From survival to strength

Content warning – child abuse, domestic violence, self-harm, suicide attempts, and trauma-related mental health challenges. Please read with care.

There are stories that sit quietly in the background of our world, stories carried in silence, hidden behind polite smiles, school uniforms, exam results, and everyday conversations. Stories of children who learned too early that home was not always safe, that sleep could feel dangerous, and that survival sometimes replaces childhood. Aimee’s story is one of those stories, and telling it is an act of courage in itself.

Before she learned who she wanted to become, she learned how to endure. Before she learned how to dream, she learned how to stay alert. Her early years were not measured in birthdays and milestones but in warning signs, footsteps, and the careful management of fear. While other children were discovering who they were, Aimee was learning how to disappear inside herself just to make it through another night. Abuse did not visit occasionally; it defined the atmosphere she breathed in every day. And like so many survivors, she carried it alone, wrapped in shame that was never hers to hold.

What makes her story so powerful is not only the depth of what she survived but also the honesty with which she now speaks about it. She does not soften the truth or dress it up to make it easier to hear. She talks about self-harm, suicidal thoughts, hospital stays, and the unbearable weight of believing she did not deserve to live. She speaks about the kind of pain that is invisible to most people, the kind that hides behind achievement, politeness, and “I’m chill.” Her words open a window into what trauma actually feels like from the inside, not dramatic, not fictional, but lived.

And yet, this is not only a story about abuse. It is a story about resistance in its most human form. About a girl who did not believe she would reach adulthood, who is now in university, studying and helping others, advocating for disabled students. About someone who once felt voiceless and is now using her voice to help others. About a child who felt worthless, now building a life with purpose, boundaries, and compassion. This is a story about how survival, when supported and nurtured, can slowly grow into strength. Not the kind of strength people romanticise, but the quiet, stubborn, daily choice to stay.

If you read on, you will not just read about suffering. You will witness resilience being built piece by piece. You will see what happens when even the smallest threads of connection – a sister’s handwritten notes, one therapist who truly listens, one moment of turning back toward life – are enough to keep someone here. And sometimes, staying is the bravest act of all.

This is Aimee’s story in her own words:

What was your childhood like growing up?

My childhood was defined by fear. I was constantly walking on eggshells, learning footsteps, every sound, never feeling safe in my home. There was abuse in every way you can imagine. The abuse wasn’t just part of my life, it shaped it and forced me to survive in silence from a very early age. It wasn’t just an occasional moment of pain or upset, it was the background to everything. It shaped how I saw myself, how I moved through life and how early I had to learn what survival meant. I learnt how to survive before I learnt how to live. I didn’t get that carefree childhood where you feel protected, instead I felt trapped in a place that was supposed to be home but never felt like one. I learnt how to stay quiet and how to hide my emotions. I became so used to carrying everything alone that I never knew how to ask for help. I lived in constant state of anxiety, waiting for the next bad thing to happen, even when I wasn’t there. There was a fear ingrained in me, which made me terrified to go home, it made me physically unwell.

How would you describe your early home environment?

It was completely unpredictable and unsafe, from the outside it looked like a normal family home but inside I was living in constant fear. I never knew if I would be ignored, screamed at, hurt, or violated in ways no child should ever experience. I lived in constant high alert, always bracing for something. Resting would be something I’d be punished for, so I learnt very young that safety didn’t exist there. Nights were often the worst, I learned to stay perfectly still, to pretend to be asleep, staring at the ceiling and counting, trying to leave my mind just to survive what was happening. Sleep felt dangerous to me, but nothing in that house felt safe or calm.

When did you first realise something in your life wasn’t okay?

When I was in year 7, I went to a friend’s house and their family was kind. No shouting, no fear, just love and warmth. It genuinely scared me because this abuse was all I had ever known – that kindness felt unreal. After that, I started comparing my home to others. In a PSHE lesson about abuse, we were shown a video and I had a panic attack. It felt like my life, but I didn’t have those visible signs like the boy in the video: my bruises were always in clever places people wouldn’t see, or he did it just enough to cause pain but no lasting visible effect. It took a while and a lot of secret research, but I started to connect dots and realise maybe the other people in my class weren’t going through the same thing. When I was old enough to have a phone, I reached out to support lines like Shout to talk when I was struggling mentally, and one day mentioned something – they then confirmed with me that it was most definitely abuse and it fully hit me.

How did your early experiences shape the way you saw yourself?

My early experiences shaped the way I saw myself in the darkest way. I grew up feeling completely worthless and replicable. I believed my existence didn’t matter, I was only something to be used or hurt. My body never truly felt like it belonged to me. It felt like a shell that my mind lived inside. I blamed myself and thought if I could somehow be better, quieter, easier, then it would stop, but it was never enough. I hated myself so deeply it physically hurt. I grew up believing I was only good for being hurt, not for being loved. Honestly, I truly didn’t think I deserved love at all.

Did you feel supported as a child? Why or why not?

No, I didn’t feel supported at all. I felt completely alone. There was no sense of protection, no adult stepping in to make things stop. Even though some family saw parts of what was happening, nothing changed, and that silence made the isolation even deeper. I think once I realised it was abuse and realised family had seen some things, nothing major, just when he was a bit heavy-handed or hitting me, but the fact no one said anything always made me question whether it was normal all along. As I got older, I became too terrified to tell anyone. I carried so much shame and I genuinely believed that if people knew, they would see me differently. Like I was dirty, broken or somehow responsible. I convinced myself that no one would believe me or worse, that they would think I deserved it. No one asked if I was okay. They didn’t notice how much pain I was in. I was hurting in ways I didn’t have the words for and taking it out on myself. I felt invisible to everyone. The hardest part wasn’t just what I went through, but the feeling of having to go through it entirely on my own, without comfort, safety or someone to hold me in the way a child deserves.

How did your trauma affect your sense of safety and identity as you got older?

My trauma destroyed my sense of safety and shaped my identity around survival. Even when my dad was forced to leave when I was 16, it didn’t feel like he was truly gone. The danger may have left physically, but it stayed inside of me. He lived on in nightmares, flashbacks, and memories that felt just as real as the past itself. The house still felt haunted by what had happened there. Nowhere felt safe. I became hypervigilant, always on edge, always scanning and I don’t think my body has ever learnt how to stop bracing for danger. For a long time, I didn’t know who I was beyond fear. My identity wasn’t built on dreams, freedom, or self-discovery, it was built on endurance. Surviving was all I had ever known and when survival is your childhood, it becomes hard to imagine yourself as anything else.

As a teenager, how did you cope with what you were experiencing?

As a teenager, I coped in the only ways I knew how – through survival. I didn’t have the tools or support to process what I was carrying, so I turned everything inward. I struggled with self-harm from a young age, dissociated often, and isolated myself as much as possible. I became someone who endured quietly, pretending to be fine when I was breaking inside, just to make it more comfortable for others. I kept everything locked away for years, until it became too heavy to hold. By the time I was 13, I had already attempted to end my life, and I continued to battle those feelings and attempts for years after. I wasn’t coping in healthy ways, I knew that, but I didn’t care anymore. My mental health became so unmanageable that I spent more times in hospitals than I did in school. But even in the darkest moments, I found small ways to escape. Dance and musical theatre became my lifeline. On stage, I didn’t have to be me, I could be someone else for a couple of hours and that felt like breathing again.

What role did self-harm play for you during that period?

Self-harm became the only way I knew how to cope for years. I started when I was 10 and it played a huge role for many years. It wasn’t something I did for attention; I know that much. Not one person found out about it for almost 3 years and when they did, that didn’t stop me. It wasn’t something I fully understood at the time, it was simply the only thing I could think of that would help. People often talk about self-harm as being about control, but for me it was mostly about punishment. I truly believed I deserved pain. I carried so much shame and self-hatred from what I was living through, and hurting myself felt like an outlet for emotions that were too overwhelming to keep inside. It was a way of releasing what I couldn’t express in words. At the time, I didn’t ever question what I was doing to my body, because I didn’t believe my life had value. I didn’t think scars mattered because I honestly didn’t believe I would be alive long enough for them to.

What did survival look like for you at your lowest points?

At my lowest points, survival didn’t look brave or hopeful. I wasn’t trying to survive. I wasn’t searching for reasons to stay or pushing through each day with strength, I wanted everything to stop. My mind became consumed by the belief that leaving the world was the only way to escape the pain I was carrying. I couldn’t see how it could ever get better, so I had no hope. I was simply existing. It looked like making it through the next minute or second because trying to live to the next day was too hard. I felt completely numb or was feeling every emotion at 10x the strength with no in-between, I was detached from myself, and trapped inside thoughts I couldn’t silence.

What do you think people misunderstand most about self-harm and suicidal thoughts?

I think the biggest misunderstanding about self-harm and suicidal thoughts is that people assume it’s about attention or weakness, when in reality it’s almost always about pain. It’s what happens when someone is hurting so deeply inside that they don’t know how else to cope or express it. Self-harm often isn’t about wanting to die, it’s most often about trying to survive unbearable emotions, finding a release when everything feels too much, needing something they can control or punishment. Suicidal thoughts or ideation aren’t usually about wanting life to end, but about desperately wanting the suffering to stop, and that seems like the only way out. People also misunderstand how hidden it can be. Someone can be smiling, achieving things and seeming fine whilst silently battling these thoughts or coping mechanisms they are too scared or ashamed to admit or say out loud. Many people don’t want to die, but they don’t see any other way out. They want help, comfort, safety but they don’t believe they deserve it or think anyone will understand, but trust me, some people really do.

Was there a moment or turning point when things began to change?

My dad was made to leave by police and social services in October 2019, and people often assume that was the moment everything changed, but it wasn’t that simple. Even though he was physically gone, he wasn’t truly gone. The house still had all the reminders of him, every room had horrific memories, so I didn’t get some massive relief, I felt haunted. The trauma stayed with me in nightmares and flashbacks that pulled me back into fear. Him being made to leave didn’t immediately give me peace because the damage had already rooted itself inside of me. In March 2020, I reached what I recognise now as one of the lowest points of my life. It was the last time I attempted to end my life and the seriousness of that attempt terrified me in a way nothing else ever had. For the first time, something in me felt shocked back to reality. I can’t fully explain what changed, but I think it scared me enough to see things differently. It wasn’t an instant transformation, but it was a turning point. It was the moment where, somewhere deep down, I began to realise that maybe survival could become something more than just pain.

What helped you begin choosing to stay alive?

I think it was mainly my little sister. For a long time, I wasn’t staying for myself, I couldn’t see a future that mattered, but I couldn’t leave her. My biggest ever fear was that she would grow up carrying the same pain I did, and I felt this desperate need to protect her from going down the same self-destructive path. For years, I lived purely for her. She became the reason I got through days I didn’t want to be here. Looking back, it breaks my heart how much she understood at such a young age. She used to write me notes every morning and bring them to me, telling me how much she loved me and how she needed me to stay alive. Those notes were like tiny lifelines. Even when I felt completely numb, even when I felt like I didn’t deserve to exist, she reminded me that I was loved by someone, even when I didn’t allow myself to feel it. That mattered to her. Over time, that became the beginning of learning how to stay alive for myself too.

What was the first sign that healing might be possible?

The first real sign was when I reached the right kind of therapy. For years, I had been under CAMHS (child and adolescent mental health services) and had tried psychotherapy, family therapy, CBT (Cognitive Behavioural Therapy), many medications, the lot, but nothing had ever helped. My psychiatrist there had told me I had chronic depression – that I was a revolving door patient and that was just how my life would be now. But in 2019, around the same time my dad was made to leave, I was referred to the home treatment team. They are a tier 4 service, aimed at keeping young people out of inpatient facilities and providing similar intensity of support and safety from home. They visited me 3x a day for 15 weeks and through them was referred to DBT (Dialectical Behavioural Therapy). That was where I met the most incredible therapist I have ever known; I often say I owe my life to her, and I am still in touch with her today. For the first time, someone truly listened. I was diagnosed with complex PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder) and was told something I had never believed before: that healing was possible. Trauma therapy was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but slowly the work began to feel a little lighter. Exposure tasks that once felt impossible became doable. That was my first sign, not that everything was suddenly okay, but that change was real and maybe my future didn’t have to look like my past.

What did rebuilding your life look like as you moved into adulthood?

It didn’t look like a fresh start or a clean break from the past. It was slow, messy, and painful. For a long time, it still felt like surviving rather than living because trauma follows you into adulthood, into relationships and your sense of self. Rebuilding meant learning things I should have learnt as a child: how to feel safe, how to trust, how to exist without constant fear. It meant sitting with emotions instead of punishing myself for having them – that one was the hardest of them all. It meant unlearning the belief I was broken beyond repair. A huge part of that rebuilding was therapy, doing the hardest work of my life, facing memories I had spent years trying to escape, and slowly taking back ownership of my mind and body. Healing wasn’t about forgetting; it was about finding freedom despite what had happened. It wasn’t dramatic, it was quiet. It was waking up each day and choosing, again and again, to stay.

What does recovery look like for you now?

It looks very different to what I once imagined. I live with Complex PTSD, and healing hasn’t meant that everything is suddenly easy or that the trauma has disappeared. I still have hard days, I still cry, I still get nightmares quite often, so much so that I am still quite scared of sleeping, and sometimes those old urges and thoughts return. But the difference is that they don’t control me in the same way anymore. I’ve been through almost 7 years of therapy and whilst I still struggle, I also carry strength and tools I never had before. I know how to cope now, how to ground myself (most of the time) and a bad day doesn’t mean I am back at the beginning. Sometimes I feel like I’m back at day one, then I look back and realise the days that feel unbearable now would have been some of my best days back then. That perspective reminds me how far I have come.

In 2019, I started documenting my recovery on TikTok and whilst now it’s quite different, I always talk openly about my story, about mental health, and recovery. Over time, it has grown a community and sharing where I have come from and where I am now is a huge part of my life. I don’t share it because I want what happened to have meaning, but because if even one person sees my story and realises that hope is real, that life can improve and that they can make it out too, then that is enough reason for me.

How do you care for yourself when difficult thoughts return?

I try to remind myself that recovery doesn’t mean they never come back. Some days I still really struggle. I’m still learning how to sit with those thoughts without them consuming me. I think that’s one of the hardest parts of healing, accepting that it’s ongoing work. I also still find it difficult to reach out – whilst I am miles better than I used to be, I am still unlearning that instinct to suffer in silence. I use the tools I learnt in therapy, things like ice diving, holding ice packs, standing outside in the cold air, eating sour sweets, or taking a cold shower can help reset my body when I feel flooded. I use fidget toys to keep my hands busy, and grounding techniques like naming things I can see or feel to bring myself back to the present. Sometimes caring for myself means letting myself feel the emotions without spiralling and being gentle with myself. Watching a film, eating something comforting, resting or reminding myself that surviving the day is enough. When things feel really heavy, I try to remember that difficult thoughts are not instructions. They are feelings and will pass, I’ve made it through them before and I can again.

What boundaries or supports help protect your mental health today?

The boundaries and supports that protect my mental health today are things that I’ve had to build slowly over time. I have a few friends I know I can rely on and speak to; even though I still struggle to reach out, just knowing that safe people exist now is something I never had growing up. One of the biggest boundaries is that I have no contact with my dad, although he still messages sometimes. When that happens, it can send me into a spiral, but I have a plan in place now to help me survive those moments without completely breaking. I’ve also learnt to limit things that I know can be triggering, like certain places, smells or situations. Not in the same avoidance as before, but in a self-protective way, recognising that some things still affect me and giving myself compassion when they do. Having my own flat has been huge. For the first time, I have a space that is truly mine, where I know I am safe. I can take time alone when I need it and that freedom has changed my life. I can recognise warning signs within myself, I use the tools I’ve learnt, choose rest and support, and learn day by day how to protect my peace.

How has your past shaped you into the adult you are today?

For a long time, I felt like everything that happened had carved itself into who I was, and I didn’t know where the trauma ended and where I began. It has made me someone who is deeply aware of pain, both my own and others. I notice things that others might miss. I can recognise signs in someone when they are struggling, even when they haven’t admitted it to anyone else. I pick up on changes in tone, body language and silence, the things I learnt growing up. I often say I feel other people’s emotions so strongly that I carry those with me too. It is sometimes a bad thing, but I do believe it makes me very empathetic and understanding, and I use that to my advantage. I’ve gone back to my old therapy service multiple times and spoken to the young people there, and that gives me hope for them. I can feel and see their emotions and how much pain they are in, but I also see that slight glimmer in their eyes knowing that someone truly understands their pain. I don’t believe trauma makes someone stronger, but I am proud that I am still here.

What do you hope readers take away from your story?

More than anything, I hope readers take away one thing. Hope. When I was at my lowest, I truly believed there was no future for me. I didn’t think I’d survive childhood, let alone grow into an adult with a life of my own. I thought pain would be all I ever knew. If I had seen someone back then, someone who had lived through similar darkness and still made it out, it would have meant everything. It would have challenged the belief that things never change, that healing is impossible, that life will always feel unbearable. I want people to understand that recovery isn’t simple or perfect. I still live with trauma and still have hard days, but I am not where I once was. Healing is real, even if it’s slow, and survival can turn into living.

I also want people to know they are not alone. Abuse and mental illness thrive in silence, but there is support, there is treatment that can help, and there most definitely is people who will listen. I’ve built a life I never believed I would have and if my story reaches even one person who feels the way I used to, and helps them hold on for one more day, then that is everything. Even in the darkest of times, things can get better.

What makes Aimee’s journey powerful is not that the pain disappeared or that recovery arrived all at once. It didn’t. Healing came slowly, through therapy sessions that hurt before they helped, boundaries drawn and redrawn, grounding exercises repeated again and again, and days where simply staying alive was the only achievement.

Recovery, for her, does not mean “fixed”. It means aware. Equipped. Supported. It means nightmares that no longer control the entire day. It means urges met with tools instead of punishment. It means understanding that a setback is not a reset.

The girl who once believed she would not survive is now studying for her degree, advocating for disabled students, and helping others hold on. These are not small victories. They are a life rebuilt with intention.

Her strength does not look fearless. It looks like honesty. Like asking for help when every instinct says hide. Like choosing to stay when leaving feels easier. She does not claim suffering made her stronger. She claims something quieter and more important: she is proud she is still here.

For those who see themselves in her story, let this be the part that stays with you: thoughts are not destiny. Pain is not permanent. Hard days are chapters, not conclusions.

Sometimes inspiration is not found in headlines. Sometimes it is found in a quieter truth:

She stayed.
She fought.
She healed in pieces.
And she is still becoming.