Trauma Bonds, Toxic Love & Learning To Be Alone

This week, I share one of the most emotionally eye-opening weekends I’ve had in years. What started as a simple weekend at the trailer with an old friend helping rebuild my deck turned into deep conversations about love, trauma bonds, emotional betrayal, autism, attachment, and why so many of us return to relationships that slowly destroy our peace. We talk honestly about divorce, reconciliation cycles, therapy, drinking to numb pain, emotional safety, and the terrifying process of learning how to sit alone with yourself after heartbreak instead of desperately searching for the next emotional escape.

I open up about the painful realization that sometimes betrayal isn’t cheating at all — sometimes it’s discovering the person beside you allowed others to ridicule you, disrespect you, and laugh at your pain behind your back. I also reflect on why so many people rush into new relationships after heartbreak, how trauma bonds can feel like passion, and why healing often begins the moment you stop romanticizing the reconnect. Most importantly, this episode is about learning the difference between attention and safety, and why protecting your peace eventually becomes more important than chasing love that comes with chaos.

Song of the Week: “I Got Better” by Morgan Wallen — a reflective country song that perfectly captures what healing after toxic love really sounds like. Not revenge. Not bitterness. Just relief. Quietly realizing that after all the heartbreak, obsession, emotional swings, and sleepless nights… you actually got better.

Transcript

Curious Questions And Wrong Assumptions

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So last weekend I spent some time with some friends that came to help me extend my deck, and I spent a little bit of time with someone from my past as well, and old friends with benefits. But prior to their arrival, it was quite funny because this was the first weekend that I was have been here where I've seen the majority of old trailer park people here. And one in particular dropped off some wood, and he's like, Is the husband still working? And I'm like, no. He wasn't my husband. He got cirrhosis and the wife came back. Or the ex came back. And I'm like, you know what, dude? She came back before two. And then I said, and he wasn't my husband. My ex-husband has actually been dead for three years and it's our wedding anniversary today. And he stopped dead in his tracks. And he said, Well, I'm really sorry I asked. I'm like, no, you know what? It's only healthy. Could people ask questions and they want to know what's going on. So kudos to you. And then later on in the weekend, my friend and I went over to a friend's place for a fire. There was a lady there that I guess I met before, but I don't recall. And she's like, Oh my god, where's your husband? And I'm like, not here. Actually, my ex-husband is dead. But he was never my husband, the guy that came here, and he's long gone. So it was quite funny how these good people are so innately curious because it's, you know, we we assume things about people around us, and sometimes we just assume wrong, and it was quite funny. But you know what's even funnier? That this whole Friends of Benefits came and he did an amazing job building my deck. And before anybody listening

A Friends With Benefits Weekend Reset

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gets excited thinking this is about rekindled romance or some spicy cottage weekend story, relax. It actually became one of the most emotionally eye-opening weekends I've had in a long time. He came down to help restructure, I said, like I said, part of my deck at the trailer. We spent the weekend outside. After our other friends left, we sat around the fire talking about life, relationships, autism, love on the spectrum, the past, just real conversations, just honest ones. And Friday night, sure, there could have been that moment of should we? But instead I found myself explaining why I didn't want that anymore. Why I don't think I can do casual relationships anymore. And honestly, we just talked for half an hour and fell asleep. And weirdly enough, that meant more to me than sex probably would have. Because I don't care what this generation says, I don't think intimacy is casual. I think emotions attach themselves to people, whether we admit it or not. Especially when you're someone who loves deeply. And after everything I've been through the past few years, I've realized something. Sitting around that fire, I'm just not angry anymore. And it really shocked me. I'm not sitting here full of rage towards my marriage and my last relationship. I'm not consumed with revenge. I'm not even heartbroken anymore. What I am is embarrassed. That's the emotion I couldn't identify for months. Embarrassment. Feeling foolished. Because when I look back now, there were moments where I abandoned myself completely trying to prove I wasn't running away. I remember

Betrayal That Was Not Cheating

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my therapist begging me not to go back to my previous relationship, literally begging me, was too soon after my parents' death. And instead of listening to the therapist, I dropped the therapist. And one of the things I showed my friends this weekend was a text exchange I had received a long time ago. During that time I was getting back together with him. It was between my ex partner and his ex wife. His daughter had sent it to me, and in those messages she called me a piggy piggy oink oink. Now listen, I've been judged my entire life for weight. That part sadly isn't new. What broke me wasn't even her saying it. It was seeing the way he spoke about me, the way he participated in those conversations while still laying beside me at night, pretending he loved me. And I sat there this weekend realizing, oh my god, that's why I never felt emotionally safe. It wasn't just that people around those tables judge me. It's that the man sitting beside me allowed it, joined in on it, and laughed with it. And I think that's part that's part nobody talks enough about when it becomes when it comes to betrayal. Sometimes the betrayal isn't cheating. Sometimes it's realizing the person who was supposed to protect your heart was handing people the knife. And even now in 2026, this man checks my website constantly. Constantly. The web views don't lie. I sit there and sometimes think, wow, if this is what I can see now, how much was happening back then that I couldn't see? How many conversations was I defending while they were happening behind my back? And strangely enough, instead of making me bitter, it made me peaceful. In fact, I wrote him a little note on my blog because he checks in so often. I've I understand why being alone feels so safe lately. Why sitting at the trailer with good friends, laughing around a fire feels healthier than forcing myself into relationships where lowly loyalty only existed when I was physically in the room. And maybe that's what healing actually is not becoming harder, not becoming colder, just finally refusing to sit at tables where your heart is in the punchline. Sorry about that. But I'm staying. I gotta do this and then I'll play online. I was listening to Christina Applegate's book, You with the Sad Eyes, and there was this moment where she spoke with such raw anger, passionate anger, and it was from a long time ago. It's the kind of anger where you can tell someone has moved forward in life, but they still fully remember the hurt. And boy, when I listened to it, I understood it. Because I do feel that passionate anger at times when I think about things during this journey. But I I think society gets uncomfortable when people express pain out loud, especially women. Especially women who articulate it well. But the truth is the most successful and emotionally intelligent people I know are the ones willing to say the hard things out loud. They don't bury their experiences, they don't pretend things didn't happen, they don't pretend things didn't affect them. They articulate what broke them, what changed them, what healed them, and what they'll never tolerate again. And it's not bitterness, it's awareness. It's helping one other person wake up and realize how much enough they are. And I've watched so many people around me jump immediately from one relationship into another because they can't stand the silence that comes after heartbreak. They can't sit alone long enough to unpack what actually happened to them. A friend of mine comes to mind. Around the same time my own relationship ended, she met someone new almost immediately, divorced, fell in love quickly, got married, had a child, and then over time she discovered just how much abuse a person can solely endure while still convincing themselves it's love. Now she shares little excerpts online, sometimes stories about the arguments, the emotional damage, the impact on the children, the chaos blended families can sometimes carry when healing never happened before the next relationship began. And honestly, my heart truly breaks for her. Because nobody should ever have to crawl into bed beside someone they love while simultaneously feeling unsafe, unwanted, criticized, controlled, or emotionally destroyed by that same person. That's not love. And I think that's why I've become so protective of my peace lately. People assume being alone must be lonely, but sometimes being alone is the first time your nervous system has actually been able to rest. No walking on eggshells, no wondering who's talking about you behind your back,

Why Being Alone Can Feel Safe

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no trying to prove your worth to someone who benefits from your inner security. Just peace. And maybe that's why I don't feel desperate to jump into another relationship anymore. Because for the first time in a very long time, I'm learning the difference between attention and safety. They are not the same thing. And you know what the saddest realization is? Sometimes the people who hurt you the most aren't sitting somewhere feeling guilt or reflecting on the damage they caused. Sometimes they're sitting around tables laughing, moving on, making jokes about you, rewriting history in ways that makes themselves feel better. Stronger, better, stronger. And when you finally realize it, it changes something in you. Because people like me, and honestly, probably a lot of people listening, submit spend so much time trying to understand the pain, unpack the betrayal, heal the damage, grow for it, grow from it, while the people who caused it seem perfectly comfortable, carrying none of it at all. Then that's the part that messes with your head. It makes you question everything. Is the world really just? Do people actually get what they deserve? Is love even worth risking yourself for again? And lately I've asked myself that a lot, whether it's even worth entering a relationship, friends of benefit, dating, long-term love, any of it. Because every relationship starts beautifully. Nobody walks into love expecting humiliation, betrayal, emotional cruelty, or loneliness beside someone they trusted. Nobody says, hmm, I hope one day this person helps destroy my confidence. But I think the mistake we make after heartbreak is believing the lesson is never love again. Maybe the real lesson is learning to recognize the tables you should never sit at. Because healthy love doesn't require you to shrink yourself to survive it. Healthy love doesn't humiliate you privately and praise you publicly. Healthy love protects your dignity, even when you're absent from the room. And honestly, I don't know if I I'll ever f fully trust another relationship again. Maybe I will, maybe I won't. But I do know this. I would rather sit alone at a campfire feeling peaceful than sit beside someone in a relationship feeling I'm emotionally unsafe and know that he's supporting people talking ignorantly about me. And that's not giving up on love. That's finally understanding my own value. And you know what else I've realized through all this? I think I was incredibly ignorant for 48 years about how relationships actually work. Not because I'm stupid, not because I lacked life experience, but because I spent most of my adult life being a wife, raising kids, working, surviving, keeping busy. I wasn't out navigating modern dating, emotional unavailability, relationship addiction, trauma bonding, social media games, betrayal cycles, all the things people quietly battle now. I remember after my ex-husband and I spit out on the phone with a friend, completely panicked, Googling, how long should someone wait after a long-term marriage before dating again? And Google came back with something ridiculous, like a specialist said, two or three years. I remember thinking, oh my god, I have to survive feeling like this for years before I find love again. That terrified me. And now I completely understand why people say to wait. Because when betrayal first happens, you're starving emotionally. Absolutely starving. You're not looking for love yet, you're looking for relief. You're looking for the next emotional hit that makes you forget the rejection, the abandonment, the humiliation, the grief. And I'm proof that even therapy sometimes can't compete with the hope of finding love again. You put blinders on, you ignore things, you rationalize things, you settle for breadcrumbs because the loneliness feels unbearable. And in my case, I found someone who matched my chaos at the time. We drank together a lot, we escaped together, we avoided pain together, and no, my drinking was not his fault. I'll never put that on anybody. That part belongs to me, but I absolutely chose someone who made it easier to drown instead of heal. And somewhere in that mess, I fell in lust, and I fell in lust hard. For four months it felt intense, exciting, comforting, until reality eventually walked back into the room in the form of an ex-wife. Weddings, old cycles, old attachments, old patterns, old manipulation. And honestly, I didn't even think the saddest part was losing the relationship. The saddest part was realizing how desperate I had been to avoid sitting alone with myself. That's what I wish more people understood after betrayal. Do not rush your healing because you're terrified love won't come again. Do not hand your broken heart to the purse first person willing to hold it. Please don't mistake attention for safety. Take the time, take all of it if you need to. Because real love, whether that's learning to love yourself while living peacefully alone, or eventually finding someone emotionally safe, will never require you to abandon yourself to keep it. And I truly believe that now. The right person won't sit around tables tearing you apart while pretending to love you afterwards. The right protect person protects your dignity even when you're not in the room. And I can honestly say, even though I talk about these experiences, when I sit around the table, my children, my grandson, even my friends, I don't sit around bashing. I don't sit around calling names. I don't let them call names. We talk about the past. We talk about the laughs. That's it. Because those are the tables that show respect for people that were in your life. And one of the mistakes that people make after betrayal is thinking healing means finding someone better. It doesn't. Healing is breaking the cycle that made you return to pain in the first place. And trust me, cyclical relationships are addictive. The highs feel incredible because the lows are so devastating. Your nervous system starts confusing inconsistency with passion. Chaos starts feeling familiar. Attention feels like love. Reconciliation feels like healing. And how do I know that? Because I went back to my ex partner three times. And reconciliation is not healing. So if you generally want to stop returning to the same emotional cycle, here are the things I've learned the hard way. Stop romanticizing

How To Break The Reconnect Cycle

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the reconnect. Every time someone comes back, we tend to replay the best memories and minimize the worst ones. But the cycle usually returns because the core issues never changed. Missing someone is not proof that they were healthy for you. And sit through the withdrawal, because that's what it is sometimes, emotional withdrawal, especially after intense relationships. Your brain craves the dopamine hit, the texting, the affection, the chaos, the makeup moments. Loneliness will try to convince you to reopen doors that nearly destroyed you. Don't listen immediately. Sit in at first. And watch actions when sober minded. One thing that changed everything for me was drinking less and observing more the last time I went out with him. When you stop numbing yourself, patterns become impossible to ignore. You start seeing peop seeing how people actually speak to you, protect you, respect you, or fail to. Stop confusing being chol chosen with being valued. Someone wanting you back does not automatically mean they're capable of loving you properly. Sometimes people return because you're familiar, comforting, validating, or available. Not because they've healed. But this happens so often. Build a life that feels safe without romance. This one is huge. Friendships, hobbies, campfires, do work you love, start a podcast, go for a walk, spend time with family, and become part of the community. The more peaceful your independent life becomes, the less willing you are to trade that peace for emotional instability. And pay attention to your body. I've gained a lot of weight. Your body usually knows before your heart admits it. Anxiety, constant overthinking, overeating, feeling emotionally unsafe, walking on eggshells, obsessing. Those aren't signs of deep love. They're often signs your nervous system does not trust the environment you're in. And real healing is staying gone long enough to rediscover yourself. Don't punish yours punish you're not punishing yourself with loneliness. Rediscovering yourself is so important. Because eventually something beautiful happens. You stop craving the person and you start craving peace. And once peace becomes your priority, cycles lose their power over you. And there's a song I keep coming back to while thinking about all this. It's called I Got Better by Morgan Wallen.

When Healing Sounds Like Relief

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And not because it's angry and not because it's petty, but because it quietly captures something people don't talk about enough after Toxic Love. Sometimes healing doesn't look dramatic, it just looks calmer. The rhythm of the song is steady and reflective. It's not some huge revenge anthem where someone's screaming about how terrible the other person was. It almost sounds emotionally exhausted at first, like someone sitting alone at night replaying years of memories while realizing they survived them. But that what what this whole conversation feels like, that's what this whole conversation feels like to me. Not rage, like recognition. There's a line where he talks about getting better after relationship ended. And that's what hit me, because for the longest time after betrayal, you think healing means getting the person back or proving you were lovable enough or finally being chosen, but then one day you wake up and realize you're sleeping better, you're drinking less, you're laughing out loud louder, you're not obsessing as much, your nervous system finally feels quiet. And suddenly the absence of chaos feels better than the presence of love ever did. The song has this late night country sound to it, almost like driving back roads after finally admitting hard truths to yourself. It doesn't rush emotionally, and that's why it works for this story because healing doesn't rush either. And the lyrics don't really sound triumphant, they sound relieved, and that's a huge difference. Because I think for a long time I confused intensity with love, the up. Ups and the downs and the breakups and the reconciliations, the drinking and the obsession, the constant emotional swings. I thought that depth meant meant passion. But peace, peace felt unfamiliar. Now I understand that peace is actually the goal. When I hear that song, I don't think about winning the breakup. I don't think about revenge. I didn't even think about him as much anymore. I think the version of myself sitting at the trailer now is sober-minded enough to finally see everything clearly, realizing, oh my God, I actually got better. So back to my initial story. My friend stayed three nights helping rebuild my deck of the trailer. And honestly, I don't think he realizes how much more he rebuilt than

Honesty That Calms The Nervous System

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wood and railings this weekend. I was so grateful for the hard work, obviously, but more than that, I was thankful for the conversations, the honesty, the laughter around the fire, the way all my friends immediately welcomed him in while quietly trying to figure out who the hell he was and where the husband had disappeared to. And for the first time in a long time, nothing felt forced. No games, no pretending, no performance. Just two people talking honestly about life, relationships, heartbreak, neurodivergence, mistakes, loneliness, healing, all of it. Before he left, I gave him a hug and thanked him again. And then something came out of my mouth that felt incredibly natural, even though it surprised me when I said it. I love you. You were one of my blessings from the past few years. And I meant it. But it wasn't romantic, I love you. Not possessive, I love you, not desperate, I love you. Just purely, I love you. Because this pret friend could have protected himself. He could have kept quiet about what he knew regarding my past relationship and his friendship with my ex-husband. It probably would have been easier, less uncomfortable, less risky. Instead, he chose to be honest with me. And at one point he simply said, I can't lie. Autism doesn't allow me to. And that sentence kind of resonated with me. Because what I've realized lately is that honesty feels different in your nervous system. You relax around it, you relax around the person that you know is telling the truth. You don't have to decode it. You don't have to overanalyze timelines and make signals and hidden meetings and secret conversations or shifting stories. Truth actually has a calmness to it. And after years of confusion, manipulation, back talk, betrayal, and emotional chaos, calm honesty feels almost sacred to me now. Maybe why that's why last weekend affected me so deeply. Not because I found romance, because I didn't, but because I found proof that safe people still exist.