Fierce Grace Advocacy

Understanding the stages of trauma recovery can transform your healing journey from feeling lost to having a clear roadmap forward. Whether you’re healing from childhood abuse, sexual assault, domestic violence, or other traumatic experiences, recognizing where you are in established recovery models helps you trust the process and be patient with yourself. This post explores Herman’s three-stage model and Hunter’s five-stage grief model, with personal insights from a survivor’s decade-long healing journey.

Understanding these stages doesn’t make the journey painless. But it makes it less confusing and less lonely. It helps you recognize where you are, what might come next, and what’s normal versus what might need more attention. It gives you a roadmap—not to follow perfectly, but to reference when you feel lost.

I’ve been on this healing journey for a decade now—through therapy, medication, setbacks, breakthroughs, and gradual transformation. I’ve moved through anger I didn’t know I was allowed to feel. I’ve grieved losses I didn’t know I could name. I’ve slowly rebuilt a life that’s no longer organized around trauma, even as I continue processing experiences from decades ago.

The roadmaps I’m sharing in this article—two complementary models of trauma recovery—helped me make sense of my own messy, non-linear path. They gave me language for what I was experiencing and permission to trust the process even when it didn’t feel productive.

about this post and its foundation

This post draws heavily from the work of Dr. Jim Hopper, a clinical psychologist, Teaching Associate in Psychology at Harvard Medical School, and nationally recognized expert on psychological trauma. If you’ve read my post on Living With Trauma: How Brain Science Helped Me Understand My Anxiety and Depression, you already know how inspiring and illuminating I find Dr. Hopper’s writing and teaching. I would urge everyone to give his website a thorough reading – it is an incredible resource. 

Dr. Hopper’s research, clinical work, teaching, and consultation have focused on the psychological and biological effects of child abuse and sexual assault, as well as contemplative practices and expanded states of consciousness in the service of healing. He consults with and trains psychotherapists, investigators, prosecutors, victim advocates, university administrators, and senior military officers on trauma, healing, and seeking justice—including the neurobiology of trauma and its implications for legal and law enforcement systems.

Importantly, Dr. Hopper makes his extensive knowledge available for free on his website, which includes detailed resources on healing, therapy, the stages of recovery, and finding freedom after trauma. His work is grounded in both clinical experience and scientific research, and it’s informed by deep respect for survivors’ autonomy and healing journeys. I very sincerely recommend everyone read through his website, which is full of incredible topics – one of which I will be exploring further below. 

What we’ll explore in this post:

1. Judith Herman’s Three-Stage Model – A therapeutic framework focusing on safety/stabilization, remembrance/mourning, and reconnection
2. Mic Hunter’s Five-Stage Grief Model – A framework based on grief stages (denial, bargaining, anger, sadness, acceptance) that many survivors move through
3. The concept of freedom in healing – Why reclaiming your sense of choice and autonomy is central to recovery

Throughout, I’ll weave in my own journey through these stages. Because theory without lived experience is just words on a page. My hope is that in reading about my path—with all its messiness, backsliding, and unexpected turns—you’ll recognize your own journey more clearly.

A note for survivors considering advocacy work: Throughout this article, I’ll include special notes for those thinking about becoming victim advocates. Understanding where you are in your own recovery is crucial before taking on the responsibility of supporting others through theirs. The stages outlined here will help you assess your readiness for that work.

why understanding trauma recovery stages matters for healing

Before we dive into the specific models, which Dr. Hopper brilliantly breaks down on his website, let’s address why this matters at all.

First, these aren’t rigid rules or fixed timelines. You don’t graduate from one stage and never return to it. Healing isn’t linear. As I often describe it: it’s like a dance—the steps take you up and down the dance floor. You move forward, you circle back, you pause, you accelerate. All of that is normal.

Second, different traumas can be at different stages simultaneously. I’ve reached acceptance with my domestic violence experience at nineteen, but I’m still processing childhood assaults that my brain stored in my “brain attic” for decades. That’s not unusual—it’s how trauma recovery often works.

Third, understanding stages helps you be patient with yourself. When you know that anger is a normal and often necessary stage of healing, you stop beating yourself up for feeling rage. When you understand that sadness and grieving are essential parts of recovery, you stop trying to rush past them. When you recognize that your journey doesn’t look like someone else’s, you stop comparing and start honoring your own pace.

Finally, these models give you language. They help you articulate where you are and what you need. They help you communicate with therapists, partners, friends, and other survivors. They turn the confusing mess of recovery into something you can name and navigate.

Let’s start with Herman’s model, which focuses on the therapeutic process and the work of recovery.

herman’s three-stage model: the foundation of trauma recovery

stage 1: safety and stabilization

What this stage is about:

The first stage isn’t about processing traumatic memories or talking through what happened in detail. It’s about establishing a foundation of safety and stability in your body, your relationships, and your life.

This stage focuses on:

• Learning to regulate your emotions and manage overwhelming feelings
• Developing self-care routines and practices
• Understanding what trauma is and how it affects you
• Identifying your triggers and building coping strategies
• Creating stable living situations and relationships
• Building or strengthening your support system
• Addressing immediate crises (suicidal thoughts, addiction, dangerous relationships)

my experience with Stage 1:

When I started therapy ten years ago, I was definitely in crisis mode. I couldn’t regulate my body—I cried all the time, sometimes without even knowing why. My early therapy sessions weren’t about diving deep into my traumatic experiences. They were about dealing with my immediate symptoms and learning basic coping mechanisms.

A lot of that early work focused on shame. I felt ashamed of being diagnosed with depression. I felt ashamed of needing antidepressants. I felt ashamed of having to explain this to my Russian immigrant parents, who didn’t understand the importance of mental health and thought that if I was depressed, I should “just be happy and think happy thoughts.”

The first skills I learned were about self-compassion:

My therapist taught me that it’s okay to not be okay. That there’s nothing wrong with needing medication—that it’s completely normal. That none of this was forever. That everything, including my sadness, was temporary and I would get through it.

A lot of the work was about being kinder to myself. My internal thoughts were anything but kind. My brain would tell me: “You are unworthy. You are broken. You are damaged.”

It took a long time to learn to question that negative self-talk. My therapist would frequently ask me: “Would you tell the same thing to a friend going through a similar situation?”

The answer was always, emphatically, no.

That brought in my sense of compassion—one of my core values—and focused it on myself, which I had never learned to do. I had to learn that I deserved the same kindness I would extend to anyone else.

the role of medication:

I truly believe that medication saved my life. There were times in my journey where my depression had such a strong hold on me that I thought not living would be easier than continuing to struggle.

Medication helped. My support network helped. But I know that this journey to recovery would have been much harder—if not impossible—without the proper medication to create a baseline of stability.

building safety brick by brick:

In the last few years, my therapy has focused on the strengths I’ve built—the way I’ve learned to cope with triggers and depressive episodes, the way I’ve invested in my friendships, the way I’ve made sure my relationship with my parents was transparent and loving.

All of that has helped me feel stable. Not perfect. Not symptom-free. But stable enough to face harder work.

What helped me create safety:

• A loving partner who makes me feel understood and never ashamed
• Great friends who show up for me when I am in crisis
• Therapy with the same therapist for ten years
• Acknowledging my “wins”—like leaving my abusive relationship and learning to moderate my depression and anxiety
• Building boundaries with my family that allowed for both honesty and connection
• Medication when I needed it
• Daily practices like journaling and making gratitude lists
• Activities that ground me: gardening, sitting outside in the sun, hosting celebrations for people I love

All of this builds on itself. Each small foundation stone makes the next one possible.

Stage 1 typically takes the longest time—and that’s appropriate. You cannot build a house on unstable ground. You cannot process deep trauma if you’re still in crisis. You cannot help others heal if you haven’t established your own basic safety and stability.

For aspiring advocates: If you’re still in Stage 1—if you’re working on basic emotional regulation, establishing safety in your life, learning to manage symptoms—advocacy work is premature. This isn’t judgment. It’s recognition that you need to put on your own oxygen mask first. Focus on building your foundation. The advocacy work will still be there when you’re ready.

Stage 2: Remembrance and Mourning

What this stage is about:

Once you’ve established a solid foundation of safety and stability, you can decide whether to engage in the work of Stage 2—processing traumatic memories and grieving what was lost.

This stage involves:

• Reviewing and discussing memories to lessen their emotional intensity
• Transforming how memories affect your daily life
• Working through grief about what happened to you
• Mourning good experiences you didn’t get to have
• Processing shame, guilt, and other painful emotions connected to your trauma
• Revising the meaning of these experiences for your life and identity

Important: This stage is optional—or at least, the timing is up to you.

After establishing Stage 1 stability, some people realize that thinking and talking about painful memories isn’t necessary to achieve their goals, at least not right away. Some find that memories are no longer disrupting their lives and aren’t of much interest anymore.

For others, memories continue to cause significant distress, and processing them becomes an important next step.

My experience with Stage 2:

I’ve quietly been processing my domestic violence experience over the last couple of years. I’ve been open about my experience with family and close friends, and talking about it lessened the residual fear I had from the experience, while also reminding me that having been a victim is not something I need to continue to be ashamed of. 

I’ve also had imaginary conversations with my abuser—acknowledging what was done to me, holding them accountable, and moving on without any more hate in my heart. The conversations allowed me to get my own closure – to speak “out loud” of the hurt and betrayal I felt, the fear and shame I carried after that relationship, and the anger that resided in me because of it. 

Those conversations were imaginary, but they’ve helped me get a clearer view of my past experience. They’ve allowed me to feel for myself—for the damage that was done and the grief over what I lost. And they’ve allowed me to feel proud of how well I’ve healed and what a beautiful life I’ve managed to build.

When childhood memories surfaced:

Recently, I’ve spent time reading and taking classes on trauma—what it is and how it affects the body and mind. Inevitably, that made me look back on my own experiences with new understanding.

Sexual assaults I experienced at age seven and age fourteen—experiences I once dismissed as “not traumatic” because “It wasn’t that bad! It only happened once!”—resurfaced with new clarity. The literature and studies I’ve read validated me: what happened was not okay, and it did leave a mark.

Those memories weren’t “forgotten” exactly. It’s as if my brain put them in a box and stored them in the attic of my mind, where they sat collecting dust and growing cobwebs for decades.

But here’s the crucial thing: those memories resurfaced because I finally had the space to work through them. I had the tools and support to process them safely. My years of therapy and building up my support network created the conditions where I could actually address these earlier traumas.

That’s how Stage 2 often works—memories come up when you’re ready for them, not before.

What I’ve grieved:

I’ve grieved the loss of safety—especially after trusting a man I genuinely loved with my safety and having that trust violated. I grieve the loss of innocence. My earlier experiences made me mistrustful of men, particularly older men. They contributed to the way I can “freeze up” when confronted with an aggressive or angry man even now.

I also hold shame over relationships I gave up and feelings of men I’ve hurt because of my fear of intimacy and mistrust. Between ages 19 and 29—that decade between my domestic violence experience and starting therapy—I avoided genuine connections. Whenever someone I was dating got close, whenever they told me they loved me, I would bolt and break off the relationship.

For many years, I could not allow myself the feeling of getting close to someone, because strong love equaled danger and vulnerability in my mind. Permitting myself to love someone fully meant that I was giving them the power to very seriously hurt me. 

I lost out on some great relationships because of that. I grieve those lost possibilities.

Memory processing methods:

I haven’t done formal memory processing work like EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing), but many survivors find these therapeutic approaches incredibly helpful for transforming traumatic memories.

The key is that effective methods exist. You don’t have to be tortured by intrusive memories for years. There are research-supported approaches that can bring relief relatively quickly.

For aspiring advocates: Stage 2 work is intense. If you’re currently in the thick of processing traumatic memories, experiencing significant grief, or finding that memories are disrupting your daily functioning, you may not have the emotional bandwidth for advocacy work yet. Processing your own trauma while holding space for others’ trauma can lead to being retraumatized or overwhelmed. Wait until you’ve processed enough that memories no longer hijack your nervous system before taking on advocacy responsibilities.

Stage 3: Reconnection

What this stage is about:

After establishing safety and processing traumatic memories, Stage 3 focuses on reconnecting with life beyond trauma. This includes:

• Rebuilding relationships with people
• Engaging with meaningful activities and pursuits
• Finding purpose and calling
• Creating a future that isn’t defined by your trauma
• Sometimes moving into activism, advocacy, or helping others

This stage doesn’t mean you’re “done” healing. It means you’re living your life from a place where trauma is part of your story but no longer the organizing principle of your existence.

My experience with Stage 3:

Pursuing victim advocacy feels like Stage 3 work for me. It feels like “coming home to myself”—finding my true self and my “true good.” The motivation that you know will fulfill you in life.

But reconnection has shown up in other ways too, long before I considered advocacy work.

Reconnecting with family:

Nine years ago, my parents and I would fight, slam doors, and not talk to each other for days. My father and I, in particular, never saw eye to eye and had frequent disagreements. My mother was completely unable to process my mental health struggles and denied the efficacy of the medication that was, at that point, lifesaving for me. 

Now, when I visit, my dad never skips walking me out the door and watching me drive out of the driveway. We always hug goodbye—and even say “Love you!”—when before, that kind of physical and emotional closeness simply wasn’t present. And my mother, though she still struggles with my depressive episodes, has learned to be kind and gentle with me when I need help. 

This transformation came with time and work. I made the first move, and my parents met me halfway. We did it for the love of each other. Now, my dad is one of my greatest advocates—he supports me in all my decisions and even defends me when I am putting my foot down with mom. My mother, too, has learned to be more transparent about her fears for me, which has allowed us to have more honest and kind conversations about my mental health recovery. 

Reconnecting with joy:

Gardening, hosting celebrations for friends and family—these are activities I used to do before my depression diagnosis. But I’ve spent more and more time engaging with them in the last year or so, and it’s been such a visible marker of my recovery.

Clearly, I’m better, since I’m once again able to engage with the world in this way. I can create joy. I can nurture life—both plants and relationships. I can make space for people I love and nourish them with food and celebration.

These aren’t just nice activities. They’re evidence that I’m no longer organizing my life around managing symptoms and surviving. I have energy and presence for connection and beauty.

Finding purpose through advocacy:

My advocacy calling represents reconnection with purpose. After years of depression making me feel stuck, feeling passionate and excited about a future path is profound. My partner has been instrumental in encouraging me to find purpose aligned with my values—compassion, kindness, understanding, learning.

Advocacy work honors my survivor story without being consumed by it. It turns my experiences into a source of strength and service rather than just pain I’m trying to escape or manage.

For aspiring advocates: Stage 3 is often when survivors feel called to advocacy work. You’re reconnecting with purpose and wanting to help others. This can be beautiful timing—if you’ve truly done the work of Stages 1 and 2. If you’re using advocacy as a way to skip over processing your own trauma or establishing your own stability, it will backfire. But if you’re genuinely in Stage 3—with a solid foundation and processed grief—advocacy can be a meaningful expression of your healing and reconnection with life.

Hunter’s Five-Stage Grief Model: The Emotional Journey

Stage 1: Denial – “Nothing happened…”

What this stage looks like:

Denial doesn’t necessarily mean refusing to acknowledge that something happened (though it can). More often, it means pushing memories out of awareness in various ways:

• Completely “blocking out” or “splitting off” memories
• Having fragments pop up but quickly pushing them away
• Minimizing the significance of what happened
• Staying so busy that you don’t have space to think about it

There are good reasons for denial. Memories can trigger unwanted feelings—anger, sadness, fear, horror. They can trigger disturbing thoughts about yourself, your relationships, and what would happen if you stopped pushing them away.

My experience with denial:

The childhood assaults I experienced at ages seven and fourteen were literally “forgotten”—not that I had no awareness they happened, but my brain put those memories in a box and stashed them away in the far corners of my “brain attic.”

Between ages nineteen and twenty-nine—that decade between my domestic violence experience and starting therapy—I was in a different kind of denial. I told myself I was “stronger because of it,” that I would never let myself be in that position again.

But what did that “strength” actually look like? I spent years avoiding genuine connections. I would bolt at the exact point where genuine love and connection was starting to form. For many years, I could not allow myself the feeling of getting close to someone because strong love equaled danger and vulnerability.

I wasn’t processing what had happened. I was organizing my life around avoiding ever feeling that vulnerable again—which is its own form of denial.

The family pattern:

When my mother and sister shared their domestic violence experiences after I shared mine, I learned that silence had been passed down through generations. These stories weren’t denied exactly, but they were “not talked about”—perhaps because they thought I was too young for such graphic stories, or perhaps because there was a sense of this kind of thing just “happening” to women, as if the experiences weren’t extraordinary.

Even though they should be. Even though they were.

I often think about having been denied the truth of their experiences prior to me facing the world alone for the first time (when I left home to live off-campus as a vulnerable young woman). Would the knowledge of this kind of pattern of violence in my family make me more aware of the warning signs? Would it have given me the strength to leave sooner? Would it have made allies of my mother and sister when I needed them most, not just afterwards? 

The cost of denial:

Hunter points out that keeping traumatic experiences out of awareness uses cognitive resources needed for other purposes—like school or work responsibilities. It keeps you in constant fear of experiencing any vulnerable emotions that could trigger unwanted memories. And it means being unable to tolerate other people’s vulnerable emotions, which is necessary for caring about their suffering and helping them.

For me, denial meant years of lost intimacy and damaged relationships. It meant living in a kind of emotional half-life, never quite allowing myself to be fully present or vulnerable with people I cared about.

Stage 2: Bargaining – “Something happened, but…”

What this stage looks like:

In this stage, you acknowledge that something happened but convince yourself it wasn’t harmful or hasn’t caused problems—even though it has. You’re no longer pushing away the fact that something occurred, but you’re not yet ready to face its full impact.

This shows up in “yes, but” thinking:

• “Yes, something happened, but it wasn’t that bad”
• “Yes, it happened, but I probably brought it on myself”
• “Yes, but at least it wasn’t worse”
• “Yes, but I should be over it by now”

My experience with bargaining:

I definitely spent a lot of time thinking I was at least partially responsible for the violence because I “provoked” it. I talked back. I didn’t stay quiet. I, too, raised my voice at him. 

And after hearing my mother’s story—how her abuser died in a car accident that also injured her and my sister, and how she said that accident saved her life because he never would have let her go—I thought: Well, at least he didn’t have to die in order for me to get free! Surely it wasn’t that bad.

When I learned about my sister’s experience—married at eighteen, domestic violence in that marriage—I thought: I got lucky. I wasn’t married. I didn’t have children. I could simply walk away and be safe.

I minimized my experience by comparing it to theirs. Mine wasn’t “as bad,” therefore maybe it didn’t really count as trauma.

For the childhood assaults, my bargaining sounded like: “It wasn’t that bad! It only happened once! I wasn’t physically harmed!” As if frequency determined harm. As if a single assault couldn’t leave a lasting mark.

When bargaining ended:

Society’s increased willingness to call things what they are—trauma, abuse—helped me stop bargaining. The open discussion and validation in trauma literature and advocacy spaces gave me permission to realize that what happened to me was real, was hurtful, was traumatic.

I stopped feeling like I needed to downplay it. I stopped measuring my experiences against some imaginary scale of “bad enough to count.” I give great credit to the #MeToo movement – reading about the many ways in which women have been harassed, attacked, and mistreated made me feel both enraged but also less alone. I saw myself in the stories of these women. I learned that my experiences were, sadly, not unique. They weren’t even out of the ordinary. It was a sad but important realization to come to – that I wasn’t alone. And it allowed me to call what I experienced what it was – violence and assaults against me. 

For aspiring advocates: If you’re still in the bargaining stage with your own trauma—minimizing its impact, blaming yourself, or believing you “should be over it by now”—you’re not ready to support others. Bargaining is a protective mechanism, but it also means you haven’t fully accepted the reality and impact of what happened to you. Do that work first, with a therapist’s support, before taking on advocacy responsibilities.

Stage 3: Anger – “Something happened, and I’m angry!”

What this stage looks like:

This stage begins when you recognize not only that something happened, but that it really did harm you. For many survivors, this is the beginning of believing that what was done to them matters because they matter.

Anger can bring:

• Recognition that experiencing and expressing anger can be healthy
• Energy and motivation to make positive changes
• Relief from self-blaming thoughts (it’s hard to be angry at someone and blame yourself simultaneously)
• A sense of empowerment and self-worth

But anger also brings risks:

• It can spill out in harmful ways
• It can become the central emotion in your life
• You can get stuck here, preferring anger to the sadness that often comes next
• You might feel “justified” in old angry patterns rather than taking responsibility for them

My experience with anger:

I’m not a loud or violent person. If I’m mad, I typically withdraw and seethe in silence. But a lot of those imaginary conversations I had with my abuser were angry—I allowed myself to imagine being furious, shouting, throwing things. That was therapeutic for me. It gave me a safe space to feel and express rage I’d never allowed myself before. And it was a safe way for me to do that – in a way that was not damaging to others (and did not put me at risk of committing a crime!).

Anger is complicated for me:

I find it hard to allow anger to flow. As a victim of anger and violence, I am especially weary of that emption. I also know I’m not at my best when I speak or act out of anger—the decisions are never rational and rarely aligned with my values.

However, I’ve learned that anger is something we feel when we’ve been wronged or hurt. So I try to take time to work through what has hurt me or triggered me to elicit anger, rather than just acting on it or suppressing it entirely. Anger is a valid emotion. It keeps us safe from harm done to us. And I know it is valid to listen to anger and understand its cause. 

Anger at others beyond my abuser:

After my abuse, I’ve felt incredible anger at my peers. When I was in my abusive relationship, I was also a member of a sorority. I remember having to put on makeup to cover my bruises before going to a “rush” event. I knew my bruises were still somewhat visible, but no one said anything. No one asked why I was sad or why I looked like I hadn’t slept.

My “sisters” kept to themselves. No one asked about my wellbeing at all. When I was too scared or weak or ashamed to speak to myself, no one in my life stepped in to simply ask what needed to me asked: “Are you OK? Are you safe? Do you need help?”

I held a lot of resentment because of that. After college, I lost all contact with my “sisters”—I didn’t feel like those connections were genuine since I had no help from them when I most needed it.

I’ve also felt anger at society—one in which it’s almost expected that a woman will experience intimate partner violence or sexual harassment. That expectation, that normalization, is unacceptable.

The empowerment piece:

Sitting with and understanding my anger was a necessary step for me. Anger helped me place the blame where it belonged—with my abuser, not with myself. For the first time, I could feel the wrongness of what happened without immediately turning it inward into shame or self-blame.

That shift was essential for my healing.

For aspiring advocates: Unprocessed anger is dangerous in advocacy work. If you’re still in active rage about your own experiences, you risk projecting that onto clients—pushing them toward outcomes they’re not ready for, getting angry at perpetrators in ways that center your feelings rather than the victim’s needs, or becoming triggered by clients who make choices you disagree with. Anger has its place in healing, but it needs to be processed and integrated before you take on advocacy responsibilities. Work with a therapist to move through anger rather than getting stuck in it.

Stage 4: Sadness – “Something happened, and it cost me a lot.”

What this stage looks like:

Sadness comes when you realize that you were wronged and that you’ve lost something you can never retrieve. This is when the grieving phase truly begins.

Trauma brings many losses:

• Innocence and trust
• Belief in yourself and the world as safe
• Relationships that were damaged or never formed
• Achievements that never happened
• Years of your life spent surviving rather than thriving

Truly facing these losses brings deep sadness. It can be painful, but this sadness is legitimate and justified. Coming to know this sadness can bring great strength and deep understanding of suffering.

Hunter notes that as you move through this stage, your tears change quality—from painful and held back, to coming from somewhere very deep (often with a sense of being a small child), to eventually being followed by a sense of healing and wholeness.

My experience with sadness:

Looking back at that two-day cry that led me to therapy, I think accumulated grief had been building for years—the painful abuse itself, plus the years after spent being scared and angry. It compounded and built up in me until a bittersweet movie like La La Land‘s ending cracked it all open. It was a fragile time for me – but one that I believe I needed to feel to finally push myself to get the help I needed. 

What I’ve grieved:

Beyond loss of safety and innocence, I’ve grieved relationships I gave up because of my fear of intimacy. I hold some shame over the feelings of men I’ve hurt because of my mistrust. I lost out on some great relationships that could have been beautiful if I’d been able to stay present instead of bolting when love got too close.

I grieve not being able to fully bond with my sorority sisters – my anger at them spilled out and prevented me from forming life-long friendships. That quintessential college experience – the fun and joy of Greek life – was taken from me because of my shame, isolation, and fury.

I grieve the way my early experiences with violent men shaped my responses—the freezing up when confronted with angry men, the mistrust that took years to overcome, the hypervigilance that exhausted me.

How my crying has changed:

I used to cry almost without control—tears that felt like they would never stop, crying that left me depleted and ashamed.

Now, when I cry, I realize it’s a natural response—and sometimes a very necessary release. Sometimes I have a cry because I need to get the sadness or frustration literally out of my body. The tears feel different now. They’re cleansing rather than drowning.

Sadness vs. Depression:

This distinction has been crucial for me to understand. Grief and sadness are natural feelings. Sometimes it would be odd NOT to experience them. They’re part of the human experience, and they move through you.

Depression is different. It’s when even when I do everything I can—socialize, self-care, rest—nothing helps lift the crushing feeling of sadness and the sense that it may be like that forever. Depression has a chemical, stuck quality that grief doesn’t have.

Understanding this difference helped me recognize when I needed medication (for depression) versus when I needed to sit with my feelings and let them move through me (for grief).

For aspiring advocates: Stage 4 work requires significant emotional capacity. If you’re in the depths of grief—crying frequently, feeling the weight of your losses acutely—you may not have the bandwidth to hold space for others’ sadness too. Grief is exhausting work. It’s okay to focus on your own healing during this stage. The advocacy work will still be there when you’ve processed enough of your sadness to have capacity for others.

Stage 5: Acceptance – “Something happened, and I have healed from it.”

What this stage looks like:

Hunter describes acceptance beautifully: “The person who was wronged has acknowledged [what happened], felt as well as expressed the emotions… and begins to put it in proper perspective. [They] no longer blame themselves… or punish themselves for what they did or didn’t do in order to cope… [They] become less and less likely to see themselves as helpless, hopeless, and defective… Although [they] will never forget what was done, [they] will be able to stop organizing [their] life around it. [They] will have a scar rather than an open wound.”

Acceptance doesn’t mean failing to see that what happened was harmful and wrong. It means accepting that the past cannot be changed and coming to peace with it rather than remaining focused on pain, sadness, anger, or resentment.

It brings:

• Freedom from organizing your life around trauma
• Ability to choose responses rather than react from wounds
• Serenity about even the worst experiences
• Strength from having faced your life head-on
• Courage, hope, and wisdom that come from the journey

My experience with acceptance:

I think I’ve reached acceptance with all my traumatic experiences now—not that they don’t affect me anymore, but that I know and realize this is something that happened to me. I’m not in denial, bargaining, or stuck in anger or sadness about them.

Processing those earlier childhood memories now makes sense of some of my fears and triggers I hadn’t understood before. That understanding itself is part of acceptance—seeing how the pieces fit together without being controlled by them anymore.

The scar vs. wound metaphor:

Hunter uses the metaphor of having a “scar rather than an open wound” to describe acceptance. Think about the difference: a wound is raw, painful to touch, easily reopened. It needs constant care and protection. You organize your life around not aggravating it.

A scar, on the other hand, is evidence of a wound that has healed. It’s still visible. You can still see where you were hurt. But it doesn’t bleed anymore. You can touch it without pain. It’s become part of your body’s story without being an active injury.

This resonates deeply with me. I have scars all over—marks from experiences that shaped me but no longer bleed. Wounds are newer experiences I’m still processing, places that are still tender and healing.

My domestic violence experience at nineteen? That’s a scar now. I can talk about it, reflect on it, even use it to help others, without it reopening and bleeding all over my present life. The childhood assaults I’m recently addressing? Those are in the process of healing into scars as I work through them with the tools and support I’ve built over ten years.

The metaphor also captures something important: scars don’t disappear. Acceptance doesn’t mean erasing what happened or pretending it didn’t affect you. It means the wound has healed enough that you can live fully without constantly managing active pain.

Not organizing my life around trauma:

I still manage some triggers—I’m incredibly aware of them now when they happen. But I’m no longer avoiding intimacy, running from connection, or making every decision based on keeping myself “safe” from vulnerability.

I can be in situations that might be triggering and trust myself to cope. I can have a healthy relationship with my partner. I can pursue advocacy work. I can garden, host celebrations, reconnect with my family, and create joy.

Those are all evidence that trauma is part of my story but no longer the center of my life.

Advocacy as acceptance:

Pursuing victim advocacy feels like evidence of acceptance. It makes me feel in control and like I’m doing the right thing in overcoming my traumatic experiences. I’ve integrated my experiences enough to use them purposefully rather than being controlled by them.

I can talk about what happened without being consumed by it. I can hold space for the reality of my past while also being fully present in my current life and future aspirations.

For aspiring advocates: Acceptance is generally when survivors are ready for advocacy work. You’ve processed your trauma enough that it’s a scar rather than an open wound. You can talk about your experiences without being derailed by them. You’ve placed responsibility appropriately (with those who harmed you, not with yourself). You’re no longer organizing your life around managing symptoms or avoiding triggers. This is the foundation from which effective, sustainable advocacy becomes possible. But remember—acceptance doesn’t mean you’re “done” healing. It means you have enough integration and perspective to help others while continuing your own growth.

Understanding How These Models Work Together

I do not believe that Herman’s three-stage model and Hunter’s five-stage model are competing frameworks—they’re complementary ways of understanding the healing journey. Herman focuses on the therapeutic tasks and processes of recovery, while Hunter focuses on the emotional progression many survivors experience.

Herman’s model asks: What work needs to be done? What’s the focus of therapy at different points?

Hunter’s model asks: What emotional states do survivors typically move through as they heal?

How the Models Overlap

There’s significant overlap between these frameworks:

Herman’s Stage 1 (Safety/Stabilization) often corresponds with Hunter’s Denial and Bargaining stages. When you’re still pushing memories away or minimizing their impact, you’re not ready for deep trauma processing work. You need to establish basic safety, learn emotion regulation skills, and build support systems first.

Herman’s Stage 2 (Remembrance/Mourning) aligns with Hunter’s Anger and Sadness stages. As you begin processing traumatic memories and their meanings, you naturally move through anger about what was done to you and sadness about what you lost. This is where the grief work happens—both are frameworks for the same painful but necessary process.

Herman’s Stage 3 (Reconnection) corresponds with Hunter’s Acceptance stage. Once you’ve processed trauma and grief, you’re ready to reconnect with life from a place where trauma is integrated but no longer organizing your existence. You can build relationships, pursue meaning, and sometimes help others from a place of genuine healing rather than avoidance or unprocessed pain.

My Experience with Both Models

I can see myself clearly in both frameworks, and understanding them together has been more helpful than either alone.

Through Herman’s lens:

I spent years in Stage 1 work—learning emotion regulation, establishing safety with medication and therapy, building support systems, understanding trauma. That foundation made everything else possible.

I’ve been doing Stage 2 work more recently—processing memories through imaginary conversations with my abuser, addressing childhood assaults that surfaced when I was finally ready for them, grieving what I lost.

And now I’m moving into Stage 3—reconnecting with my father in new ways, rediscovering joy through gardening and hosting, pursuing advocacy as a calling that gives my experiences purpose without being consumed by them.

Through Hunter’s lens:

I moved through denial (childhood memories in the “attic,” years of telling myself I was “stronger” while avoiding intimacy), bargaining (“it wasn’t that bad,” “at least it wasn’t worse”), anger (imaginary conversations, rage at my sorority sisters, fury at societal normalization of violence), sadness (the two-day cry, grieving lost relationships and years), and into acceptance (trauma as scars, not organizing my life around it anymore, pursuing advocacy from integration rather than wounds).

The non-linear reality:

But here’s the crucial thing both models acknowledge: healing isn’t a straight line through these stages. It’s more like a dance—the steps take you up and down the dance floor. I’ve had fluctuations in my journey, moving back into anger or sadness even after thinking I’d moved past them. New information or experiences can cycle you back through earlier stages.

When that trauma-informed training surfaced childhood memories I hadn’t processed, I didn’t start completely over. But I did move back through some anger and sadness about those specific experiences, even though I’d reached acceptance with my adult trauma. Different wounds heal at different rates.

The beauty of having both models is that they give me different language for understanding what’s happening. Herman’s model helps me understand what therapeutic work I need to focus on. Hunter’s model helps me understand and normalize the emotions I’m experiencing as I do that work.

Together, they create a fuller picture of the healing journey—one that honors both the practical tasks of recovery and the emotional roller coaster that comes with it.

The Central Role of Freedom in Healing

Dr. Jim Hopper emphasizes a concept that runs through all stages of recovery but deserves its own attention: freedom. Specifically, the experience of freely choosing what to think, say, and do—not because someone is coercing you, and not because some demanding part of yourself is pushing you.

This might sound abstract, but it’s actually the most practical, felt aspect of healing from trauma.

Why Freedom Matters for Trauma Survivors

At the heart of exploitation and abuse is the trampling of a person’s freedom. Whether through force or manipulation, someone else saw your capacity for free choice as an obstacle to getting what they wanted—and they overcame that obstacle with threats, manipulation, or violence.

When I experienced domestic violence, my freedom was systematically eroded. My choices about what to say, what to wear, who to see, how to act—all became calculated decisions based on avoiding violence rather than expressing my authentic self.

The childhood assaults were violations of my bodily autonomy—my fundamental freedom to choose what happens to my own body.

And the aftermath? Years of my freedom being controlled by fear and trauma responses. I couldn’t freely choose to trust someone who loved me because strong love equaled danger in my nervous system. I couldn’t freely choose intimacy because vulnerability meant threat. Those weren’t conscious, free choices—they were trauma reactions controlling my life.

When Freedom Is Supported vs. Undermined

When people support your freedom, you feel:

• Connected with yourself and life around you
• Happy, confident, and energized
• Respected and valued
• Able to grow and change at your own pace

This doesn’t mean people never challenge you or tell you things you don’t want to hear. It means they do so while fully respecting your capacity to make your own choices. They offer information, perspective, and support—but they don’t manipulate, threaten, or force.

My therapist has embodied this for ten years. She’s challenged me, pushed me to see patterns I didn’t want to see, and asked hard questions. But she’s never told me what to do. She’s never made me feel like I “should” be further along or healing faster. In fact, she has always support me in amking my decisions of my own free will and at my own time. When I would find myself feeling like I needed to make an immediate decision on a non-emergency issue, she would remind me, “Yes – that is a decision you will have to make. But you do not have to make that decision now. Take your time.” This reminded me that even the pressure I put on myself can at times be limiting my own sense of freedom. In this, she’s supported my freedom to sort things out on my own terms, at my own pace.

When freedom is undermined, even in subtle ways, you feel:

• Controlled or manipulated
• Resistant or resentful
• Disconnected from yourself
• Like you’re acting from “should” rather than genuine choice

This can happen through obvious coercion (“If you don’t do this, I’ll…”) or through more subtle manipulation—including rewards that turn intrinsic motivation into external compliance, shame and guilt trips, or pressure disguised as concern.

Rebellion vs. Compliance: Neither Is Freedom

When your freedom is undermined, you typically respond in one of two ways: rebellion or compliance. Neither is actually freedom.

Rebellion might feel like acting freely, but you’re still being controlled—just by what you’re rebelling against rather than what you’re rebelling for. Your choices are still reactive, still organized around someone else’s demands.

I see this in my years between the domestic violence and starting therapy. I told myself I was “strong” and would “never let that happen again.” But my choices weren’t freely made—they were organized around fear and protection. Bolting from relationships when love got too close wasn’t freedom; it was rebellion against vulnerability, which was itself a form of being controlled by my trauma.

Compliance looks like going along, but without truly buying in. You’re following rules or expectations out of fear, shame, or obligation—not because they genuinely feel right to you.

Many trauma survivors become experts at compliance. We learn to be “good” to stay safe. We learn to read the room and give people what they want. We appear functional on the outside while feeling fake on the inside.

For years, I complied with expectations—went to school, got good grades, acted like everything was fine. But I didn’t feel free. I felt like I was performing a role to avoid scrutiny or judgment. I wanted to be seen as “over it” and so I pretended as if I was.

How Depression Steals Freedom

Depression, for me, has been one of the most profound thieves of freedom. When depression has me in its grip, I don’t feel like I’m choosing anything—I feel like I’m being pushed around by a crushing force I can’t control.

Even when I do everything I can—socialize, self-care, rest—nothing helps lift that feeling. The sense that it may be like that forever is part of what makes depression so different from sadness. Sadness is a natural response to loss; depression is a chemical condition that steals your sense of agency and possibility.

Understanding this distinction helped me see that medication wasn’t giving up my freedom—it was restoring it. The medication gave me back the ability to make genuine choices about my life rather than just surviving day to day.

Freedom and Healing: What It Looks Like Now

As I’ve moved through the stages of recovery, I’ve gradually reclaimed my freedom. Not perfectly, not completely, but substantially.

Freedom now feels like:

Being able to enjoy life. Rediscovering things I love—gardening, hosting, reading, friendships. These aren’t activities I force myself to do because I “should”; they’re genuine expressions of what brings me joy.

Pursuing a true calling in advocacy. Not because I need to prove something or because others expect it, but because it aligns with my deepest values and feels like coming home to myself.

Choosing to be in a healthy relationship with my partner. Allowing myself to love and be loved, to be vulnerable without constantly bracing for violence. That’s a freedom I fought hard to reclaim.

Reconnecting with my family on new terms. Choosing forgiveness and closeness not because I “should” but because I genuinely want those relationships in my life.

Making space to process old trauma when I’m ready. Those childhood memories surfaced because I finally had the freedom—the safety, support, and tools—to address them. I wasn’t forced to look at them prematurely, and I’m not avoiding them anymore. I’m freely choosing to process them now.

Small wins that represent freedom:

Every strong moment shown. Every time I recognize a trigger and choose how to respond rather than just reacting. Every time I take a mental health day when I need it rather than pushing through. Every time I set a boundary with someone I love. Every time I choose to show up for myself with compassion rather than criticism.

Freedom is built in these small, daily choices. It’s gradual, not a sudden breakthrough. But it’s the foundation of everything else.

Freedom and Advocacy Work

This concept of freedom is especially important for aspiring advocates. Advocacy work must come from a place of genuine, free choice—not from:

• Feeling like you “should” use your experience to help others
• Trying to prove you’ve overcome your trauma
• Seeking validation or worth through caregiving
• Escaping your own unfinished healing work

If you’re pursuing advocacy because you feel pushed (by others or by internal “shoulds”), that’s not freedom—and it won’t be sustainable. You’ll either burn out or build resentment.

But if advocacy feels like a freely chosen expression of your values and calling—if it energizes you rather than drains you, if it flows from acceptance rather than wounds—then it’s coming from genuine freedom. That’s the foundation for effective, sustainable advocacy work.

True helpers respect and support your freedom. Whether it’s a therapist, a supervisor, a mentor, or any relationship meant to support your healing—they should be promoting your capacity to make your own choices, not manipulating or controlling you.

You deserve relationships that honor your freedom. Keep going until you find and benefit from them.

The Role of Medication

Medication can be an essential part of establishing the safety and stability needed for Stage 1 work—and sometimes for ongoing support throughout your healing journey.

I truly believe medication saved my life. When depression had me in its grip so tightly that not living seemed easier than continuing to struggle, medication created a baseline that made everything else possible—therapy, building relationships, developing coping skills.

There’s still stigma around psychiatric medication, especially in certain cultures and communities. My Russian immigrant parents thought medication would “mess with my brain.” I had to educate them, and I had to work through my own shame about needing it.

But medication isn’t a sign of weakness or failure. It’s a tool that addresses real chemical imbalances in the brain. Sometimes you need it temporarily during crisis periods. Sometimes you need it long-term. Both are okay.

If you’re working with a therapist and struggling with symptoms like severe depression, anxiety, panic attacks, or intrusive thoughts, ask about psychiatric consultation. Your therapist can often refer you to a psychiatrist who can evaluate whether medication might help.

Conclusion: Your Healing Journey Is Yours

If there’s one thing I want you to take from this article, it’s this: healing from trauma follows patterns, but your specific path through those patterns is uniquely yours.

Herman’s three stages and Hunter’s five stages aren’t rigid prescriptions. They’re roadmaps created by people who’ve guided thousands of survivors through healing. They describe common patterns, not universal laws.

You might move through these stages in order, or you might circle back multiple times. You might spend years in one stage and breeze through another. You might find that different traumas are at different stages simultaneously. You might recognize yourself clearly in one model and less so in another.

All of that is normal. All of that is okay.

What these models offer is context. When you’re crying for the third day in a row and wondering if you’re falling apart, understanding that Stage 4 sadness is a necessary part of healing can help you trust the process. When you’re feeling rage you’ve never allowed yourself before, knowing that Stage 3 anger is often empowering and helps you stop blaming yourself can keep you from shutting it down prematurely.

The stages give you permission to be where you are without rushing to where you think you “should” be.

My Journey Continues

I’m twenty years out from my domestic violence experience, ten years into therapy, and still discovering new layers to heal. Recently, I’ve been processing childhood assaults that my brain stored away for decades. I’m pursuing victim advocacy certification while continuing to work on my own recovery.

Does that mean I’m not ready? Does it mean I’ve failed somehow?

No. It means healing isn’t linear. It means that being in a healthier, safer place now has created the conditions where I can finally address older trauma. It means I can hold both realities at once: I’m still healing and I’m ready to help others.

The stages of recovery aren’t about reaching some finish line where you’re “done.” They’re about building enough stability, processing enough pain, and reclaiming enough freedom that you can live fully—even as healing continues.

It’s like a dance—the steps take you up and down the dance floor. I’ve had fluctuations in my journey, but those fluctuations have permitted me to grow stronger overall. Each time I circle back to anger or sadness about a particular experience, I do so with more tools, more support, and more self-compassion than before.

What Healing Has Given Me

Ten years ago, I couldn’t regulate my emotions. I cried constantly. I was ashamed of needing help. I avoided intimacy because love felt like danger. I couldn’t imagine a future that wasn’t organized around managing my trauma.

Now, I can sit in the sunlight and feel peace. I can garden and nurture life. I can host celebrations for people I love. I have a relationship with my partner built on safety and trust. I’ve reconnected with my father in ways I never thought possible. I can pursue a calling in advocacy that feels like coming home to myself.

That’s what moving through the stages of recovery has given me: not the absence of scars, but the presence of freedom, joy, and purpose.

For Those Considering Advocacy Work

If you’re reading this because you’re wondering whether you’re ready to become a victim advocate, pay attention to where you are in these stages:

• Stage 1/Denial/Bargaining: Focus on your own healing first. Build your foundation.
• Stage 2/Anger/Sadness: Continue processing. This work is too intense to take on others’ trauma simultaneously.
• Stage 3/Acceptance: You’re likely approaching readiness—if you have the tools, support, and genuine freedom in your calling.

But remember: even at acceptance, healing continues. The difference is that trauma is a scar rather than an open wound. You can talk about your experiences without being derailed. You’ve placed responsibility appropriately. You’re not organizing your life around managing symptoms.

That’s the foundation from which sustainable, effective advocacy becomes possible.

If you’re specifically considering victim advocacy work, see my companion article on assessing your readiness as a trauma survivor.

Moving Forward

Whether you’re considering advocacy work or simply trying to heal for your own sake, understanding the stages of recovery can be a gift. It can help you:

• Recognize where you are without judgment
• Trust that what you’re experiencing is normal for this stage
• Know what work might be most helpful right now
• Be patient with yourself when progress feels slow
• Celebrate growth even when it doesn’t look like you expected

Practical next steps:

If you’re not already in therapy, make that your priority. Research therapists in your area who specialize in trauma. Interview at least two or three. Find someone who respects your freedom and has genuine competence with trauma treatment. If therapy is not an option, see if you can get that kind of guidance elsewhere, like from a mentor or a spiritual leader.

If you’re in therapy but feeling stuck, talk with your therapist about where you are in the stages of recovery and what work might help you move forward.

If you’re doing well in your healing and considering advocacy, assess honestly: Are you at acceptance with processed grief, or are you using the idea of advocacy to avoid deeper healing work?

Read more. Dr. Jim Hopper’s website (jimhopper.com) has extensive free resources on healing, trauma, and therapy. Judith Herman’s book Trauma and Recovery is a classic worth reading in full. Mic Hunter’s Abused Boys offers deep insight into the grief process of recovery. I’ll keep posting about book I’ve read on my healing journey – so follow along with me!

Connect with other survivors. Whether through support groups, online communities, or informal friendships, there’s healing in knowing you’re not alone on this path.

And most importantly: be gentle with yourself. Healing takes time. It takes courage. It takes showing up for yourself again and again, even on days when you’d rather hide.

You’re doing that work right now by reading this article, by educating yourself about recovery, by taking your healing seriously. That matters. You matter.

Your trauma doesn’t define you, but your journey through healing is shaping you into someone stronger, wiser, and more compassionate—both toward yourself and others.

Keep going. Keep dancing through the stages. Keep building your freedom, one small choice at a time.

The path ahead isn’t always clear, but it’s yours. And you have everything you need to walk it—including roadmaps created by those who’ve gone before you, the support of people who care about you, and your own resilience that’s brought you this far.

You’re not just surviving anymore. You’re healing. And that’s everything.