What I See from the Other Side of the Screen.

Somatic, creative and attuned therapy for childhood wounds.

I spend most of my working hours sitting in front of a screen, looking at someone's face. Usually it's someone who has been carrying something heavy for a long time and has gotten very good at not showing it.

From my side, I see things that the person across from me often can't see about themselves. I see how they hold their breath when they get close to something that matters. I see the small ways they check my face before they say something honest. I see the moment they start to feel something and then pull back, apologize, redirect, make a joke. I see people who are deeply intelligent, warm, and self-aware, and who still feel like something is fundamentally wrong with them. Or like they're always one step away from being too much, or not enough, or about to be left.

I want to write about what I keep seeing, because I think it might help some of you recognize something you've been living inside of without having language for it.

A note about where I am in my own training

I recently completed my Expressive Arts Therapy program, and I've started advanced professional training in NARM, the NeuroAffective Relational Model. NARM focuses specifically on developmental trauma, the kind that forms not from a single event but from the emotional environment a child grew up in. It looks at what happens when core needs for connection, attunement, trust, autonomy, and love are not adequately met, and how the child adapts in order to survive that.

I mention this because this training is shaping how I understand the patterns I've been seeing in my clients for a while now. And because I think some of what NARM describes might land for you in a way that other frameworks haven't.

How childhood environments shape what we believe about ourselves

When people hear the word "trauma," they often think of something dramatic. An event. Something that can be pointed to. But a lot of the suffering I sit with comes from something less visible. It comes from chronic misattunement, which is a way of saying: the adults around you couldn't consistently meet your emotional needs. Maybe they were overwhelmed themselves. Maybe they were loving in some ways but absent in others. Maybe closeness came with conditions, or was unpredictable, or was something you had to earn.

A child in that situation doesn't have the option of leaving. They adapt. They figure out what keeps them safe, connected, or at least not abandoned. And those adaptations become so woven into how they experience themselves that by adulthood, they don't feel like adaptations anymore. They feel like personality. Like "just the way I am."

What I want to do here is name some of these patterns, along with the beliefs that tend to sit underneath them and the strengths that often come with them. Because every adaptation carries both a cost and a capacity. You didn't just survive. You developed real abilities in the process.

"Something is fundamentally wrong with me."

Some people carry a feeling that goes deeper than low self-esteem. It's a sense of being somehow defective at the core. Flawed in a way that can't be fixed. They may withdraw, stay on the periphery of groups, feel like they're watching life from behind glass. Connection can feel both desperately wanted and terrifying, because getting close means being seen, and being seen means the other person will eventually discover what's wrong with them.

If this is you, you probably cope by retreating inward. You might intellectualize, spend a lot of time in your head, avoid situations where you feel exposed. You might have a rich inner world that nobody knows about because sharing it feels too risky.

The strength here is real. People who carry this pattern often have an unusual capacity for depth, contemplation, and inner reflection. They notice things other people miss. They think carefully. They are often deeply creative. That capacity didn't come from nowhere. It came from spending a lot of time with yourself, because the outside world didn't feel safe enough.

"I'm fine on my own. I don't really need anything."

This one often looks like someone who is warm, generous, attuned to everyone else's needs, and depleted. They take care of people. They anticipate what others need before being asked. They are often the person in a family or friendship group who holds everything together.

What's underneath is usually a deep disconnection from their own needs. Not because they don't have them, but because early on, their needs weren't welcomed. Maybe expressing hunger, sadness, or wanting closeness was met with irritation, withdrawal, or simply nothing. So they learned to redirect. To focus outward. To take care of others in the hope that someone, eventually, would notice what they need without them having to say it. Because asking directly feels dangerous. It feels like it will lead to rejection, or worse, confirmation that their needs really are too much.

The chronic feeling underneath is often one of emptiness or inner depletion. A hollowness that doesn't go away no matter how much they give.

The strength is also real. These are people with a genuine, developed capacity to nurture and attune to others. They read emotional cues with precision. They create warmth wherever they go. They know how to be present for someone. The work is learning to turn even a fraction of that attunement toward themselves.

"I can only count on myself. People always have an agenda."

This pattern often forms when early trust was broken. When the people who were supposed to protect you used their power in ways that felt controlling, invasive, or self-serving. The child learns that depending on someone means being vulnerable to being used. So they build walls. They become strong, capable, and fiercely self-reliant.

In adulthood, this can look like someone who is driven, determined, and successful, but who has trouble letting anyone in. They may feel used in relationships but find it hard to leave or to protest. They may stay in situations long past the point of being okay because confrontation feels like it could cost them everything. Or they may avoid closeness altogether, because the idea of needing someone feels like giving away power.

Underneath there's often a deep suspicion that other people's care comes with strings attached. That if someone is being kind, they want something. That vulnerability is a trap.

The strength here is significant. These are people with remarkable will, determination, and resilience. They have survived things that would have broken others. They know how to endure. What gets hard is that endurance can become a prison when it's the only mode available.

"Saying no makes me a bad person."

This one is common and easy to miss because from the outside, the person looks agreeable, patient, and easy to be around. They don't make waves. They accommodate. They swallow frustration rather than express it. They say yes when they mean no, and then feel resentment that they can't quite explain. Or they feel guilty for having the resentment at all.

This pattern often forms when a child's autonomy, their right to say no, to have preferences, to push back, wasn't supported. Maybe a parent needed the child to be compliant. Maybe expressing anger or disagreement was met with punishment, guilt, or emotional withdrawal. The child learns that having boundaries means losing love. So they collapse their boundaries to stay connected.

In adulthood, this can look like chronic over-giving, difficulty making decisions, a pattern of attracting people who take more than they give, and a deep tiredness that rest doesn't fix. There's often a running inner monologue that sounds like: "I should be grateful for what I have. Who am I to complain."

The strength is patience. A real, earned capacity to tolerate difficult situations and difficult people. An ability to stay present when things are uncomfortable. That patience is valuable. It just shouldn't cost you your own life.

"I have to perform to be wanted."

This pattern often lives in people who learned early that love was available, but conditionally. That they could be valued, but only in certain forms. Attractive, entertaining, accomplished, exciting, but not simply as they are. There's often a split: a feeling that they can be desired or they can be truly known, but not both at the same time.

In adulthood, this can look like someone who is magnetic and warm in public, and lonely in private. Someone who knows how to draw people in but doesn't trust that they'd stay if the performance stopped. Relationships may cycle between intensity and emptiness. There can be a pattern of choosing partners who are attracted to the surface but unable to meet the depth.

The strength here is a genuine romantic courage. A willingness to love, to risk, to stay open to connection even after being hurt. That willingness is not small. Many people shut down entirely. The fact that this person keeps trying, keeps reaching for closeness, that matters.

What this has to do with the brain, and with hope

These patterns aren't just psychological. They are physiological. When a child adapts to an environment of chronic misattunement, those adaptations shape neural pathways, nervous system responses, and the way the brain predicts what will happen in relationships. The nervous system learns to brace, to scan, to shut down, to perform, to disappear. It becomes automatic.

But the brain doesn't stop changing after childhood. Neuroplasticity, the brain's ability to form new connections and pathways, continues throughout life. This is where the hope lives, and it's not abstract hope. It's based on what we understand about how the nervous system works.

The catch is that these patterns were formed in relationship, and they tend to need relationship to change. Not just understanding. Not just insight. Actual new experiences of being met, seen, and responded to differently than what the nervous system expects. That is what allows the old pathways to soften and new ones to form. A moment of needing something and not being punished for it. A moment of saying no and still being loved. A moment of being fully yourself and having someone stay.

This is what relational therapy offers. And it's what I'm building my practice around.

If any of this sounds familiar

You don't need to have a clear trauma narrative to benefit from this kind of work. You don't need to know exactly what happened or when. Most of the people I work with come in saying some version of: "I don't know why I feel this way. Nothing that bad happened." And that's okay. The work doesn't require a story. It requires willingness to slow down and notice what's happening in your body, your relationships, and your sense of yourself, right now.

I'm currently seeing a small number of new clients online, working with adults across Ontario on developmental trauma, emotional neglect, dissociation, and the kinds of patterns I've described here. If something in this piece resonated with you, or if it made you think of someone you know, I'd welcome you to reach out. You can book a free consultation through my website.

And if you're a colleague and this sounds like someone on your caseload, I'm glad to receive referrals and happy to have a conversation about fit.

Thank you for reading.

Warmly,

Mariya

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