27. PMTS: The Shadow of Childhood Trauma

My medical history began early, with back problems that shaped my life from a young age. Diagnoses, surgeries, and hospitalizations were a constant presence, as if my body was always a battlefield. It was only much later that I understood these experiences had left not only physical scars, but deep emotional ones as well. Those early hospital experiences fall under what is known as pediatric medical traumatic stress (PMTS). It is not just about the painful procedures or the physical limitations, but especially about the emotional impact of those moments—the feeling that I had no control over what was happening to my body, the fear that came with every new admission, and the separation from my parents during those times—the very people who normally gave me comfort and safety—making everything even more intense.

After my first surgeries, I thought I had been through the worst. But the truth is that the stress and fear I felt as a child never truly disappeared. They intertwined with other experiences and formed something larger: complex trauma. Every time I was in the hospital, it felt as if I lost another piece of my autonomy. Whether it was the weights attached to my body to stretch my spine, or doctors discussing surgical plans as if I weren’t even there, I felt powerless. It wasn’t just the procedures themselves, but the realization that I had no choice, that I was dependent on others. That sense of powerlessness followed me long after my back was physically “repaired,” creeping into my life in moments where I felt I was losing control again—within relationships, within motherhood—again and again that same fear resurfaced: the feeling that I had no say, that I had to go along with whatever was happening, whether I wanted to or not.

The impact of these experiences is not always visible, but I feel it in my reactions. In every medical situation—whether it concerns my own health or that of my children—I feel a wave of stress that pulls me back to those hospital beds. It is as if my body remembers what my mind tries to forget. These memories are not only tied to physical pain, but also to the emotional isolation I experienced at the time. I can now see how those early experiences laid the foundation for how I deal with stress and anxiety. I learned early on that control is an illusion, and that shaped me—but it also taught me how to fight, how to keep going despite feelings of powerlessness, how to get back up every time, even when it feels like I keep falling.

Understanding what PMTS and complex trauma are has helped me make sense of my own story. It gave me words for things I had always felt but could never name. It helped me see that the scars I carry—visible and invisible—are real. And maybe that is the first step toward healing: acknowledging that what I went through cannot simply be erased or brushed aside, that its impact runs through my life, but that I can also use it to grow stronger. It is not an easy process, but it starts with that recognition—that the shadow of my surgeries was large, but that I have grown larger through everything I have endured.

When you know how fragile a body can be, when you know from experience how one wrong movement can make the difference between walking and never walking again, you begin to see the world differently. My medical history had not only made me stronger, but also hyper-aware of danger. I saw risks before others did, felt panic before anything had even happened. Where other parents saw a small scrape, I saw a possible spinal cord injury. Where others saw harmless fun, I saw potential disaster. Wordfather didn’t have that. He didn’t carry that constant awareness of how quickly things can go wrong. For him, life was lighter. Maybe he was right. Maybe he was simply more relaxed. But to me, it felt reckless, like unnecessary risk with our children’s safety at stake.

I can still see it clearly—how he pushed the children on the swing, higher and higher, while I stood there with my heart racing. “Not so high!” I would call out, but he would laugh it off. “They like it.” Maybe they did. But all I could think about was what would happen if their hands slipped, if their small bodies hit the ground hard. It didn’t stop with swings. I forbade running on gravel, afraid of falls that could go wrong. I stepped in whenever I sensed danger. I protected them—but maybe I protected them too much. I was so used to being in constant battle with my own body and its vulnerability that I wanted to spare them from that same reality. But was that even possible?

There were moments when my fear was not just in my head, but became real. Like the time Wordfather went out on the water with Professorson during a thunderstorm. I had warned him: “This is not a good idea.” But he brushed it off, as if I was overreacting again. And then the storm broke. I remember rushing with Riddle Daughter and her friend, packing everything and running to the car while the sky tore open with lightning. I sat there with a pounding heart, staring at the water, hoping I had been wrong. Only when they returned safely could I breathe again. And it wasn’t the only time. After our divorce, he once drove the children to his mother despite severe weather warnings. I could do nothing but wait and hope. When I heard the highway had been closed, relief washed over me—they were safe, this time.

I wanted to protect them from pain, from accidents, from the consequences I had lived through myself. But somewhere I also knew I was going too far. That I couldn’t raise them in a world without risk. That I was limiting their freedom because I knew how fragile life could be. Maybe Wordfather was right in being more relaxed. Maybe I was right in not underestimating risks. But in all those moments where I feared for their safety, where I felt their vulnerability as if it were my own, there was one thing I knew for certain: I couldn’t let it go. Because I knew exactly what it felt like when things do go wrong—and I couldn’t let that happen to them if I had any way to prevent it.

My urge to protect didn’t only come from what I knew about injuries and accidents. It became even stronger when my Riddle daughter got sick. Not an external accident, not something visible, but something from within—something I had no control over. And that made it unbearable. I remember sitting beside her as she lay in bed, her body weak and feverish, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. What if it got worse? What if this was the beginning of something bigger? I had learned how to prevent accidents, how to stay alert to external dangers, but here I stood powerless. I couldn’t protect her from what was happening inside her body. That feeling—of panic, of realizing that even all your caution and care are not enough—shaped me. Maybe that is why I was always on edge in other situations, because I knew what it felt like to watch helplessly, and I refused to be in that position again.

☕️ A cup of comfort

Sometimes the struggle begins before your child even gets the chance to simply be.
Sometimes you learn far too early that a body can let you down.
That pain is not always visible.
And that “being strong” means continuing, even when all you want is to lie still.
For you, who learned as a child what it feels like to be powerless.
For you, who as a mother now does everything to prevent your child from experiencing that same pain.
For you, who stays alert at every fever, every cough, every risk.
Not because you exaggerate, but because you know.
You know what it is to lose something.
Even if it was “only” trust.
Maybe sometimes you feel too worried.
Maybe others tell you to let go, to relax, to not always expect the worst.
But they do not know what you have felt, what you have endured, what you have survived.
They do not know the smell of hospital hallways the way you do.
Know this:
You are not too afraid.
You are not weak.
You are someone who learned to fight before there were words to explain it.
And even if you sometimes stumble over your own fears, that too is love.
So today… breathe in.
And out.
Place your hand on your heart.
And softly say to that child you once were—and to the mother you are now:
“You have held on for so long. You are allowed to be a little softer now.” ❤️