Yesterday, I was binge-watching The Pitt with my oldest daughter.

I had convinced myself that if I dangled Dr. Robbie in front of my own attention span, I could finally catch up on the laundry that had been staring at me for three days. It worked… sort of. The laundry got done, but somewhere between folding towels and matching socks, I stopped being in my living room and got pulled fully into the world of that hospital.

If you haven’t seen The Pitt, here’s the quick version: it’s a high-intensity medical drama that follows an emergency room team navigating one relentless crisis after another. It doesn’t romanticize the job. It doesn’t soften the edges. It shows you what happens when human beings are placed in situations where the stakes are constantly life or death, and there is no real off switch.

And at the center of it is Dr. Robbie.

From the very first episode, you can tell something isn’t right. Not in a dramatic, over-the-top way, but in the quiet, familiar way that only really lands if you’ve lived it. There’s a heaviness to him. A tension just under the surface. You know this day matters, that it’s loaded, but you’re not told why right away.

As the season unfolds, the pressure builds. One high-stakes situation after another, each one requiring him to stay sharp, stay composed, stay functional. And then the breaking point comes, not in isolation, but layered on top of everything else he’s already been carrying.

When the hospital is hit with a truly horrific crisis, you don’t just see him responding to what’s happening in front of him. You see his past catching up to him in real time. The memories don’t stay in the past. They collide with the present. His body reacts before his mind can organize it. Everything starts to blur together.

And then he breaks.

Curled up, praying, sobbing, completely overwhelmed in a way that feels raw and unfiltered. And what struck me the most wasn’t just the breakdown itself, but what came after. Watching him try to pull himself back together because people still needed him. Watching him force himself upright, step back into his role, even though you could see that something had shifted. His patience was thinner. His reactions sharper. He was still functioning, still showing up, but it was leaking out of him.

My daughter kept glancing over at me while we were watching.

Eventually, she asked, “You don’t find this triggering?”

And I didn’t even hesitate.

“No,” I told her. “I find it comforting.”

Because I know what it feels like to be Dr. Robbie.

No, I’m not an emergency room doctor. I didn’t stand in the middle of a global pandemic watching patients die in waves. I will never pretend that I understand the full weight of what healthcare workers carried during that time.

But I do know what it’s like to live inside a high-stress environment for so long that your nervous system stops knowing the difference between “then” and “now.”

I know what it’s like to keep going because people are counting on you, even when your internal world is unraveling.

I know what it’s like to have your brain pull old memories to the surface without your permission, not as distant recollections, but as something immediate and urgent, as if your body believes it’s happening all over again.

I know what it’s like to function… and still be overwhelmed.

Not long ago, someone said to me, “Everyone is talking about PTSD lately.”

And they’re right.

More and more people are talking about PTSD, and not because it suddenly became more common, but because the rest of the world is finally starting to catch up to something many of us have known for a long time:

Let me be clear about something before we go any further. The PTSD experienced by service members is real. It is profound. It deserves respect, care, and visibility. I will never pretend to understand the specific horrors of combat or the memories that come with it.

But I do understand what it means for your brain to change after prolonged stress. I understand what it feels like when your nervous system no longer responds the way it used to. I understand the disorientation of trying to continue life as normal while your internal world has fundamentally shifted.

I was formally assessed and diagnosed with PTSD by a licensed professional a few years ago. And instead of dismissing it or minimizing it, I did what I tend to do: I went looking for answers. I wanted to understand what was happening in my mind, in my body, and why.

My PTSD did not come from war.

It came from long-term emotional abuse.

It came from living in an environment where stress wasn’t occasional; it was constant. Where unpredictability was the norm. Where I was trying to navigate not only the harm being done to me, but the escalation of that harm as addiction entered the picture and intensified everything.

Over time, my nervous system adapted the only way it knew how.

It stayed on.

Always scanning.
Always anticipating.
Always trying to stay one step ahead of what might happen next.

The more accurate diagnosis for me, and for many people whose trauma didn’t come from a single event, is Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, or C-PTSD.

C-PTSD develops through prolonged exposure to stress and repeated traumatic experiences. It isn’t about one moment that changed everything. It’s about a pattern your body had to survive inside of, over and over again, until that state of survival became your baseline.

And that’s part of why it’s so misunderstood.

Because it doesn’t always have a clean, identifiable “before and after.”
Because the symptoms are layered.
Because the triggers are multiple and sometimes unclear.
Because the healing process is not linear or simple.

And to make it even more complicated, C-PTSD is not formally recognized in the DSM-5.

Which means people with complex trauma histories often fall into gray areas within the mental health system. They are misdiagnosed, overlooked, or labeled with disorders that don’t fully capture what they’re actually experiencing.

I cannot tell you how many people I’ve spoken to who were told they were “too sensitive,” “too reactive,” or “too much,” when in reality, their nervous system was doing exactly what it had been trained to do: survive.

What PTSD Actually Is (And What It Isn’t)

PTSD is not defined by where it came from. It’s defined by what happens when the brain and body are exposed to more stress than they can process in the moment.

When that happens, the nervous system shifts into survival mode: fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. And in many cases, it doesn’t fully return to baseline afterward.

Instead, it stays primed.

Hyperaware.
Reactive.
Protective.

This can show up as:

• Intrusive memories or flashbacks

• Nightmares or disrupted sleep

• Hypervigilance and a constant sense of alertness

• Emotional overwhelm or shutdown

• Irritability or sudden shifts in mood

• Difficulty concentrating or feeling present

• A persistent sense that something isn’t safe, even when nothing is actively wrong

And while these symptoms are often associated with a single traumatic event, they can also develop through repeated exposure to stress over time.

PTSD vs. C-PTSD: Different Paths, Same Nervous System

Traditional PTSD is often tied to a specific incident, a car accident, an assault, or a single life-threatening event.

C-PTSD, on the other hand, comes from environments where the stress doesn’t stop. Where there is no clear escape. Where your body learns that it cannot relax, because something could always happen next.

This is why someone like Dr. Abbott and someone like Dr. Robbie can both have PTSD, and yet their experiences can feel different.

Dr. Abbott’s trauma may be rooted in combat.
Dr. Robbie’s trauma is rooted in prolonged, repeated exposure to crisis during COVID.

And both are valid.

In fact, they can overlap.

Someone with traditional PTSD can go on to develop C-PTSD if they are repeatedly exposed to high-stress environments without adequate recovery.

Trauma is not contained to a single chapter.

It accumulates.

The Harm in Gatekeeping Trauma

Somewhere along the way, we created a hierarchy of trauma.

As if certain experiences are “worthy” of PTSD, and others are not. As if suffering needs to meet a specific threshold before it’s allowed to count.

And that belief keeps people stuck.

Because instead of seeking support, they start questioning themselves.

“It wasn’t that bad.”
“Other people had it worse.”
“I should be over this by now.”

But PTSD is not a competition.

Your nervous system does not measure your pain against someone else’s before deciding how to respond.

If your body learned to survive something, that matters.

So Let’s Be Clear

You do not need a war story for your trauma to be real.

You do not need to justify your symptoms to deserve support.

And you do not need to minimize what happened to you just because it makes other people more comfortable.

If your body is still carrying it…
if your mind still returns to it…
if your nervous system is still responding to it… then it was enough.

And you are allowed to name it.

If This Resonated With You

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself in these words, I want you to know that you are not broken, and you are not alone.

PTSD can feel isolating, confusing, and at times overwhelming, but there are ways to work with your nervous system instead of constantly feeling like you’re fighting against it. Support can look different for everyone, and it’s okay to find what feels safe and accessible to you.

If you’re looking for additional support, here are a few places to start:

• The National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI) offers education, support groups, and resources for individuals navigating PTSD and other mental health challenges.

• The Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA) has a free, confidential helpline (1-800-662-HELP) and a treatment locator to find providers in your area.

• The National Center for PTSD provides research-backed information, self-help tools, and guidance specifically for trauma recovery.

• If you are in immediate distress, you can call or text 988, the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, to speak with someone right away.

And if you’re drawn to a more body-based, subconscious approach to healing, I want you to know that this is the work I do.

I am trained and certified in hypnosis for PTSD, and my approach is centered around helping you safely reconnect with your nervous system, process what your body has been holding, and begin to rebuild a sense of internal safety, at your pace, and in a way that honors your experience.

You don’t have to force yourself to “just move on.”
You don’t have to keep white-knuckling your way through it.

Healing is possible. And you deserve support while you get there.