There are days when everything feels “off,” when life seems gray and heavy. For those who live with trauma, these moments can arrive like ambushes — a sound, a season, or a smell that drags us back into memories we never asked to revisit. Therapy can teach us how to cope, but coping isn’t erasing. The past doesn’t vanish; it lingers like an echo.

We all know the power of memory. Grief, for example, has no timeline. The loss of a loved one can resurface years later with the force of yesterday, sparked by a song, a place, or on a specific date. Trauma is much the same. It isn’t a choice to remember. The memories come when they want, and we are left to carry them.

For years, autumn was my favorite season. I loved the cool mornings, the color in the trees, the relief from summer’s heat (Ok, I’m starting to miss the heat a bit). But, now fall carries a different weight. As an early teenager, I endured sexual abuse for several years by the same person who was suppose to be trustworthy. I didn’t tell anyone for three decades. I didn’t even allow myself to think about it. Silence, however, is not the same as healing. The memories return, uninvited, like a bad dream that never fully ends. Add to that the ordinary challenges of life — losses, disappointments, the sharp words of others — and sometimes the burden feels unbearable.

My career was built around people, especially students, who were the best part of the work. But pleasing everyone, enduring constant opinions, and living under a microscope takes its toll. I eventually realized something freeing: I don’t have to care about every opinion. If I wouldn’t go to someone for advice, why should I let their gossip or judgment shape my self-worth? These days, I value peace over approval. Gossip is a sport I refuse to play.

People come and go in life. A handful of good friends is more than enough. I don’t seek to be the center of attention or surround myself with drinking buddies. I’d rather have one thoughtful conversation about real ideas than ten shallow chats about the weather.

Still, triggers are unavoidable. Ordinary moments can stir extraordinary pain. When that happens, I don’t need someone to “fix” me. What I need is space — and understanding. Too often, we say we value kindness, yet our actions betray us. We gossip. We judge. We assume we know another person’s story. But those who are struggling feel those assumptions, even if they never hear the words.

That is why I share these experiences openly. Not for sympathy, but so others know they are not alone, that their reactions aren’t strange or shameful. On a hard day, one voice of compassion can lift us up. But the opposite is also true: one careless whisper, one smirk, one word of judgment can deepen the wound.

Every one of us has a choice. We can be the voice that harms — or the voice that helps someone endure a day when everything feels impossible.