You’re not broken; you’re patterned. This introduction names a familiar pain — the habit of doubting your first answer — and promises a compassionate, practical map. Read on to find seven recognisable signs, tiny experiments to try this week, and one small, reliable action you can take now to begin trusting yourself again.
Are you sure you’re not broken but patterned?
There’s a quiet humiliation in thinking you are flawed rather than conditioned. I used to wake with a soft, inexplicable dread at simple choices — what to cook, which book to open — because I’d learned that my first answer might be laughed at, corrected, or quietly overwritten by someone louder. Saying “I don’t know” felt like armour; it kept me safe from being wrong, but it also kept me from learning that I could be right.
When I tell people, “You’re not broken. You’re patterned,” I mean it like a kind hand on the shoulder. Patterns are learned responses. They were useful once — perhaps they helped you survive a strict household, a critical teacher, or a relationship that rewrote your memory. Over years these small, sensible habits calcify: the habit of asking everyone else first, the reflex to apologise for saying “no”, the impulse to intellectualise a feeling instead of naming it. None of that is proof you’re beyond repair; it’s evidence you were taught a certain way of moving through the world.
This article will not pathologise you. It will, instead, hold up a mirror that’s generous and practical. I’ll share seven signs that show how self‑trust gets eroded — each sign paired with a short story, an explanation of why it forms, and a tiny experiment you can practise this week. These are low‑risk, high‑clarity practices: small enough to feel possible and true enough to begin shifting an old pattern.
Before we move on, a small, relevant reading I found helpful in thinking about how children’s inner lives are shaped is the secret lives of schoolkids — it’s not required reading, but it captures how environments teach certain defaults, often without us noticing.
If you feel defensive or exposed reading this, welcome — that’s a useful signal. It means this is close to the work that matters. Keep a small notebook nearby: later, we’ll use it for quick experiments that prove to you, in tiny ways, that your instincts are worth consulting.
Do you say “I don’t know” instinctively?
It slips out before you even notice. Someone asks what you want for lunch, and without checking in with your own appetite, you answer, “I don’t know.” It’s not always about food. It’s about a habit so deeply wired that you can bypass your own preferences entirely. For some, this phrase becomes a survival reflex — one that began long before adulthood, in rooms where choosing felt risky or wrong.
What does this sound like in real life?
It sounds like a co-worker asking, “Which design do you prefer?” and you deferring: “I don’t know, whatever you think is best.” It’s your partner asking, “Where should we go this weekend?” and you replying, “I don’t know, you pick.” Sometimes it’s not the words but the silence — the pause where your preference could have gone. You may even notice a quiet, internal answer, but it gets smothered before it reaches your lips. Over time, this response feels polite, even diplomatic. In reality, it’s often self-erasure in disguise.
Why learned helplessness and invalidation teach “I don’t know”
Childhood invalidation signs — being told “that’s silly,” “stop overreacting,” or having your choices corrected — send a clear message: your perspective isn’t safe here. Emotional gaslighting compounds the lesson by rewriting your reality, making you question whether you’re remembering or feeling things “correctly.” In this environment, voicing a decision carries risk: the risk of ridicule, of punishment, of being told you are wrong again.
Learned helplessness grows from repeated attempts to act that end in correction or dismissal. Eventually, your brain conserves energy by skipping the attempt altogether. “I don’t know” becomes the default, not because you truly lack an opinion, but because you’ve learned that saying so avoids conflict. This protective reflex, while once adaptive, now keeps you from building trust in your instincts. Each unspoken preference is a missed repetition in the muscle memory of self-trust.
Tiny experiment: the 10-second decision rule
For the next seven days, when a low-stakes choice comes up, give yourself exactly ten seconds to answer. It could be “Which mug should I use?” or “Which route should I take home?” Don’t overthink — just choose. Write down the decision and note the outcome. This isn’t about perfect accuracy; it’s about letting your own voice get airtime. By day seven, you’ll have a small archive of proof that choosing quickly doesn’t lead to disaster — in fact, it might feel unexpectedly freeing.
If you’ve ever wondered how fragile trust can be when early experiences train you to doubt yourself, you might resonate with When Trust Breaks — A Tale of Love, Loss, and Self-Repair, which explores the tender work of rebuilding after trust fractures.
Short story: There was a long spell in my twenties when “I don’t know” seemed to live in my throat. At family meals someone would ask what I wanted and I would shrug, a small, automatic retreat. Once, in a job interview, I deflected a question about my strengths with the same phrase. Later I sat in my flat and realised my life had been edited by those three quiet words — opportunities left unclaimed because I had practiced not choosing.
What it looks like: In daily life this looks like habitual hedging: leaving restaurant choices to others, postponing decisions until consent is unanimous, or deferring to the loudest voice in the room. It looks like silence when an opinion is requested, and an instinctive “I don’t know” even when your chest is quietly flipped by a preference. On the surface it seems modest, even polite. Underneath it is a rehearse-to-avoid-wrongness strategy.
Why it happens: This reflex is often rooted in childhood invalidation signs: when a child’s answers are dismissed, mocked, or corrected frequently, the child learns that their voice invites correction. Emotional gaslighting — the repeated reframing of a child’s feelings or memories — trains the nervous system to expect contradiction. In therapeutic terms, learned helplessness and attachment anxieties combine: if you cannot rely on consistent responses from caregivers, your safest posture is silence or uncertainty. Over time, the brain makes “I don’t know” automatic because it once reduced conflict.
Tiny experiment to try this week: The 10‑second decision rule. For seven days, practise deciding within ten seconds on small, low-risk choices: which tea to drink, which route to walk, which playlist to play. After you decide, note the outcome and how it felt. This is not about always being right; it’s about giving your preferences a chance to be tested and noticed. Keep the notes brief — one line per decision — and by day seven you’ll have evidence your instincts work.
If the reflex is loud or painful, a focused consultation can map the earliest learning moments and give you three personalised decision rituals to practise. Book a short mapping session to convert hesitant reflexes into tiny, repeatable proofs of trust.
Do you need multiple validations before deciding?
Maybe it’s a jacket you’ve already tried on three times, or a job offer that’s been sitting in your inbox for a week. You’ve weighed the pros and cons, yet the decision feels unfinished until you’ve polled a friend, your sibling, and a colleague. Only then do you feel “safe” to move forward. This is approval dependence in action — and while it might feel like thoroughness, it often masks an underlying mistrust of your own judgment.
The trap of approval dependence
Approval dependence can be seductive because it offers temporary relief from uncertainty. If someone else validates your choice, you’re less likely to feel the sting of regret later. The hidden cost is subtle: each time you outsource a decision, you reinforce the belief that your instincts need a co-signer. Over time, you may notice a loss of decision-making speed, heightened anxiety in moments of choice, and a creeping reliance on others for even trivial matters.
For many, this habit began in childhood when independent choices were second-guessed or outright dismissed. Approval became the currency of safety, and decisions without it felt exposed. What starts as a coping mechanism can become a lifelong pattern that erodes self-trust.
Data and studies on approval-seeking and self-trust
Research into childhood invalidation signs shows a strong link between early emotional dismissal and later difficulty in autonomous decision-making. One longitudinal study on self-esteem found that people who grew up in invalidating environments were significantly more likely to delay decisions until they received external affirmation. This pattern mirrors findings from trauma and self-trust studies, where approval-seeking acts as a psychological safety net but delays self-confidence growth.
In workplace psychology, approval dependence has been tied to slower project execution and lower leadership emergence, as individuals hesitate to act without consensus. The pattern reinforces itself: the more you wait for others to “green-light” your ideas, the more you believe you can’t move without them.
Tiny experiment: ask yourself first, then one trusted voice
This week, for any non-urgent decision, pause and write down your choice before consulting anyone. Then, if you must, ask exactly one trusted person for their perspective. Resist seeking a second or third opinion. At the end of the week, count how many times your initial decision stood. The numbers might surprise you — and start to shift your belief in your own judgment.
For a deeper exploration of how narratives shape our trust in personal choices, you might enjoy Exploring Allegiant by Veronica Roth, which examines themes of loyalty, independence, and the courage to decide for yourself.
I used to treat decisions like committee votes. Buying a simple jacket required asking two friends, my partner and a text to a colleague. The jacket sat unsold online for days while I awaited consensus. The odd thing was that when I finally bought it — alone, in a small impulse — it felt exactly right. All that asking had not improved the choice; it had merely protected me from responsibility.
What it looks like: This habit shows up as seeking numerous opinions before acting: drafting emails and waiting for multiple edits, choosing a holiday based on five different friends’ take, or postponing a work proposal until several people have “vetted” it. It can feel collaborative, but when you rely on external rubber-stamps you outsource your internal calibration. The result is slowed action, diluted authorship and less practice trusting small instincts.
Why it happens: Approval dependence often grows where childhood boundaries were strict or conditional: praise came only when you exactly matched expectations, so you learned to triangulate before choosing. Emotional gaslighting or repeated dismissal of a child’s preferences creates a rule: other people know better. Cultural forces — families that prize obedience — compound this. Neuroscience tells us repeated avoidance of decisions weakens the decision-making pathway; the fewer choices you make alone, the shakier your sense of taste becomes.
Tiny experiment to try this week: Ask yourself first, then one trusted voice. When a non-urgent choice arises, write your first answer in one sentence. Wait five minutes. Then ask one trusted person for feedback — not a committee. Compare. Keep a tally of how often your initial choice stands unchanged. This rebuilds the habit of consulting yourself first, then others as useful information, not as authority.
If approval-seeking is reshaping your career or relationships, a short session can create a robust one-page decision ritual you can use for six months — simple prompts to restore your authorship.
Do you backtrack on firm boundaries?
Have you ever set a clear “no” only to find yourself softening it within hours or days? You might tell a friend you can’t lend money right now, but by the next conversation, you’ve offered a smaller loan or agreed to help in a different way. On the surface, it looks like flexibility. Underneath, it can be a sign of eroded boundary muscles — often shaped by emotional gaslighting or early life patterns where your limits weren’t respected.
Boundaries betrayed: a short personal anecdote
I remember once telling a colleague I couldn’t work late because I had promised my younger sister I’d help her prepare for an important school presentation. The “no” was firm when it left my lips. But later that day, after a few quiet remarks about my “lack of team spirit,” I found myself offering to log in from home. I didn’t truly want to — but the discomfort of holding my ground felt unbearable. It wasn’t about the work; it was about the old, familiar pull to smooth things over at my own expense.
How gaslighting and fear of conflict erode boundary muscles
Gaslighting often reframes your limits as selfish, unreasonable, or even imaginary. Over time, this manipulation trains you to doubt the validity of your needs. The fear of conflict compounds the issue — especially if, in your formative years, disagreement led to punishment or withdrawal of affection. You learn to preemptively soften your stance just to avoid relational turbulence.
Studies on trauma and self-trust show that consistent invalidation of personal boundaries can lead to chronic self-doubt and people-pleasing behaviors. When boundaries are habitually overridden, your nervous system can associate “no” with danger, making it hard to hold firm even in safe contexts.
Tiny experiment: the 24-hour guardrail
For the next 24 hours, choose one small, clear boundary. It could be “no phone during meals” or “no work email after 8 p.m.” Communicate it calmly if needed. When you feel the urge to compromise, pause and simply say, “I hear you, but I’m keeping this boundary today.” This short, low-stakes practice can start to rewire your sense of safety in standing firm.
If holding boundaries feels almost impossible, you might relate to the reflections in Glib — a piece that quietly examines how subtle pressures can change our choices and dilute our inner resolve, especially for young people still learning the value of self-respect.
I said “no” once to a late-night client request and felt proud for five minutes. By morning my pride had been replaced with a drafted apology and an offer to do the work after all. The boundary I set had been softened by my own inner voice — trained to fix things and to smooth. It felt like kindness to switch, but actually it cost me sleep and respect for my own limits.
What it looks like: Backtracking shows up as rescinded “no”s, apologising after stating a limit, or over-explaining decisions you’ve already made. It looks like a pattern of giving in after the first pushback, and a habit of turning firm words into negotiable suggestions. In relationships and workplaces, this behaviour invites repeated boundary-testing by others and corrodes your internal habit of standing by decisions.
Why it happens: Emotional gaslighting and fear of conflict often underlie boundary erosion. If, as a child, your attempts to set limits were labelled selfish or dramatic, you learned that firmness leads to social punishment. Gaslighting can reframe your legitimate “no” as unreasonable — slowly convincing you that you are the problem. Social conditioning that equates compromise with kindness further encourages the backtrack. The neural truth is simple: each time you keep a boundary, you strengthen it; each time you retreat, you teach your brain that firmness is unsafe.
Tiny experiment to try this week: The 24‑hour guardrail. Choose one small boundary to hold for 24 hours — no work after 8pm, no replying to group chat at dinner, or one weekend morning just for yourself. State it once, politely. If pressure comes, respond with a simple: “I hear you. I’m holding this boundary today.” Note how it feels to keep it. This micro-practice builds muscle.
Soft CTA: If holding boundaries triggers panic or shame, a trauma-informed consult can help create scripts and role-play practice so you can test firmness in a contained, safe way.
Do you intellectualise your emotions instead of naming them?
You’re upset, but instead of saying, “I feel hurt,” you launch into an analysis of why the situation was unfair, how it connects to larger social patterns, or what it reveals about human behaviour. It sounds smart — maybe even insightful — but it’s also a way of keeping your emotions at arm’s length. For many of us, this pattern began as a survival strategy when feeling deeply wasn’t safe.
Why intellectualising is a safety move
When we’ve experienced emotional gaslighting or been raised in environments where our feelings were dismissed, minimised, or mocked, we learn to package them into something more “acceptable.” Facts, theories, and rational arguments are safer than raw vulnerability. If you can explain your anger instead of expressing it, you might avoid conflict. If you can reframe sadness as “an interesting psychological observation,” you might sidestep being told you’re overreacting.
Psychologists have noted that intellectualising is a defence mechanism that reduces the immediate discomfort of emotional exposure. While it protects you in the moment, it can also disconnect you from the core messages your feelings are trying to send. Over time, this creates a gap between your inner world and your outward life, making it harder to build genuine self-trust.
Emotional literacy rebuilds trust
Emotional literacy — the ability to identify, name, and communicate feelings — is a cornerstone of trauma and self-trust recovery. Studies show that people with higher emotional vocabulary are better able to regulate their mood, maintain healthier relationships, and make values-aligned decisions. Naming an emotion gives your nervous system a sense of recognition and reduces the physiological stress response.
In my own work with clients, I’ve seen breakthroughs when someone moves from saying, “I’m just stressed” to, “I’m feeling cornered and overlooked.” The specificity opens the door to solutions that match the real issue, instead of circling around it with abstract thinking.
Tiny experiment: the emotion label challenge
For one week, pause at least three times a day to ask yourself, “What am I feeling right now?” Use a feelings list if needed. Challenge yourself to avoid explaining or justifying the emotion — simply name it. For example: “I feel anxious,” not “I feel anxious because traffic was bad.” Notice how your body responds when it’s allowed to be heard without analysis.
If this resonates, you might find insight in The Orchard of Apologies, which explores the quiet power of naming what’s true, even when it’s uncomfortable — a practice that can transform how we see ourselves.
Short story: I used to reframe my feelings as theories. If I felt anxious, I’d explain it as a reaction to caffeine, or a rational analysis of risk. It felt safer to parade explanations than to admit: “I’m scared.” Once, during an argument, I spent ten minutes diagramming the causes of my upset instead of saying the single sentence that would have made the moment clearer: “I feel hurt.” The explanation was clever; the connection was lost.
What it looks like: Intellectualising shows up as long rationalisations in place of emotion words, as an emphasis on “what happened” instead of “how I felt,” and as intellectual safety: you think your way out of vulnerability. It can look impressive — you explain, contextualise and cite reasons — but it also keeps feelings at arm’s length and deprives you of the simple data that naming emotions provides.
Why it happens: Naming emotions can feel risky if your feelings were minimised in childhood. Childhood invalidation signs — “don’t be dramatic” or “that’s silly” — teach you that emotions are illegitimate. So you substitute analysis for admission. Research into emotion regulation shows that affect labelling (naming a feeling) reduces its intensity and helps regulation; the habit of intellectualising undermines that helpful loop and leaves you less able to trust your internal signals.
Tiny experiment to try this week: The emotion label challenge. When a strong sensation arrives, pause and name it in one word: “sad,” “angry,” “anxious.” Don’t explain or solve — simply label. Do this five times a day for seven days and keep a one-line note about the context. You will begin to notice patterns and feel less hijacked by unnamed storms.
If naming feels impossible, DBT-based emotion-labelling practices offered in a short guided package can help you build the habit safely.
Do you journal more than you act?
You’ve got pages of beautifully written reflections, lists of feelings, and detailed plans. But when you look at your actual life, not much has shifted. It’s not that journaling is bad — far from it. It’s a powerful tool for processing emotions and making sense of experience. But when writing becomes a substitute for doing, it can quietly keep you stuck.
When thought becomes a stall-tool
For many of us, journaling feels safer than taking the next step. On paper, we’re in control. We can explore every angle without the unpredictability of real-world consequences. But this control can also become a comfort zone that keeps us from moving forward. If you’ve been through trauma and self-trust challenges, your nervous system might prefer the predictability of thought over the vulnerability of action.
Sometimes, writing feels like progress when it’s actually a delay tactic — a way to avoid decisions that could lead to discomfort, rejection, or failure. The pen becomes a shield, the page a hiding place. It’s a form of perfectionism in disguise: “I’ll act when I’ve fully figured it out.” The problem? That day rarely comes.
The research on rumination, action and trauma
Psychological research on rumination shows that overthinking — even when structured in a journal — can prolong stress responses and stall behavioural change. In trauma recovery, action is often the missing link. Studies indicate that taking even small, values-driven steps can help rewire the brain’s fear circuits and rebuild self-trust. Journaling is most effective when it’s paired with committed, embodied follow-through.
This doesn’t mean you stop journaling. It means you treat the notebook as a launchpad, not a landing pad.
Tiny experiment: one micro-action per journalling session
For the next week, pair each journaling session with a single, concrete action. If you write about wanting to feel healthier, drink a glass of water right after you close the book. If you explore feelings of loneliness, send one text to a friend. The action doesn’t have to be perfect or big — it just needs to be real and in the world.
For a moving reflection on turning insight into change, read Secrets of Love — insights into love’s hidden truths and the boundaries that make it thrive.
which examines courage not as a feeling but as a series of choices, often made in the quiet moments between thought and action.
Short story: My shelf is a small archive of plans. I would write the perfect morning routine, list ten ideas to launch, and keep the notebook pristine. The irony was that the notebook read like a gallery of intent rather than a record of change. Months of detailed plans had produced one or two attempts; most remained ideas on paper.
What it looks like: This pattern shows as long entries and few outcomes: mission statements without launches, bucket lists without bookings, and drafts that never meet “send.” Journalling feels productive because it organises worry, but when it replaces action it functions as a stall-tool — a way to prepare without risking error. For people with a history of trauma and self-trust erosion, planning is safer than acting.
Why it happens: Rumination and over-planning are common responses to uncertainty born of childhood invalidation. Writing can soothe the nervous system, but it also offers an endless bypass from testing decisions in the real world. Psychological studies on rumination show it sustains distress when it is not linked to behavioural activation. The brain prefers predictability; writing creates a simulated predictability that can be mistaken for progress.
Tiny experiment to try this week: One micro-action per journalling session. After you write an idea or plan, do one small, visible action related to it: send one email, set a ten-minute timer to start the task, or place one object in a new location to signal a change. Keep a short log: entry → micro‑action → one-line result. Small acts convert thinking into evidence and quietly rebuild trust.
If you find yourself locked in planning loops, a focused “action anchor” consult can give you a two-step ritual to turn each journal entry into a habit test.
Do you ask others before asking yourself?
You have a big decision to make. Maybe it’s about your career, a relationship, or where to live. Before you’ve even had a chance to sit quietly with your own thoughts, you’ve sent three texts, made a phone call, and maybe even posted a question in a group chat. It’s like you’ve outsourced your inner compass to an external GPS.
The habit of external GPS
This habit often comes from a place of wanting to “get it right.” You don’t want to waste time, make the wrong move, or disappoint someone. So, you gather opinions as if collecting puzzle pieces — hoping they’ll form a clear picture. But the problem is, the more voices you add, the harder it becomes to hear your own. Instead of clarity, you get static.
This doesn’t mean that seeking advice is bad. It can be deeply wise to learn from others’ experiences. The key question is: are you using advice as an addition to your own thinking, or as a replacement for it? If it’s the latter, you might be slowly eroding self-trust without even realising it.
How family systems and childhood invalidation teach this
If you grew up in an environment where your opinions were dismissed, your feelings belittled, or your decisions overridden, you may have learned early on that your inner voice isn’t reliable. Childhood invalidation signs often include hesitation to speak up, chronic self-doubt, and a need for others’ approval before acting.
In some family systems, decisions were made for you “for your own good.” While this might have been framed as love or protection, it often communicates: “You can’t be trusted to make choices.” Over time, this belief can become so ingrained that even in adulthood, your first instinct is to check outside yourself before checking inward.
Tiny experiment: the “one-minute inner council”
Before reaching for your phone or asking anyone else, give yourself one quiet minute. Set a timer. Close your eyes. Ask yourself: “What do I truly think about this?” The answer might surprise you — or it might be faint at first. That’s okay. Like a muscle, your inner voice strengthens with use.
If you want to explore how trust can be both broken and rebuilt in life’s most vulnerable moments, read When Trust Breaks: A Tale of Love, Loss, and Healing — a story that resonates deeply with anyone learning to listen inward again.
Short story: I remember standing in a shop aisle, phone in hand, asking three friends which snack I should buy. Each answer nudged me differently; the more answers I got, the less sure I felt. Eventually I put the phone away and chose the one I had wanted first. It was a small victory, but one that mattered because it felt like reclaiming a tiny habit of self-consultation.
What it looks like: External-GPS behaviour looks like polling before simple choices, consulting forums for personal decisions, and habitually asking “What would you do?” rather than “What do I want?” It can show up as an avoidance of solitude and an overreliance on crowd-sourced comfort. Choices become electoral instead of sovereign.
Why it happens: Families and school systems that prize conformity or punish dissent teach children to seek consensus as safety. Childhood invalidation signs — being told your view is odd or wrong — encourage external calibration. Over time asking others first becomes automatic because other people once kept you safer. Rebuilding an inner council requires practice.
Tiny experiment to try this week: The one-minute inner council. Before you consult anyone, give yourself sixty seconds of focused attention. Ask: “If no one was watching, what would I choose?” Say it aloud. Wait one hour. If nothing catastrophic has happened, accept the answer as provisional evidence of your taste. Repeat this three times in the week.
If you lose authorship over big choices, a single mapping session can identify safe places to practise reclaiming decisions and craft scripts for conversations when others push back.
Do you fear silence because of what it might reveal?
For many people who’ve experienced emotional gaslighting or years of being unheard, silence isn’t peaceful — it’s unsettling. You put away your phone, turn off the TV, and suddenly the stillness starts to feel heavy, almost hostile. Your mind fills the quiet with old voices, doubts, and unfinished emotional business. This is why so many of us avoid silence — it’s not just empty space, it’s a mirror.
Why silence is scary after invalidation
Silence leaves room for your real thoughts to surface — and if you’ve been taught that your thoughts are “wrong” or “too much,” they can feel threatening. In homes or relationships where your truth was met with dismissal, mockery, or anger, you may have learned to keep your mind busy to avoid confronting the pain. That’s why long commutes need loud music, and evenings are filled with endless scrolling. It’s a distraction strategy.
Psychologists often talk about “avoidance coping” — when we sidestep uncomfortable emotions instead of processing them. For those with trauma and self-trust wounds, silence becomes a trigger because it brings us face to face with feelings we’ve never been allowed to validate.
Relearning silence as a tool of self-trust
Silence doesn’t have to be the enemy. In fact, once we relearn it, silence can become the safest room in the house — the place where we reconnect with our inner voice without interference. Like strengthening a weak muscle, it’s about starting small and practising often. In silence, your nervous system has a chance to downshift, your breath deepens, and your body starts telling you truths your busy mind has been drowning out.
Think of silence not as the absence of sound, but as the presence of yourself. When you stop filling the air with noise, you give your inner compass room to speak.
Tiny experiment: 3 minutes of quiet each day
Start with a low bar — three minutes of intentional silence daily. Sit somewhere comfortable, close your eyes, and simply notice what comes up. No judgement. No agenda. This isn’t about fixing anything; it’s about building tolerance for being with yourself. Over time, three minutes can become five, then ten, and eventually, silence won’t feel like an intruder — it will feel like an ally.
For a moving reflection on how apologies, presence, and understanding can transform relationships, read The Orchard of Apologies — a gentle reminder that quiet moments can also be spaces for healing.
Short story: Silence once felt like a courtroom to me. When the room quietened, old voices returned — “you’re dramatic,” “you’re too sensitive.” I learned to fill pauses with chatter, music or scrolling because quiet invited accusation. It took practice to let silence be simply silence, not an indictment.
What it looks like: Fear of silence looks like constant background noise: radio on while cooking, endless messages in group chats, or nervous talking to avoid stillness. It can also look like avoidance of solitude and a preference for company even when solitude would feel restorative. Silence becomes something to escape rather than a container for listening.
Why it happens: After childhood invalidation, silence can be threatening because it leaves space for the old internalised critics to speak. Those inner critics were shaped by emotional gaslighting and repeated minimisation; silence allows their accusations to surface. Relearning silence as a safe, investigative space is a corrective practice for trauma and self-trust recovery.
Tiny experiment to try this week: Three minutes of quiet each day. Set a timer for three minutes, sit, breathe, and notice sensations without reacting. If thoughts arise, note them neutrally. Do this for seven days and record one observation per day. The goal is to replace the expectation of danger in silence with the actuality of presence.
If silence triggers painful memories, a trauma-informed practitioner can guide you in gentle exposure so stillness becomes a refuge rather than a threat. For a personal pathway, consider booking a short, paced consult.
For a deeper look at how environments shape choices and trust, you might find this related piece insightful: The Price of Trust — Tyla’s Journey. An emotional narrative on the cost of misplaced trust and the road back to self.
Is this just over-sensitivity or emotional gaslighting?
When you begin questioning your own decisions, feelings, or even memories, it’s easy to wonder: Am I just being overly sensitive? This self-doubt is common, especially if you’ve grown up with subtle (or not-so-subtle) invalidation. But the truth is, not all doubt is created equal. Sometimes it’s a normal part of learning and self-reflection. Other times, it’s the lingering effect of emotional gaslighting — a process where someone systematically teaches you to distrust your own reality.
Distinguishing normal doubt from trained self-distrust
Normal doubt often comes in specific situations — like when you’re making a big decision, tackling a new skill, or navigating unfamiliar territory. It’s a pause for assessment, and it generally resolves when you gather enough information. Trained self-distrust, however, is different. It’s chronic, pervasive, and doesn’t go away even when you have all the facts. You might find yourself second-guessing everything from what you felt in a conversation to whether your favourite food really tastes good to you, simply because someone else told you otherwise.
For example, a child who grows up hearing, “You’re too sensitive” or “That didn’t happen” learns that their feelings and perceptions are unreliable. Over time, this conditioning rewires their inner compass, replacing self-trust with dependency on external voices. This isn’t just a quirk of personality; it’s a survival strategy that once kept you safe in invalidating environments.
Definitions and a short review of recent studies
Emotional gaslighting is defined by psychologists as the manipulation of a person’s emotions to make them doubt their perceptions, memory, or sanity. According to a 2022 study in the Journal of Emotional Abuse, individuals exposed to long-term emotional gaslighting often present with reduced decision-making confidence, heightened anxiety, and patterns of approval-seeking. Another survey by the National Domestic Violence Hotline found that 74% of respondents in emotionally abusive relationships reported persistent difficulty trusting their own feelings, even after leaving the relationship.
Research on childhood invalidation signs also shows a direct correlation between repeated dismissal of emotions and reduced emotional literacy in adulthood. This reinforces the idea that chronic self-doubt isn’t an inborn flaw — it’s a learned response to repeated experiences of being told your inner world is “wrong.”
To explore a heartfelt narrative that unpacks the long-term cost of betrayal and mistrust, see When Trust Breaks: A Tale of Love, Loss, and Healing. It’s a poignant reminder that regaining self-trust is as much about unlearning lies as it is about learning truths.
Can trauma and self-trust be healed?
There’s something quietly revolutionary about believing you can trust yourself again. When you’ve spent years — maybe decades — second-guessing your own feelings, decisions, and even your worth, the idea of healing can feel like a foreign language. But here’s the truth: self-trust isn’t gone, it’s just buried. Trauma didn’t erase it; it simply taught you to lock it away for survival. And survival isn’t the same as living.
Evidence-based routes (therapy, DBT, self-compassion)
Science is remarkably kind on this topic. Evidence-based therapies such as Dialectical Behaviour Therapy (DBT) have shown measurable improvements in emotional regulation and decision-making confidence. DBT teaches people to identify their feelings without judgment, to sit with discomfort, and to make choices aligned with their values — not just to avoid conflict or please others. Similarly, trauma-informed therapy recognises the body’s role in storing fear, shame, and doubt, and works to rebuild safety at a nervous-system level.
Self-compassion research, particularly from Dr. Kristin Neff’s work, shows that people who treat themselves with the same kindness they’d offer a friend experience less shame and greater resilience. It’s not about pretending everything’s fine — it’s about saying, “I see you, I hear you, and I’m with you,” even to the most wounded parts of yourself.
A short roadmap: small reliable steps
Healing self-trust doesn’t happen in dramatic leaps; it happens in quiet, consistent moments. Start with one small promise to yourself — something almost laughably achievable, like drinking a glass of water in the morning or taking a five-minute walk. Keep that promise every day. Over time, you prove to yourself that your word is worth something, that you can rely on you.
Next, practise what I call the “micro-check-in”: pause for 30 seconds before making small decisions and ask yourself, What do I want right now? You might be surprised how often your answer is clear when you give it space to appear. Layer these micro-practices with occasional deeper work — journaling, therapy sessions, even moments of meditative silence — and you begin to stitch together a relationship with yourself that’s built on respect, not fear.
How many of these signs apply to you? Which one shocks you most?
Take a breath before you start. This isn’t a test to pass or fail — it’s a mirror, and sometimes mirrors can be cruel before they are kind. Below is your quiet moment of truth, a chance to see yourself more clearly. You don’t need to rush. This is between you and the version of you who still hopes for something better.
The scorecard (0–2, 3–4, 5+): what each bucket suggests
- 0–2 signs: You may already have a steady relationship with yourself. These signs might pop up in moments of stress, but they haven’t taken root. Your work now is to keep listening inwards so the world’s noise doesn’t drown out your own voice.
- 3–4 signs: This is the middle ground — enough patterns to notice, but not so many that you feel completely lost. You’ve probably been taught to doubt yourself in certain situations or with certain people. The good news? Awareness here is the bridge to change.
- 5+ signs: This is deep territory. It likely means you’ve been living with trained self-distrust for years, maybe since childhood. If you’re feeling heavy reading this, know that it’s not your fault. These patterns began as survival skills. But survival is not the end goal — reclaiming yourself is.
Which sign shocks you most? Reflection prompts
When you look back over the list, notice which sign made your stomach drop. Maybe it’s “I don’t know” spilling from your lips before you even think. Maybe it’s how often you ask others before asking yourself. That shock you feel? It’s your body whispering, Here. This is the wound we’ve been hiding.
Take a few minutes — right now, if you can — and answer these questions on paper:
- Where did I first learn this habit?
- Whose voice do I hear in my head when I do it?
- What small action could I try this week to interrupt it?
You might find tears on the page. Let them come. Tears are the saltwater proof that you care enough to look at yourself honestly. And in that moment, you’re already building trust — not with me, not with the world, but with you.
Which single sign will you interrupt this week?
You don’t need to fix everything at once. In fact, you shouldn’t. Healing is like untying a knot — pull too hard and it tightens. Instead, pick one sign from the list that feels both uncomfortable and manageable. That’s your practice ground. This week, you become a scientist of your own life, experimenting gently, not demanding perfection.
A seven-day micro-practice (choose one sign and follow a daily checklist)
Here’s a flexible plan you can adapt depending on the sign you choose:
- Day 1: Name the sign and write down what it looks like in your daily life. For example, “I ask others before asking myself — this happens at work when I need to make small decisions.”
- Day 2: Notice every time the pattern appears. Don’t judge yourself, just track it. Keep a small notebook or use your phone.
- Day 3: Introduce a pause. Before you act out the habit, breathe for 10 seconds. This moment is where change begins.
- Day 4: Replace the habit with a tiny alternative. Instead of asking someone else, ask yourself first and write down the answer.
- Day 5: Reflect in the evening. How did your alternative feel? Awkward? Empowering? Both are signs you’re on the right track.
- Day 6: Share one small win with a trusted friend, mentor, or even anonymously online. Speaking it aloud strengthens it.
- Day 7: Celebrate the experiment. This isn’t the end — it’s proof you can shift even the smallest thing.
How to document the shift (what to notice, what to record)
Documentation is more than a record — it’s a conversation with your future self. Write daily about:
- Frequency: Did the habit appear more or less often than before?
- Feeling: How did you feel when you caught it? Relieved, proud, irritated?
- Context: When and where did it happen most? Were there triggers?
- Progress markers: Even one less occurrence than yesterday is a win.
By the end of the week, you’ll have a map of your small but real transformation. This is where trust grows — not in the grand declarations, but in the quiet proof you give yourself over time.
Remember: your choice to interrupt even one sign is an act of rebellion against years of programming. You are not just surviving anymore — you’re beginning to lead yourself. And when you can lead yourself, you can lead your life.
Where can you read deeper or get help?
When you’ve recognised the signs of trained self-distrust, the journey doesn’t have to stop here. Healing is a lifelong apprenticeship with yourself, and the right resources can become steady companions along the way. This is where you gather your tools — the voices, stories, and practices that remind you you’re not alone.
Suggested books, articles, and services (with links)
- Books:
- The Gifts of Imperfection by Brené Brown — A gentle invitation to embrace yourself without the armour.
- Radical Acceptance by Tara Brach — A wise guide on holding your pain and worth in the same breath.
- Burn the Old by Tushar Mangl — A bold call to shed what no longer serves and step into a life aligned with your deepest truths.
- Services:
- One-to-one healing sessions — Focused, compassionate work to untangle the root of your self-distrust and build lasting self-trust.
- Workshops on emotional resilience — Group spaces for learning practical tools, connecting with others, and finding encouragement.
Book a paid consultation
If you feel called to work closely with someone who understands these wounds from the inside out, you can book a paid consultation. In our sessions, you’ll find a blend of practical exercises, deep listening, and personalised strategies for rebuilding trust with yourself. Expect honesty, empathy, and the occasional uncomfortable truth — the kind that frees you.
Buy and read Burn the Old by Tushar Mangl
For a journey you can hold in your hands, get your copy of Burn the Old. It’s not just a book; it’s a conversation with the part of you that knows life can be more than survival. Read it slowly, underline recklessly, and let it challenge the version of you that settles for less than you deserve.
Does this feel like an invitation rather than a verdict?
There’s a quiet difference between a verdict and an invitation. A verdict closes a door. An invitation, however, leaves it open — sometimes just a crack, but enough for light and fresh air to slip through. My hope is that these words have felt like that: a light nudging you forward, not a finger pointing back at your faults.
I remember once walking through an orchard just after the rain. The trees held droplets like tiny mirrors, reflecting more sky than ground. A child ran past me, barefoot and laughing, not caring that mud streaked her legs. That moment — all spontaneity and trust in her own joy — stayed with me. It’s the kind of trust we all began with, before someone told us we needed to doubt ourselves to be safe. That memory is my reminder that we can go back, one step at a time.
Bio of Tushar Mangl
Tushar Mangl is a counsellor, vastu expert, and author of Burn the Old Map, I Will Do It, and Ardika. He writes about food, books, personal finance, investments, mental health, vastu, and the art of living a balanced life, seeking to create a greener, better society. Blogging at tusharmangl.com since 2006.
“I help unseen souls design lives, spaces, and relationships that heal and elevate—through ancient wisdom, energetic alignment, and grounded action.”
FAQs
Q1: How do I know if my self-doubt is normal or a sign of emotional gaslighting?
A healthy level of self-questioning is normal, but when it’s constant and paralyses decision-making, it might be the residue of emotional gaslighting. If you consistently feel the need to seek validation before acting, it’s worth exploring deeper.
Q2: Can childhood invalidation really affect my decision-making as an adult?
Yes. Research shows that repeated dismissal of a child’s feelings can disrupt their ability to trust their own perceptions, which can persist well into adulthood and influence career, relationships, and self-worth.
Q3: How long does it take to rebuild self-trust after trauma?
There’s no fixed timeline. Healing is nonlinear — some shifts happen in weeks, others take years. The key is consistent, compassionate practice and not measuring yourself against others’ pace.
Q4: Can self-trust be built without therapy?
Yes, though therapy can accelerate the process. Self-trust can also grow through practices like journalling, mindfulness, supportive friendships, and gradually taking self-led decisions.
Q5: What’s the first step if I realise I’ve been trained not to trust myself?
Start with small, low-stakes decisions that you make without seeking outside approval. Celebrate these moments — they’re the training grounds for bigger leaps.
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