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I had signed up for a professional trauma-healing retreat led by someone I’d once looked up to.

A trusted colleague had mentioned him before, and even though something in me felt uneasy the first time I encountered him at a training, I was curious. Maybe it was the echo of an old father wound I hadn’t yet worked through—something I might’ve been projecting onto him.

Not long after that workshop, I registered for an intensive retreat he was facilitating. The program was designed for therapists to do their own personal work while also sharpening clinical skills. I came hoping to reconnect with deeper parts of myself and finally work through layers of trauma that still lingered beneath the surface.

The moment I arrived, I felt the familiar ache of not belonging. Group dynamics have always carried echoes of my childhood, where I felt cast out. That training was in my bones.

Now, here I was, watching it unfold again in a circle of colleagues. The male facilitator—the one with the most authority—was distracted and disengaged yet escaped notice. Instead, the energy of the group was redirected onto a woman, and the blame was misplaced once again. The patterns were eerily familiar.

At first, I questioned myself. Maybe I was projecting. Maybe this was old stuff resurfacing. But the longer I observed, the clearer it became: something vital was being missed. A participant would cry while the leader looked distracted. Tension rippled unspoken through the group. The words being said didn’t match the energy beneath them.

And then came the moment that cracked everything open.

One woman was in the midst of processing while the group sat around her. These retreats were structured so participants could witness one another’s work, forming a circle around whoever was in the center. Presence mattered. Yet even in a space like this, distraction crept in. A co-facilitator briefly looked at her phone, and the participant turned and snapped at her. The room’s energy shifted.

When it came time to debrief, one participant criticized the co-facilitator. Others echoed her, and suddenly a pile-on began.

I felt a wave of old fear rise.

So I said something.

I don’t remember my exact words, but I remember the silence that followed them. I named what I saw. I said the space didn’t feel safe. That the way the moment was handled felt shaming to the co-facilitator because it seemed like everyone was ganging up on her. I didn’t yell. I didn’t accuse. I simply told the truth.

The shift was immediate. The woman I had spoken about grew defensive, assuming I was attacking her when I wasn’t. Almost instantly, others rushed to her aid, echoing her perspective while ignoring what I had named. I sat there watching the group align against me—not directly confronting me but making it clear that I had become the outsider.

I knew this feeling. I’d lived it before—when authority went unchecked and the blame fell on those with less power.

And then I felt something else: anger.

So I stood up and walked out before the tears had a chance to be seen.

The leader followed me outside. He told me I needed to return the next day. That the group needed repair. That leaving would be avoidance and prevent me from fully working through my process. But I had already spent most of my life “repairing” things that were never mine to fix. He was implicitly telling me what he needed, not what I did.

That night, I asked myself one question: What do I need—not what the group needs, or even what he thinks I need. Not what makes others more comfortable. What do I need?

And I answered: I need to honor myself by not going back.

I knew if I returned, it would be out of a sense of providing others some kind of closure, a need to explain or be understood. But that need wouldn’t be mine. It would be me, once again, looking to meet the needs of others—despite the fact that this retreat was never about them. It was about reclaiming what I needed. And what I needed was to walk away once I was able to say my peace.

I did not want to hear explanations, defenses, or reasons why. I didn’t even really need an apology for what happened. I just needed to be witnessed. I didn’t even really need to be understood. I had done the repair work on my own terms.

So I didn’t return.

I sent a respectful message to the group, shared exactly how I felt, and made it abundantly clear I would not be coming back—and why. There were a few kind words sent my way which I appreciated. But what mattered most was this: I reminded myself that responsibility for emotional safety in that space was not mine to hold.

Looking back now, I also see a deeper dynamic that I didn’t name at the time. Everyone in the group was a woman—except the lead facilitator. He was the one with the most authority, and his distraction set the tone. It made sense that others felt free to disengage, because the leader had modeled it. Yet when blame was handed out, it landed on a woman. The co-facilitator became the scapegoat while the man in charge escaped accountability entirely.

That realization angers me now. It wasn’t just about one group moment—it was about how power works. Leaders shape the culture, but too often it’s those with less authority who carry the consequences. The co-facilitator didn’t deserve that burden. She handled it gracefully, even saying it didn’t bother her, but I still wonder. What I do know is that accountability was misplaced, and silence let it slide.

And I’ve started to see that same pattern far beyond that retreat. In workplaces. In families. In communities. Women carrying the blame, women turning on one another, while male authority goes unquestioned. It’s a dynamic I once absorbed without words, but now I’m learning to call it out. To say what’s really happening instead of swallowing it.

That retreat became both a rupture—and a reset.

It taught me, in real time, that healing isn’t about staying in discomfort that reactivates old wounds. Sometimes healing means not following the group norm or listening to the authority figure or expert—even in a space meant for growth—and instead, walking away with your dignity, your limits, your integrity, and your boundaries intact.

It means being misunderstood and not rushing to explain. It means letting others disapprove and still choosing yourself. It means no longer rescuing others from their own guilt, anger, or discomfort. Their pain is theirs—and pain isn’t bad. Pain catalyzes growth.

Pain isn’t shameful. Anger isn’t wrong. Grief isn’t weakness. These emotions are not to be sanitized or dismissed—they’re to be felt, understood, and used. Used to stand for what’s right. Used to protect what’s sacred. Used to learn. Accountability, while sometimes painful, prevents future harm.

That moment laid the groundwork for a new chapter in my life—and a new level of self-trust. I began to see how often I had tried to fit into systems that were harmful. The more I listened to my body, the more I learned to follow truth—and I want to live in more of that.

I no longer want to fit in.

Fitting in has never changed the world. But living honestly? That might.

Because when we stop abandoning ourselves in the name of politeness—when we stop swallowing our anger just to keep the peace—we reclaim a part of ourselves that was never meant to be hidden. And that part? That’s the part that leads. Not with force or superiority—but with honesty. With the kind of integrity that doesn’t flinch when it’s time to tell the truth.

Because when you stop abandoning yourself to protect others’ comfort, you stop perpetuating the harm you came to heal.

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