’m the parent, that’s why,” take the time to explain your reasoning. Offering insight into your decisions builds trust and encourages your teen to develop their own judgment and values.
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In adulthood, boundary-setting remains just as essential. Like the unique laws and customs of different states or countries, each person’s boundaries are shaped by their values, preferences, and life experiences. One person might enjoy physical affection, while another might find it uncomfortable or intrusive. Understanding personality traits—such as introversion and extroversion—can also help you interpret how people express themselves and connect with others. Everyone has a personal history that influences their worldview and behavior. Being mindful of this fosters empathy and patience.
Importantly, remember that everyone makes mistakes in navigating boundaries—including ourselves. But mistakes are not failures—they are opportunities for growth. Learning what feels right and wrong in a relationship is a process, and mistakes are often part of that journey. Don’t take it personally; instead, reflect on the experience and integrate the lesson into your personal awareness. Relationships take time, and trust is built gradually. Setting and respecting boundaries is a foundational part of that process.