People say, “To love yourself, you can’t hate the experiences that made you who you are.” But that’s not always true, is it?
Because what if those experiences were painful? What if they broke you in ways you’re still trying to fix? What if they took things from you that you will never get back? What if they weren’t lessons, but wounds—wounds that never fully healed, wounds that still hurt when you think about them, wounds that changed you but also took away your peace?
It’s okay to hate them.
It’s okay to hate the nights you cried yourself to sleep, feeling completely alone. It’s okay to hate the memories that come back without warning, making you relive the pain. It’s okay to hate the way those experiences made you doubt yourself, made you feel unworthy, made you think that suffering was just part of life.
Loving yourself doesn’t mean you have to be thankful for the pain that shaped you.
Growth doesn’t require you to be grateful for the suffering that forced you to change. You can love who you are now and still be angry at the things that hurt you. You can be proud of how far you’ve come without pretending that the journey was good.
Because not everything happens for a reason. Some things just happen. Some things should have never happened. And some things will never be okay, no matter how much time passes.
You don\’t have to find meaning in your suffering. You don’t have to believe that it was necessary just to make peace with it. Some pain doesn’t come with a lesson. Some scars don’t hold wisdom—only reminders of what you survived. And that’s enough.
You are allowed to hate the experiences that shaped you.
But here’s what you should never hate—yourself.
You are not to blame for what happened to you. You are not weak for struggling because of it. And you are not ungrateful for wishing things had been different.
You didn’t deserve the pain, but you do deserve to heal. You do deserve peace. You do deserve to move forward, carrying only what helps you and letting go of what doesn’t.
So if you need to, hate those experiences. Hate them for what they took from you, for how they changed you, for the weight they forced you to carry.
But never, ever hate yourself for surviving them.
The Scars That Don’t Deserve Gratitude
Your wounds don’t need to be sacred. The pain that lingers in your bones, the memories that surface without warning—they aren’t lessons waiting to be decoded. Some experiences carve into us like uninvited surgeons, leaving marks that never fully fade. These aren’t badges of honor; they’re simply evidence of survival.
Consider the way your body remembers:
- The insomnia that started after the betrayal, when sleep became a battleground of replaying conversations
- The flinch reflex when someone raises their voice, though the danger passed years ago
- The hollow space where trust used to live, now filled with constant calculations of risk
These aren’t character-building exercises. They’re neurological imprints, physiological responses to what shouldn’t have been endured. Trauma recovery isn’t about polishing these wounds into pearls of wisdom—it’s about acknowledging their persistent reality.
Three truths about unhealed wounds:
- They disobey timelines – The anniversary you thought wouldn’t affect you still tightens your chest
- They resist positivity – No amount of “what didn’t kill you” reframing stops the nightmares
- They demand recognition – Not as teachers, but as injuries requiring care
“But what if these pains never had meaning?” The question itself liberates. It removes the obligation to transform agony into enlightenment. Some fractures don’t make us stronger—they just limit our range of motion until we learn to move differently within our new constraints.
Notice the difference between:
- Pain with purpose (voluntary growth through challenge)
- Pain as violation (forced suffering that leaves residue)
The latter doesn’t need justification. It needs witnessing. Your right to resent certain scars doesn’t negate your capacity for self-love—it proves it. Because only someone who values their wholeness would protest its violation.
Transition: When we stop demanding meaning from every wound, we create space for a more urgent question: not “Why did this happen?” but “How do I live with what remains?”
When Pain Is Just Pain
We’ve been told a comforting lie: Everything happens for a reason. That our darkest moments secretly carry gifts—hidden lessons that will reveal themselves in time. But what if that isn’t true? What if some experiences leave scars without wisdom, wounds without purpose?
The Myth of Meaningful Suffering
Consider Sarah’s story (name changed for privacy):
“After my assault, people kept saying, ‘You’ll grow from this.’ But seven years later, I haven’t found any ‘silver lining.’ The panic attacks still come. I don’t feel stronger—I feel tired. The only ‘lesson’? That terrible things happen to good people for no reason.”
Sarah’s experience reflects a 2022 Journal of Traumatic Stress study finding that 72% of trauma survivors reported increased distress when pressured to find meaning in their pain. Yet our cultural narrative persists:
- “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”
- “God/the universe never gives you more than you can handle”
- “Be grateful—it made you who you are”
These platitudes, however well-intentioned, create what psychologists call secondary wounding—the shame of failing to transform pain into enlightenment.
The Liberation of Letting Go
Here’s the radical truth few acknowledge: Some trauma doesn’t come with a lesson. Some suffering exists outside the tidy arc of redemption stories. And that’s okay.
You might recognize these unanswerable questions:
- “Why did this happen to me?”
- “What was I supposed to learn?”
- “How could a loving universe allow this?”
What if the healthiest step isn’t finding answers—but releasing the need for them? As researcher Dr. Linda Graham notes: “Healing begins when we stop interrogating our pain and start listening to it.”
Your Permission Slip
Today, I invite you to:
- Release the ‘meaning mandate’
Not every storm brings rainbows. Some just leave mud. - Honor the ‘useless’ wounds
That childhood neglect? The abusive relationship? The miscarriage? They might never make sense—and that doesn’t invalidate your healing. - Redirect your energy
Instead of asking “Why this?” try “What now?” (We’ll explore practical steps in Chapter 4)
“Some scars aren’t lessons. They’re just proof you survived something that should have never happened.”
This isn’t pessimism—it’s profound self-honesty. When we stop forcing meaning onto pain, we create space for something more authentic: healing without explanation, growth without gratitude.
Hating the Experience, Not Yourself
There’s a crucial distinction between hating what happened to you and hating yourself because of it. One is a natural response to pain; the other is a wound that keeps reopening. Let’s break this down clearly:
What Hating the Experience Looks Like:
- Anger toward the person/situation that hurt you
- Grief over what was lost or changed
- Resentment about having to rebuild parts of yourself
What Hating Yourself Looks Like:
- Shame (“I should have known better”)
- Self-punishment (isolation, destructive habits)
- Believing you deserved the trauma
When well-meaning people say things like “You need to forgive to heal” or “Holding onto anger hurts you,” try these responses:
- “My healing isn’t about their apology; it’s about my peace.”
- “This anger protected me when nothing else could.”
- “I’m working through this at my pace.”
You Have These Rights:
- To set boundaries – Even with people who “mean well”
- To honor your timeline – No one gets to decide when you “should be over it”
- To redefine strength – Survival isn’t about smiling through pain
- To reclaim your story – Tell it (or don’t) exactly as you choose
This isn’t about staying stuck in bitterness—it’s about refusing to let anyone else dictate how your healing should look. Some days, self-love means letting yourself rage at the past. Other days, it means gently reminding that younger version of you: “We made it. They didn’t break us.”
Your trauma is something that happened to you, not something that defines you. The space between those truths is where healing begins.
The Healing You Deserve
Grounding Techniques for When the Past Feels Present
When painful memories surface, your body often reacts as if the trauma is happening all over again. These grounding methods help reconnect you with the present moment—not to erase the past, but to remind your nervous system that now is safe.
- The 5-4-3-2-1 Method
- Step 1: Name 5 things you can see (e.g., “The blue coffee mug on my desk”).
- Step 2: Identify 4 things you can touch (e.g., “The cool keyboard under my fingers”).
- Step 3: Acknowledge 3 sounds around you (e.g., “A car honking two streets away”).
- Step 4: Notice 2 smells (e.g., “Laundry detergent on my shirt”).
- Step 5: Recognize 1 taste (e.g., “Mint from my toothpaste”).
This technique works by engaging your senses to interrupt flashbacks. It’s okay if you need to repeat it several times.
- Anchor Objects
Keep a small item (a smooth stone, a ring, a keychain) in your pocket. When overwhelmed, focus on:
- Its texture against your skin
- Its weight in your palm
- Any temperature changes as you hold it
This creates a tactile “safe point”—something real to grasp when emotions feel too big.
- Time-Stamping
Say aloud (or write):
- The current date and time
- Your age today
- Where you physically are
- One way your life differs from the trauma period (e.g., “I now have a cat who sleeps on my bed”)
This reinforces that the past isn\’t your present reality.
The Self-Compassion Journal Template
Writing can help separate the trauma from your identity. Try this format when old wounds ache:
Today’s Date:
Current Emotion: (e.g., “Angry,” “Numb”)
What Hurts Right Now:
“I hate that when _ happens, I still feel _.”
What I Need to Hear:
Write the kindest sentence you’d say to a friend in your situation (e.g., “Of course you’re upset—anyone would be.”)
One Small Act of Care:
Something gentle you’ll do today (e.g., “Drink tea instead of coffee,” “Text Sarah just to hear her voice”).
Scars as Survival Maps
Your healing doesn’t require you to:
- Find “silver linings” in your pain
- Force forgiveness before you’re ready
- Pretend the scars don’t still sometimes sting
Some marks exist simply because you lived through something hard. They’re not signs of weakness or badges of “growth”—just proof you navigated storms no one should have to face.
You get to decide what these scars mean now. Maybe:
- “This one taught me my boundaries”
- “This one? It\’s just a place that still hurts sometimes”
- “This one reminds me I outlasted what tried to break me”
Healing isn’t about erasing the marks. It’s about learning which ones still need tenderness, and which ones you can let just… be.
The Ending You Deserve
Hate the experiences, but never the survivor in you. This truth bears repeating, because somewhere between the pain and the healing, we often confuse the two. You are not your trauma. You are the one who carried it, fought through it, and still wakes up every morning choosing to try again.
You deserve to heal—not because you’ve found some profound meaning in your suffering, but simply because you’re human. Healing isn’t a reward for cracking life’s hidden lessons; it’s your birthright. The kind of peace that comes from putting down burdens others forced upon you, from finally breathing without that familiar weight on your chest.
You deserve peace—the quiet moments where memories don’t intrude, the gradual softening of old wounds when touched. Not the performative peace people expect from you (‘Aren’t you over that yet?’), but the real kind that arrives in fragments: an entire hour lost in laughter, a morning without that automatic tension in your shoulders, the growing space between flashbacks.
Some stories don’t need endings where everything ties together neatly. Some just need to be heard—by you first, then by those worthy of holding space for them. Your pain doesn’t require a redemption arc to matter. Its mere existence, your survival of it, is enough.
So let this be permission: to leave some questions unanswered, to carry certain scars without calling them gifts, to move forward even while still angry. The most powerful form of self-love isn’t always tender—sometimes it’s fierce protection of the parts of you that still hurt.
You, here now, are already the evidence that broken things can keep living. Not fixed, perhaps. Not unscarred. But alive, still choosing, still becoming—and that alone is worth honoring.
