Emerging from the Shadows: Healing After a Lifetime of Trauma and Rewriting My Story
By Sieglinde W Alexander
Author of Haunting Shadows from the Past
Reclaiming Myself: A Journey Through Trauma, Survival, and Healing
Konrad Lorenz, renowned for his work on positive imprinting—especially in birds like geese and ducks—demonstrated that animals form intense bonds during a critical early period of life. However, his framework overlooked what I refer to as negative imprinting: the imprint of trauma, neglect, and coercion that takes root during and even before birth, shaping identity through pain rather than connection.
My experience reveals a largely overlooked dimension of imprinting—one rooted not in bonding, but in trauma. While Konrad Lorenz focused on attachment formed through nurturing contact, my early development was marked by violence, emotional neglect, and relentless cultural and familial expectations. My physical limitations, including muscle weakness, were not met with compassion but dismissed as laziness, further compounding my isolation. I had no private or secure space, no room to explore my own needs or desires—only the constant pressure to be available and compliant. Religious symbolism, rigid societal norms, and pervasive family dysfunction instilled the belief that my thoughts, boundaries, and autonomy had no worth. Rather than a sense of belonging, I internalized fear and developed a fractured identity shaped entirely by survival.
Under such oppressive conditions, autonomy is not developed—it is overridden. The self is not discovered—it is shaped by others. The epigenetic imprint of trauma became my operating system, not choice or will. I lived not from a place of freedom, but from a deep-seated fear of punishment. Fear of being slapped, insulted, beaten with a rubber hose or raped was a constant presence. From early childhood, I learned that resistance or rebellion was futile and that compliance was the only way to survive.
This internalized fear controlled my life. I adapted by disappearing—emotionally, psychologically, even physically when I could. My outward obedience masked an inner rebellion. I didn’t know who I was; I only knew who I needed to be to avoid harm.
At times, I made a conscious decision to resist. Confronting my manipulative mother’s narcissistic behavior and my psychopathic father’s self-aggrandizing, physically abusive tendencies came at a significant emotional cost, but it was necessary to preserve the core of my authentic self.
Eventually, I left Germany in search of freedom. I sought refuge from the demands, ridicule, and cultural expectations that had suppressed me. I was acting on instinctive self-preservation—but I didn’t yet know how to live beyond mere survival.
At 76, I carry the legacy of a life shaped by childhood abuse, chronic depression, and the persistent belief that I was responsible for others’ happiness. I spent decades in therapy, undergoing trauma work, EMDR, and medical treatment. But for much of that time, I remained emotionally frozen—trapped in patterns I could not see and governed by fears I could not name.
When my husband passed away in 2013, after eight long years of illness, I was met with profound grief—and an unexpected sense of liberation. During our 21 years together, he had loved me with unwavering kindness, patience, respect and security. He created a space where I was finally allowed to exist as myself. In the wake of his death, I came to a startling realization: I was no longer responsible for anyone else’s emotional or physical needs. For the first time, I was truly alone—but not lonely. I had space to breathe, to reflect, and to ask the question that had long been buried beneath survival:
Who am I, beyond my trauma?
The Science of Fear and Survival
Trauma isn’t just emotional—it’s neurological. The amygdala, the brain’s alarm system, becomes hyper-vigilant in trauma survivors. It misfires frequently, reacting as if the past is still present. I’ve lived through that—startled by smells, sounds, or words that sent me spiraling into fear with no visible trigger.
This isn’t weakness; it’s biology. The amygdala doesn’t recognize time. Flashbacks are not just memories—they are full-body re-experiences of terror. Learning this transformed how I viewed myself. I wasn’t broken. My brain had been doing what it believed was necessary to keep me safe.
Writing as a Lifeline
Therapy helped me find language for my pain, but it was writing that reached the preverbal places where trauma lived. Twenty-five years ago, I published Haunting Shadows from the Past, an act of courage that allowed me to articulate the unspeakable.
Now, with a deeper understanding of trauma’s impact on the brain and body, I am rewriting that book. This time, I will integrate neuroscience to help readers understand why healing is neither linear nor quick—and why persistent suffering is not failure. Trauma alters the nervous system. Healing requires more than willpower; it requires knowledge, compassion, and patience.
Letting Go of Responsibility
One of the most enduring consequences of my trauma was a compulsive sense of responsibility for others. Like many survivors, I believed love had to be earned through self-sacrifice. I became hyper-attuned to the emotions of those around me. I prioritized their needs over my own, convinced that my safety depended on their approval.
Only recently have I been able to release that burden. I no longer say “yes” when my body says “no.” I no longer confuse caretaking with love. I now understand that I can care deeply without carrying the emotional weight of others.
This shift has not created emptiness—but freedom. It has allowed me to connect with myself for the first time in a way that feels authentic and sustaining.
What Healing Looks Like at 76
Healing at my age doesn’t mean I’m free from flashbacks or fear. It means, I can now soothe the amygdala that once dictated every response. I can stay present, even when my past tries to pull me back.
For the first time, I am not merely surviving—I am living. I am discovering who I am beneath the imprint of trauma.
And that, at 76, is a life reclaimed.
Each original chapter will undergo comprehensive revision and be further developed with additional content.