You are not to blame for your trauma

It's not something YOU made happen; it's something that happened TO you.

Aug 12, 2025

Did I do that? (It ain’t my fault)

“What if it’s not your fault, though?”

I tried to form a response to her question, but my mind wouldn’t let me.

For years, I’d held myself accountable. I told myself if I’d been braver, or stronger, or more like everyone else, I could’ve handled that deployment without getting so messed up.

I believed the fact that I let it get to me was a reflection of my own failed moral character. I believed I had been weak, and I deserved to suffer now, for not being brave enough to face the fear head-on.

But here was my therapist, challenging my beliefs, trying to help me see it all through a different lens.

Deep down, I knew I was less than my trauma, and always would be.

But my therapist had her own ideas, and she was relentless. She asked me why I thought it was my fault, so I let her have it: I wasn’t strong enough to prevent it from happening, so clearly, I brought it upon myself.

Never mind that I was in a hostile environment, in wartime, on a ship with minimal defensive capabilities and no real offensive power at all!

Never mind that my ship had brought the Marines that were marching into Baghdad, and we knew when we left San Diego, that war with Iraq was only a month or two away, even though the rest of the world didn’t know yet.

Never mind that I’d served four years in peacetime and now, in my fifth and final year, I was sailing into who-knows-what, in a part of the world that’s already known for hating America, and whose leaders would celebrate my death, if and when.

Never mind that nobody in the military had prepared me — or anyone else on my ship, for that matter — for the reality of going to war…

I didn’t know how to respond to such a tense environment, so I shut down.

Clearly, I had done wrong.

I put up so many walls on that deployment, that nothing could get through to me. I ignored briefings and reports on the ship that talked about what was happening in Baghdad. I withdrew from conversations about what it must be like on the frontlines.

And I made damn sure that nobody on my ship knew I was afraid.

I was convinced, back then, that “fear” was the only four-letter word you’re not allowed to say in the United States Navy. I truly believed I had to bury it, and never let it show, never let anybody see that I was scared, or that I had any doubts, concerns, or reservations, about the war.

I thought if I told anybody I wasn’t one hundred percent for blowing Saddam Hussein to smithereens, they would hold me in contempt for not being “pro-America.” I didn’t think I could just say, to anybody:

“Guys, I don’t know how I feel about all this, and it’s really scaring me.”

I thought I was just weak; that I was a coward. I thought that was why I came home all messed up inside, when other sailors and Marines were hardly even affected by it all.

I was convinced I had to hide my symptoms, so nobody would suspect I didn’t belong. I told myself I wasn’t as good as my comrades in arms. They were the heroes. I was a coward… and there was nothing I could ever do to change that.

The trauma I endured would always be bigger than me, and I would always be powerless against it.

After all, it was my fault I got it in the first place.

I really believed that.

All of it.

And so much more, that I’m just not willing to get into in this letter.

I blamed myself for not being adequately prepared to sail into a potentially hostile environment.

It was because I wasn’t prepared, that I allowed myself to be overwhelmed by it all.

Or, so I believed.

I didn’t know if we were going to live or die, and honestly? That scared the hell out of me. I didn’t know what was going to happen once we entered the Gulf.

I didn’t know if we would see combat. I didn’t know if I would ever be brave enough, should it come down to it, to take another life in defense of our country. I didn’t think I would personally end up in combat — but none of us knew, what might happen.

I only knew I wasn’t prepared to serve in wartime… and even though I went… it was the last place on Earth I ever wanted to be. I was so scared, anxious, and confused, I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t think there was anybody I could talk to about it all.

So of course, I got PTSD.

But here’s where my therapist saw more of the big picture than I could:

When I got done telling her all the reasons why I couldn’t have done anything differently, and I wasn’t adequately prepared, and I didn’t know what to expect…

And I was so afraid on that ship, that I basically buried myself under all my fears, anxiety, and insecurities…

She didn’t agree with me. She didn’t tell me I was weak. She didn’t shame me for having so much difficulty just trying to survive one single day, without going to pieces…

Instead, she looked at me, with those calm, gentle eyes, and she asked me,

“Whose job was it to make sure you were prepared? Was it yours, or was it somebody else’s?”

And like that, a light came on… dimly at first, but growing brighter as our session progressed. Driving home from that session, it finally hit me…

My PTSD wasn’t my fault.

It was never my job to prepare me for the reality of going to war.

That belonged to my superior officers.

They had failed me…

They had shirked their responsibility to make sure everyone on my ship was ready to go to war… they had shown, through their example, that it wasn’t appropriate to have any doubts, or to show any fear… they had created the environment that made it possible for me and others to develop PTSD.

In essence, they had set me up to fail.

I was unprepared for serving in war…

for the stress and the fear of the unknown…

for the reality that I could die in service to my country…

Never mind that all of us on the ship were far away from the actual fighting.

I was still scared to death, every day we were in the Gulf. And rightly so: nobody knows when you leave home port, who’s going to live, and who’s never going to come home again… and the thought of that should scare you!

But I didn’t know that, at the time. I legitimately believed my fear was just failure on my part to accept the situation, and to face my own potential demise, with honor, and courage, the way the Navy expects us to, should the need ever arise.

It wasn’t until 20 years later, sitting in that therapist’s office, that I would ever challenge my own wrong thinking, my own assumptions and misconceptions, and allow for the possibility that, maybe, getting PTSD wasn’t my fault after all.

When I finally started to accept that I wasn’t responsible for giving myself PTSD… but that it’s something that happens to anybody when they’re in a high-stress situation like going to war… that realization allowed me to see it as something outside of myself… something that was brought on by external factors…

Something that was still with me, but not because “I’m not strong enough…” but simply because I didn’t know how to respond…

Because nobody in my chain of command ever taught me how to respond.

Hell, they didn’t even know how to recognize PTSD in 2003… and if they did, nine out of ten military leaders still wouldn’t acknowledge it. Because as far as the military is concerned, PTSD is weakness. And weak soldiers, sailors, and Marines, don’t belong in the United States military.

That is the truth — or at least, it was, twenty years ago.

I came home with PTSD because our military didn’t know how to spot it, didn’t believe it was their job to prepare servicemembers to deal with it, and didn’t want anything to do with anybody who got it.

It wasn’t my fault, at all.

It is the fault of those who refused to acknowledge:

1.) that PTSD is a human reaction to modern warfare, and

2.) that military men and women, despite all our training, are human, and are susceptible to fear, doubt, panic, and overwhelm, just like every other human being who’s ever lived.

Trauma is something that happens, not something we “cause”

It’s not something I did to myself. It’s something that was done to me, at a time in my life where I didn’t know how to respond… and so I did the only thing my mind and my heart did know how to do:

I froze.

And for twenty years, I punished myself because I froze. I remained frozen, unable to process any part of the war, until that moment in my therapist’s office, when I finally started to see it all for what it truly is.

Every day since I left the Gulf, I have experienced fear and panic, and become so overwhelmed, I couldn’t go through one single day without giving into it all.

And, because I never thought I could tell another soul how afraid I was, and because I thought I had brought it all upon myself in the first place… I couldn’t heal. I couldn’t face it long enough to start to let it go.

I couldn’t handle even thinking about the time in my life, when I was supposed to be brave, courageous, and strong, and instead I had given into fear, confusion, and chaos. I believed I had failed, and I had brought all this pain and suffering on myself.

And no one, save that one brilliant therapist, could have ever convinced me otherwise.

When I came home from the Navy, I was filled with guilt, fear, shame, and overwhelm. Add in anxiety, nightmares, depression, disconnection from my own inner self, and the feelings of isolation, confusion, and feeling misunderstood, that most veterans deal with when we transition back into civilian life…

I had the perfect recipe for total self-sabotage and ultimate self-annihilation.

And I stayed in that place, for nearly twenty years, because I thought it was where I belonged.

Because I thought I had failed as a sailor… and I had been part of a war, in which people much braver than I ever will be, made the ultimate sacrifice… and I just didn’t know how to reconcile my fear, with their courage.

And I didn’t have anybody who I felt safe talking to, about any of it. I honestly believed if I ever opened up, I would be condemned, criticized, and rejected, for being a coward, a weakling, and a failure.

That was what PTSD did to me. It took someone who was brave, who was friendly, kind, outgoing, ambitious… it took away every good thing I’d ever known… it left me alone, isolated, confused… withdrawn, angry, afraid… feeling like there was no way out, and no hope that I would ever go back to who I was before.

Hearing my therapist’s question, and acknowledging that my PTSD wasn’t my fault… but that it was something that just happened to me, the same way it happens to countless others, the world over… was the first step in learning to let all that go.

It was in that moment, when I accepted that it wasn’t my fault, that I was finally able to admit the truth, and start to get the help I desperately needed.

If you’re dealing with trauma — be it PTSD, addiction, abuse, neglect, abandonment… whatever it is…

You need to know:

You are not to blame.

You didn’t “fail” to handle the situation.

You were placed in an impossible situation, that you were never taught how to deal with… that you should never have had to deal with, in the first place…

But you did deal with it. You did survive it.

Even if it’s left a permanent scar on your psyche.

You’re still here.

Still alive.

You didn’t do anything to make yourself be abused, or abandoned, or to end up being addicted, or anxious, or afraid.

You’re not responsible for the terrible things you’ve had to endure.

And when you can realize that — and fully internalize it…

That’s when you can start to make room in your life, for real healing to take place.

And I promise you, when you’re ready to heal… when you’re ready to lay it all out there and start to put yourself back together, the way you’re supposed to be…

The way God made you to be…

Miracles can happen.

You don’t have to explain, or justify, or excuse, any of the things that have been done to you. But you do have to open up, to somebody who can help you put them all in the right perspective, so that your healing journey can begin.

You owe it to every version of yourself: past, present, and future.

And healing from your trauma? I’m telling you, that is the one thing you will never regret.

There’s still time… but you have to start now. You have to let one person in, and stop trying to carry it all on your own shoulders.

It doesn’t belong up there, anyway.

It never did.

Naming the blame game

If you’ve been carrying the lie that your trauma is your fault — this is for you.

Self-blame is sneaky. It convinces you that you should have been stronger… braver… more prepared… less afraid. But here’s the truth:

Your trauma didn’t happen because you failed. It happened because human beings aren’t built to endure certain things — and when we do, it leaves scars.

This toolkit won’t fix everything. But it will help you loosen the grip of blame — and maybe, start making room for something softer to take its place.

1. Try this: a simple reframe

When the old voice says…

“This is my fault.”

Interrupt it — gently — with:

“It wasn’t my job to prevent this. It’s my job to heal from it.”

How might it feel to let yourself believe — even for a moment — that your only job now is healing, not blaming?

2. Anchor phrase (keep this nearby):

“It wasn’t my fault. It happened to me — not because of me.”

Write it. Repeat it. Breathe with it. Especially on the days when the old story feels louder than the truth.

What changes — in your body, your heart, your mind — when you say those words and actually mean them?

3. Tiny permission slip:

You don’t have to “justify” how your trauma happened.

You don’t have to “prove” you deserve healing.

You don’t have to explain it to anyone who doesn’t get it.

Your pain is valid. Your healing is allowed.

What part of you still feels like you have to explain or defend your pain? Could you offer that part some quiet reassurance instead?

4. One hard truth (to sit with, not solve):

Sometimes the systems, people, or leaders that were supposed to protect you… didn’t.
That’s not a reflection of your worth. It’s a reflection of their failure.

What would it mean to stop carrying the blame for someone else’s failure — and start carrying compassion for yourself instead?

What happens if you believe this?

If you start to believe — even just a little — that your trauma wasn’t your fault…

The self-blame starts to crack.
The weight you’ve carried lightens.
Slowly, you make space for healing… without shame riding shotgun.

What might become possible — in your healing, your relationships, your sense of self — if you finally laid the blame down?

You didn’t cause this. You did survive it. And that takes courage. You are braver than you realize.

Self-reflection: it was never your fault

You don’t have to unpack this all at once. These questions are here to help you gently untangle from self-blame — at your pace, in your way.

There’s no pressure to have perfect answers. Just notice what stirs when you sit with each one.

1. What old story have you been telling yourself about why this happened to you?

(What words or beliefs have been looping in your mind — maybe for years — about how this was your fault?)

Write your answer.

2. If someone you love had lived through the same experience… would you blame them?

(What would you say to them? What would you want them to believe about themselves?)

Write your answer.

3. Whose responsibility was it — truly — to protect, guide, or prepare you?

(List any people, systems, or circumstances that were supposed to help you feel safe — and didn’t.)

Write your answer.

4. How has believing “this was my fault” shaped the way you see yourself today?

(In what ways has that belief made you smaller, quieter, more disconnected, or stuck?)

Write your answer.

5. If you could offer one small piece of grace or compassion to the version of you who lived through that… what would it sound like?

(It doesn’t have to be big or eloquent. Maybe just a sentence. Maybe just, “You didn’t deserve that.”)

Write your answer.

Take your time with these. There’s no rush.

Let whatever comes… come.

And if the old blame creeps back in? That’s okay. Just come back to the truth:

It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t cause this.

But you are allowed to heal from it.

Final Thought

It’s easy to look back and rewrite the story through a lens of blame. To zoom in on every moment where you were afraid.

Every conversation you avoided. Every instinct you ignored. Every wall you built to survive.

And in the quiet, unforgiving parts of your mind… it starts to sound like proof.

Proof that you failed. Proof that you weren’t strong enough. Proof that you brought this on yourself.

But that’s not the truth. That’s just what happens when fear, shame, and pain start speaking louder than compassion.

The truth is…

Blame keeps us trapped.

It convinces us we deserved what happened, and that it’s our lot in life to carry it with us, everywhere we go.

But the moment you loosen your grip on that old blame — even just a little — you make space for a different story to unfold.

A story where your pain doesn’t define you. Where your trauma isn’t your fault. And where healing, slow as it may be, is finally within reach.

You didn’t cause what happened to you. But you do deserve the chance to heal from it.

And maybe that starts by telling yourself the truth — that your trauma isn’t a reflection of your weakness… it’s an indication of what you’ve lived through.

It’s not your fault. It never was. Once you can acknowledge that, real healing is within your reach.