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How Childhood Trauma Shapes Adult Relationships (Even When You Think You’re Fine)

How Childhood Trauma Shapes Adult Relationships

How Childhood Trauma Shapes Adult Relationships (Even When You Think You’re Fine)

Article Summary

Many people come to therapy believing they have relationship problems.

They tell me they struggle to trust.

They push people away.

They overthink every text message.

They expect relationships to fail.

They tell me they’ve always chosen the wrong partners.

Or perhaps they’ve convinced themselves they simply don’t need anyone.

Rarely do they begin by talking about childhood.

Yet as we start exploring their story, a different picture begins to emerge.

The issue isn’t usually that they don’t want love.

It’s that somewhere along the way, their nervous system learned that love wasn’t safe.

This article isn’t about blaming parents.

Nor is it about suggesting every difficult relationship stems from childhood trauma.

Life is far more complicated than that.

However, our earliest experiences do shape how we experience trust, safety, conflict, intimacy and connection as adults.

Often in ways we don’t even recognise.

Understanding those patterns isn’t about assigning blame.

It’s about creating freedom.

Because once we understand why we relate to others the way we do, we gain the opportunity to choose something different.

Table of Contents

  • Why Childhood Experiences Stay With Us
  • Trust Is Often the Real Issue
  • Why We Push People Away
  • Choosing Familiar Relationships
  • When Healthy Love Feels Unsafe
  • Breaking the Cycle
  • Healing Through Safe Relationships
  • Frequently Asked Questions

It Isn’t Really About Relationships

People often arrive convinced they have a relationship problem.

After years of clinical practice, I’ve come to see something slightly different.

Most don’t have a relationship problem.

They have a trust problem.

That distinction matters.

Trusting another person.

Trusting kindness.

Trusting support.

Trusting calm.

Trusting that someone might stay.

For many people, relationships aren’t frightening because of what is happening now.

They’re frightening because of what the nervous system expects will happen next.

One of the first questions I often ask isn’t,

“Tell me about your current relationship.”

It’s,

“When did you first learn that people couldn’t be relied upon?”

That answer often tells us far more.

Trust Is Learned Long Before We Understand It

As children, we don’t consciously decide whether the world is safe.

We absorb it.

Every interaction teaches the nervous system something.

Sometimes those lessons are beautiful.

That people are dependable.

That emotions are welcomed.

That mistakes don’t threaten connection.

That someone will come back.

That comfort is available.

But not everyone grows up with those experiences.

Some children experience unpredictability.

Others experience criticism.

Some learn that expressing emotion leads to rejection.

Others discover they must become independent far earlier than they should.

Children don’t usually question these experiences.

They adapt to them.

The nervous system simply learns:

This is how relationships work.

The remarkable thing is that those lessons often continue long after childhood has ended.

“Anything That Goes Wrong Is Expected”

One pattern I see repeatedly in therapy is something many people have never noticed before.

When life goes wrong…

they aren’t surprised.

The relationship ends.

The friend lets them down.

The colleague disappoints them.

They almost shrug.

“I knew this would happen.”

It fits the story their nervous system has been expecting all along.

But something interesting happens when life goes well.

When someone genuinely cares.

When support is offered.

When love is consistent.

Instead of relief…

there is suspicion.

People begin asking themselves:

“What’s the catch?”

“When is this going to change?”

“What do they really want?”

“How long before this disappears?”

In other words…

Anything that goes wrong is accepted and expected.

Anything that goes right is questioned.

This isn’t pessimism.

It’s familiarity.

The nervous system naturally trusts what it already knows.

Even when what it knows has caused pain.

“I Can Do It Myself”

Another pattern I encounter almost daily is fierce independence.

Many people wear it like a badge of honour.

“I don’t need anyone.”

“I’ll sort it myself.”

“I’ve always managed.”

On the surface, this can look like confidence.

Sometimes it is.

But sometimes it’s something entirely different.

Many people learned incredibly early in life that depending on others led to disappointment.

Promises weren’t kept.

Needs weren’t met.

Support wasn’t available.

So the nervous system adapted brilliantly.

It developed one simple rule.

Don’t rely on anyone.

For years, perhaps decades, that strategy worked.

It kept people functioning.

It helped them survive.

The difficulty comes later.

Because the very strategy that once protected them begins preventing genuine connection.

Someone offers help.

They politely refuse.

Someone offers emotional support.

They minimise their feelings.

Someone says,

“You don’t have to do this on your own.”

Their immediate response is,

“I’m fine.”

Not because they don’t want help.

Because learning to do everything alone became the safest way to live.

As I often say to clients:

Learning to do it on your own has probably been your greatest coping strategy. It developed because, at one point in your life, relying on somebody else simply wasn’t safe.

That isn’t weakness.

It’s adaptation.

The question is whether that adaptation still serves you today.

Childhood Doesn’t Stay in Childhood

One of the biggest misconceptions about trauma is that once childhood ends, those experiences remain in the past.

Our memories may stay in the past.

Our nervous systems often do not.

The body remembers patterns long after the conscious mind has moved on.

That doesn’t mean we consciously relive childhood every day.

It means the nervous system continues making predictions based on what it has previously experienced.

If unpredictability was common…

the nervous system expects unpredictability.

If rejection was common…

the nervous system prepares for rejection.

If love felt conditional…

the nervous system struggles to believe unconditional love exists.

None of this happens because people are choosing negativity.

The nervous system is trying to protect us using the information it already has.

It isn’t asking,

“What is true today?”

It’s asking,

“What kept me safe before?”

Understanding this changes the conversation completely.

Rather than judging ourselves for struggling to trust…

we begin recognising why trust became so difficult in the first place.

The Goal Isn’t Blame

Whenever childhood enters the conversation, people often become uncomfortable.

Some immediately defend their parents.

Others worry therapy is simply about assigning blame.

I don’t believe that’s particularly helpful.

Parents are human.

Many were raising children whilst carrying their own unresolved trauma.

Some did the very best they could with the resources they had.

Others caused significant harm.

Both realities exist.

Therapy isn’t about deciding whether someone was a “good” or “bad” parent.

It’s about understanding the impact of our experiences.

Because regardless of intention…

the nervous system still learns.

Understanding isn’t about blame.

It’s about awareness.

And awareness creates the possibility of change.

Why We Push Away the People We Need Most

One of the most confusing experiences for many people is recognising that they keep pushing away the very people they desperately want to keep close.

They don’t understand it.

They tell me,

“I don’t know why I do it.”

“As soon as someone gets close, I pull away.”

“I keep ruining good relationships.”

The important word here is good.

Because they don’t usually sabotage unhealthy relationships.

Those often continue for years.

It’s the healthy ones that become difficult.

That can seem completely illogical.

Until we begin looking through the lens of the nervous system.

Healthy Love Can Feel Unsafe

One of the biggest misconceptions about trauma is that healing simply means finding healthier people.

Healthy relationships certainly matter.

But they don’t automatically feel safe.

In fact, for many people they initially feel the opposite.

Imagine spending twenty or thirty years learning that love is unpredictable.

That affection disappears.

That support comes with conditions.

That conflict means abandonment.

Then imagine meeting someone who is patient.

Consistent.

Emotionally available.

Kind.

The conscious mind may recognise this as something positive.

The nervous system often doesn’t.

Logically, we know we’re safe.

The nervous system doesn’t.

That is one of the most important distinctions I try to help clients understand.

Our logical brain and our nervous system don’t always arrive at the same conclusion.

“When Is It Going to Go Wrong?”

People often assume that someone with trust difficulties spends their time asking,

“Is this relationship real?”

In my experience, that’s rarely the question.

The question is usually much more subtle.

“When is it going to go wrong?”

Notice the assumption hidden within that sentence.

Not if.

When.

The relationship has already been given an expiry date.

The only uncertainty is when disappointment will arrive.

Once that expectation becomes deeply embedded, the nervous system begins looking for evidence to support it.

A delayed text message.

A tired tone of voice.

A cancelled plan.

A disagreement.

Small events become interpreted through an old lens.

Not because the relationship is unhealthy.

Because the nervous system has learned to prepare for loss before it happens.

Self-Sabotage Isn’t About Wanting to Be Alone

When people hear the phrase self-sabotage, they often imagine someone making deliberately destructive choices.

That isn’t what I usually see.

Most people desperately want connection.

They want to be loved.

They want healthy relationships.

They want someone they can trust.

So why sabotage it?

Because uncertainty is often harder to tolerate than disappointment.

If rejection feels inevitable, there can be an unconscious drive to bring it forward.

To control it.

To make it happen on our own terms.

That way, the nervous system no longer has to live with uncertainty.

It already knows the outcome.

I’ve often found myself explaining it like this:

People don’t sabotage relationships because they want to lose them.

They sabotage the waiting.

The Relief Nobody Talks About

One observation has stayed with me throughout my years as a psychotherapist.

When a relationship finally ends after months of fear and testing…

many people experience relief.

Not happiness.

Not celebration.

Relief.

That can feel deeply confusing.

How can losing someone feel relieving?

Because certainty has replaced uncertainty.

The nervous system can finally stop asking,

“When is this going to happen?”

Instead, it quietly says,

“There it is. I knew it.”

Painful as that moment is, it confirms the story the nervous system has carried for years.

In some ways, certainty feels safer than hope.

Even when certainty hurts.

The Endless Test

Another pattern I frequently see is what I call relationship testing.

It rarely happens consciously.

Someone may withdraw emotionally to see whether their partner notices.

They may create distance.

Cancel plans.

Become argumentative.

Question the relationship repeatedly.

Reject compliments.

Dismiss affection.

Not because they don’t want reassurance.

Because they need reassurance that feels impossible to believe.

The tragedy is that no amount of reassurance can permanently settle a nervous system that doesn’t yet believe it deserves safety.

Eventually, the other person becomes exhausted.

The relationship begins to strain.

And when it finally breaks…

the nervous system says,

“See? I knew it.”

Not because the belief was true.

Because the belief helped create the outcome it feared most.

This is one of the cruellest aspects of unresolved childhood trauma.

The very strategies that once protected us can begin recreating the experiences we’re trying so desperately to avoid.

Why Calm Feels Strange

People often tell me,

“Healthy relationships feel boring.”

I’m not convinced they do.

I think something else is happening.

Calm doesn’t feel boring.

Calm feels unfamiliar.

For someone whose nervous system has spent years adapting to unpredictability, consistency can feel surprisingly uncomfortable.

There are no dramatic reconciliations.

No emotional rollercoasters.

No constant questioning.

No need to stay hyper-alert.

To someone who has never experienced that kind of stability, it can initially feel empty.

Not because it lacks love.

Because it lacks familiarity.

The nervous system isn’t craving chaos.

It’s recognising what it has always known.

That distinction matters enormously.

We Choose What Feels Familiar

One of the hardest truths for people to accept is that we don’t always choose what is healthiest.

We often choose what feels most familiar.

This doesn’t mean people consciously seek unhealthy relationships.

Far from it.

It means the nervous system is constantly asking,

“Have I experienced this before?”

If the answer is yes, it often interprets familiarity as safety—even when that familiarity has caused years of pain.

This helps explain why someone may repeatedly choose emotionally unavailable partners.

Why they remain in relationships where their needs aren’t met.

Why they mistake emotional intensity for intimacy.

Why they feel strangely uncomfortable when someone offers steady, dependable love.

The nervous system isn’t making a rational decision.

It’s following an old map.

One that was drawn many years ago.

The Goal Isn’t to Stop Loving

Sometimes people become frightened when they recognise these patterns.

They begin wondering whether they’ll ever trust anyone again.

Whether they’ll always sabotage relationships.

Whether they’re simply too damaged.

I don’t believe that.

What I have witnessed repeatedly is that people can learn entirely new ways of relating.

Not overnight.

Not perfectly.

But gradually.

The goal isn’t to become someone who never feels afraid.

The goal is to become someone who no longer allows fear to make every decision.

That process begins not by forcing trust…

but by understanding why trust became so difficult in the first place.

Why We Keep Choosing the Same Kind of Partner

One of the questions I hear most often is:

“Why do I keep ending up with the same type of person?”

The names change.

The careers change.

The circumstances change.

Yet somehow the relationship ends in remarkably similar ways.

People often describe it as bad luck.

They tell me,

“I always attract emotionally unavailable people.”

“Why do I keep picking the wrong person?”

The answer is usually far more complicated than simply choosing badly.

Because relationships don’t begin with logic.

They begin with the nervous system.

Familiar Doesn’t Mean Healthy

One of the biggest myths surrounding relationships is that we naturally seek what’s good for us.

I don’t think that’s always true.

More often, we seek what feels familiar.

That’s a very different thing.

If emotional availability wasn’t something we experienced consistently as children, emotional availability as adults can feel surprisingly uncomfortable.

Not because we don’t want it.

Because we don’t recognise it.

The nervous system isn’t asking,

“Is this person healthy?”

It’s asking,

“Have I felt something like this before?”

If the answer is yes, there is often an unconscious pull towards it.

Even when that familiarity has caused pain throughout our lives.

Emotionally Unavailable Feels Like Home

Many clients describe falling for people who seem emotionally distant.

Partners who struggle with intimacy.

Partners who are difficult to reach.

Partners who seem loving one day and withdrawn the next.

When we begin exploring their earlier experiences, a pattern often appears.

Perhaps affection was inconsistent.

Perhaps praise had to be earned.

Perhaps emotions weren’t spoken about.

Perhaps one or both parents were emotionally unavailable themselves.

Without consciously realising it, the nervous system begins recognising emotional distance as normal.

Not enjoyable.

Normal.

When someone emotionally available enters their life, something unexpected happens.

Instead of relief…

there is discomfort.

Not because the relationship is unhealthy.

Because the nervous system has never learned that consistency can also be safe.

Calm Doesn’t Feel Boring

People often tell me,

“Healthy relationships just don’t excite me.”

I think there’s a misunderstanding hidden inside that statement.

It’s not that calm is boring.

Calm feels unfamiliar.

There is an important difference.

When life has involved unpredictability for years, calm initially feels almost empty.

No constant drama.

No emotional highs and lows.

No uncertainty about where you stand.

No chasing.

No withdrawing.

No guessing.

For someone whose nervous system has adapted to emotional inconsistency, that stability can feel strangely uncomfortable.

The absence of chaos can even be mistaken for the absence of love.

It isn’t.

It’s simply something the nervous system has not yet learned to trust.

Groundhog Day

One analogy I often find myself using is Groundhog Day.

The same emotional story repeats itself.

Different faces.

Different relationships.

The same ending.

People begin testing.

Testing the relationship.

Testing whether they are lovable.

Testing whether the other person will leave.

Testing whether kindness is genuine.

Testing whether support will disappear.

Each test is designed to answer one question.

“Can I finally trust this?”

Ironically, the testing itself often begins damaging the relationship.

Not because the person wants it to fail.

Because they’re desperately trying to prove it won’t.

Eventually, after enough strain, the relationship ends.

And the nervous system quietly says,

“See? I knew it.”

The cycle begins again.

Not because people enjoy suffering.

Because familiarity feels safer than uncertainty.

Accepting Help Can Feel More Difficult Than Coping Alone

One of the hardest changes during recovery is learning to accept support.

Many people assume accepting help should feel comforting.

Often it doesn’t.

At least not initially.

Someone offers kindness.

Someone listens without judgement.

Someone genuinely wants to help.

The logical mind appreciates it.

The nervous system often responds very differently.

It whispers,

“Don’t depend on them.”

“Don’t get used to this.”

“You’ll only be disappointed.”

That isn’t negativity.

It’s protection.

For years, perhaps decades, doing everything alone has worked.

It became the safest strategy available.

Letting someone else in requires the nervous system to risk something it has spent years avoiding.

Dependence.

Trust.

Hope.

That takes time.

Healing Rarely Happens in a Straight Line

One thing I try to prepare clients for is that healing almost never follows a straight path.

People often imagine a steady climb.

Week after week.

Month after month.

In reality, it usually looks much messier.

Someone begins accepting help.

Then pushes it away.

They trust.

Then become frightened.

They open up.

Then withdraw.

They move closer.

Then create distance.

From the outside, this can look like failure.

I don’t see it that way.

I see a nervous system cautiously experimenting with something it has never fully experienced before.

As I often explain,

Healing is an ebb and flow.

Not because therapy isn’t working.

Because the nervous system needs repeated experiences before it begins believing that safety can last.

What Changes First?

People often ask me,

“How do you know someone is healing?”

The answer isn’t that they suddenly become fearless.

Or perfectly secure.

Or never struggle again.

The first changes are usually much smaller.

The testing begins to slow.

The pauses become longer.

Someone notices the urge to push another person away…

and waits.

They notice the familiar fear.

But they don’t immediately act on it.

They begin accepting help.

Then pushing it away.

Then accepting it again.

Gradually, the balance begins to shift.

They’re still hurt sometimes.

They’re still disappointed sometimes.

Because healthy relationships don’t eliminate pain.

What changes is something much more important.

Their capacity to recover.

Healing isn’t about becoming someone who is never hurt again.

It’s about becoming resilient enough to pick up the pieces without concluding that every relationship is doomed to fail.

Compassion Creates Space for Trust

If there is one lesson I hope every client leaves therapy with, it is this:

Healing doesn’t begin with trusting other people.

It begins with treating yourself differently.

So many people believe self-criticism keeps them safe.

That if they expect the worst, they’ll somehow avoid disappointment.

In reality, harsh self-judgement often reinforces the very beliefs that keep relationships difficult.

Compassion does something entirely different.

It creates enough internal safety to begin questioning old assumptions.

Instead of saying,

“There’s something wrong with me.”

People begin asking,

“I wonder why this feels so frightening?”

That small shift changes everything.

Because curiosity opens doors that criticism never can.

As self-compassion grows, something else begins to happen.

People slowly become able to receive compassion from others.

That is often the moment when the nervous system starts believing that relationships can feel different.

Not perfect.

Different.

Healing Doesn’t Mean You’ll Never Get Hurt Again

One of the biggest fears people bring into therapy is that if they begin trusting again, they’ll eventually be hurt.

They’re right.

At some point, someone will disappoint you.

A relationship may end.

Someone may let you down.

Someone may break a promise.

Healing doesn’t remove those possibilities.

It can’t.

What healing changes is your relationship with those experiences.

Before therapy, one disappointment might reinforce a lifelong belief:

“Nobody stays.”

“I knew this would happen.”

“I should never have trusted anyone.”

As healing progresses, something begins to change.

The disappointment still hurts.

But it no longer defines every relationship.

The nervous system slowly begins to understand that one painful experience doesn’t have to become evidence that every future relationship will end the same way.

That is resilience.

Not avoiding pain.

Recovering from it without losing hope.

Relationships Become Less About Survival

Perhaps the greatest change I witness isn’t that people suddenly become confident.

It’s that relationships stop feeling like survival.

Early in therapy, every disagreement can feel enormous.

A delayed reply feels threatening.

A partner needing space feels like abandonment.

Constructive feedback feels like rejection.

The nervous system reacts as though the relationship itself is in danger.

Gradually, that changes.

People begin tolerating uncertainty.

They become able to ask questions rather than make assumptions.

They communicate rather than withdraw.

They notice the urge to test the relationship…

and choose not to.

These are often quiet changes.

They don’t make dramatic stories.

Yet clinically, they’re profound.

Because they represent a nervous system discovering that connection no longer has to feel dangerous.

Therapy Doesn’t Teach You to Trust

People sometimes ask me,

“Can therapy teach me to trust people again?”

My answer is slightly different.

Therapy doesn’t teach trust.

It creates the conditions in which trust can begin to grow.

No therapist can persuade your nervous system that the world is safe.

What we can do is create repeated experiences of consistency.

Being listened to.

Being understood.

Being challenged respectfully.

Being accepted without needing to earn it.

Over time, those experiences begin creating something the nervous system may never have fully experienced before.

Safety.

Not perfect safety.

Realistic safety.

That process cannot usually be rushed.

The nervous system changes through experience far more than explanation.

This is why psychotherapy is rarely about giving advice.

It’s about creating a relationship in which the nervous system can begin learning something new.

As we explored in Why Therapy Alone Sometimes Isn’t Enough, meaningful recovery often combines psychotherapy with nervous system regulation, lifestyle change and repeated experiences that reinforce safety beyond the therapy room.

You Don’t Have to Become a Different Person

One concern I hear quite often is,

“Will therapy change who I am?”

I don’t believe healing changes who you are.

I believe it allows more of who you already are to emerge.

People often discover they were never naturally cynical.

They were protective.

They weren’t cold.

They were frightened.

They weren’t emotionally distant.

They had simply learned that closeness carried risk.

As trust slowly develops, many people describe feeling lighter.

Not because life becomes easier.

Because they’re no longer carrying the constant weight of expecting everything to fall apart.

That creates space.

Space for curiosity.

Space for connection.

Space for joy.

Space for genuine intimacy.

Recovery Is Built Through Hundreds of Small Moments

Recovery rarely arrives in one dramatic breakthrough.

It is usually built through hundreds of ordinary moments.

Answering the phone instead of assuming the worst.

Accepting help without apologising.

Allowing someone to support you.

Choosing to communicate rather than withdraw.

Saying,

“I’m frightened,”

instead of pretending,

“I’m fine.”

Those moments may seem insignificant.

They’re not.

Each one gives the nervous system another opportunity to experience relationships differently.

And every healthy experience gently challenges the old belief that connection inevitably leads to pain.

As we explored in What Is Neuroplasticity? How Your Brain Learns New Patterns, these repeated experiences strengthen new neural pathways over time. Healing doesn’t erase the past—it gradually makes healthier responses more familiar than survival strategies.

A Message for Anyone Who Sees Themselves in This Article

If you’ve recognised yourself throughout this article…

If you’ve quietly nodded along…

If you’ve thought,

“This is exactly how I feel.”

I want you to know one thing.

You are not alone.

There are many people living with these same patterns.

Many who wonder why relationships feel so difficult.

Many who have spent years believing something is fundamentally wrong with them.

There isn’t.

Your nervous system adapted to experiences that required it to survive.

Those adaptations were intelligent.

They protected you.

The fact that they no longer serve you doesn’t mean they were mistakes.

It means your life has changed.

And your nervous system can change too.

Healing doesn’t happen because someone tells you to trust.

It happens because, over time, your nervous system begins discovering that trust is possible.

That journey takes patience.

It takes courage.

Above all…

it takes compassion.

Compassion for yourself.

Because when we begin offering ourselves compassion, something remarkable often happens.

We slowly begin allowing compassion in from other people.

And that’s often where genuine healing begins.

Frequently Asked Questions

Can childhood trauma affect adult relationships even if I had a good childhood overall?

Yes. Trauma isn’t defined only by severe abuse or neglect. Emotional inconsistency, chronic criticism, feeling unsafe, or growing up without emotional attunement can all influence how we experience trust and connection later in life.

Why do I keep pushing people away?

For many people, pushing others away is a protective strategy rather than a conscious choice. If previous relationships felt unsafe or unreliable, the nervous system may perceive emotional closeness as something to be cautious about, even when a relationship is healthy.

Why do I always choose emotionally unavailable partners?

People often gravitate towards what feels familiar rather than what is healthiest. If emotional distance was a consistent part of early relationships, it can feel strangely normal in adulthood until those patterns become more conscious.

Can these patterns change?

Yes. Through psychotherapy, self-awareness and repeated experiences of safe, healthy relationships, the nervous system can gradually develop new expectations about trust, connection and emotional safety.

Is it normal to feel uncomfortable in healthy relationships?

It can be. Healthy relationships may initially feel unfamiliar if your nervous system has spent years adapting to unpredictability. That discomfort doesn’t necessarily mean the relationship is wrong—it may simply be different from what you’ve previously experienced.

Does healing mean I’ll never struggle again?

No. Healing doesn’t eliminate disappointment or conflict. It increases your ability to navigate those experiences without automatically expecting abandonment or believing every relationship is destined to fail.

Key Takeaways

  • Childhood experiences shape how the nervous system experiences trust, safety and connection.
  • Many relationship difficulties are rooted in protective adaptations rather than personal flaws.
  • Extreme independence often develops because relying on others once felt unsafe.
  • Healthy relationships can initially feel unfamiliar, even when they are safe.
  • Self-sabotage is often an attempt to create certainty rather than a desire to be alone.
  • Healing is rarely linear. It is an ebb and flow of learning, trusting, withdrawing and reconnecting.
  • Compassion towards yourself creates the foundation for trusting other people again.

Article Summary

Childhood trauma doesn’t simply influence our memories—it shapes how our nervous system approaches trust, intimacy and emotional safety throughout adulthood. Many of the relationship patterns people struggle with today, including fear of abandonment, self-sabotage, emotional distance and difficulty accepting support, began as intelligent survival strategies.

Recovery isn’t about becoming someone who never experiences fear or disappointment. It’s about helping the nervous system discover that relationships no longer need to be approached as though survival is at stake.

Through greater awareness, repeated experiences of safety and self-compassion, it becomes possible to build relationships that are based on connection rather than protection.

External Resources

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About the Author

Matt Little, M.A., Dip Couns, MBACP, AP APM, ICAP I, PVI Certified is a psychotherapist, addiction specialist, and Clinical Director of Pesona Jiwa in Bali, Indonesia.

With more than 15 years of experience in counselling, psychotherapy, addiction treatment, trauma recovery, and nervous system regulation, Matt specialises in helping individuals experiencing burnout, chronic stress, addiction, emotional numbness, anxiety, trauma, and nervous system dysregulation.

He holds a Master’s Degree with Distinction in Counselling & Psychotherapy Practice, is a registered member of the British Association for Counselling and Psychotherapy (MBACP), an International Certified Addiction Professional (ICAP I), an Advanced Practitioner Member of Addiction Professionals (AP APM), and a Polyvagal-Informed Practitioner (PVI Certified) through the Polyvagal Institute under the work of Dr Stephen Porges.

His work integrates evidence-based psychotherapy with contemporary understandings of trauma, attachment, addiction recovery, behavioural change, and autonomic nervous system functioning. Through his clinical work and writing, Matt aims to make complex psychological and nervous system concepts accessible, practical, and clinically accurate.

Learn more about Matt Little and his clinical approach.

Brainz Magazine Executive Contributor

Elephant Journal

 

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