Stop Trying to Heal
Why "recovery" language fails those of us who never had an original self to recover
I was 49 years old when I learned I was autistic.
Forty-nine years of thinking I was just….wrong. Wrong for existing. Wrong for even TRYING to exist. Forty-nine years of failed therapy attempts. Forty-nine years of trying to "heal back" to some mythical original self that, as it turns out, never existed in the first place.
Once I received my autism diagnosis and really started to dig into the previous CPTSD and ADHD diagnoses, my perception of myself slowly started to change. The autism diagnosis forced me to confront an uncomfortable truth: What if there was no "real me" buried beneath decades of trauma and adaptation? What if the trauma happened so early that it became the architecture of who I am?
What if I wasn't supposed to heal back, but simply just move forward?
The Problem with "Recovery" Language
Every therapy session, self-help book, and wellness guru promises the same thing: You can heal back to your "true self." There's an authentic you underneath all that pain, just waiting to be excavated like buried treasure. I call crap. Not in every case, no, but in instances like mine and countless others, CPTSD and undiagnosed autism leave no room for buried treasures because the treasure never existed.
This narrative assumes there was once a whole, undamaged person who got broken along the way. It suggests that with enough work, enough healing, enough therapeutic archaeology, you can dig down to that original self and brush off the dirt.
But what happens when the "damage" occurred during your developmental years? What happens when trauma didn't break an existing self but shaped the self that was still forming?
What happens when your survival strategies aren't wounds to heal but the very foundation of who you became?
My Archaeology Project Failed
I spent decades in therapy chairs, digging. Analyzing my childhood. Processing my trauma. Avoiding some of it, still today. Working through my issues. Trying to excavate that buried treasure of my "real self."
I was medicated heavily when my kids were young—upwards of 28 pills a day, including lithium and multiple mood stabilizers. I was treated for bipolar disorder, major depression, anxiety disorders. Each diagnosis promised that if I could just heal this particular wound, I'd find myself underneath.
But the more I dug, the more exhausted I became. The more I tried to separate my "authentic self" from my "trauma responses," the more I realized there might not be a clear line between the two, and the more I simply did not want to exist. I explore this exhausting cycle of failed "recovery" attempts in my book—how the traditional mental health model can make neurodivergent people feel more broken, not less.
My hypervigilance? That started when my innocent little brain was still developing, learning to read adult faces for signs of danger after sexual abuse. My people-pleasing? That developed when I realized keeping others happy was the only way to keep the peace. In our house, that was anything but total silence. My masking? That began the moment I understood that being myself led to rejection and harm.
These weren't temporary bandages over wounds. These were the building blocks of my (HUGE) personality, formed during the most crucial developmental years of my life.
The Autism Diagnosis Changed the Question
Learning I was autistic at 49 caused me to pause. To reflect on the fact that I never was, nor would I ever be, neurotypical. There was nothing to “fix.” Nothing to “heal.”
My "sensitivity" is just a sensory processing difference. My "difficulty with relationships" is the natural result of missing social cues that my brain couldn't automatically decode. My "emotional dysregulation" is the result of five decades of forcing myself to function in environments that overwhelm my nervous system.
The question shifted from "How do I heal back to who I was supposed to be?" to "How do I become who I am meant to be?"
That shift is changing so many things. I say changing rather than changed because now I understand that the remainder of my days will be spent becoming.
What "Becoming" Looks Like Instead
"Becoming" doesn't assume there's a perfect self waiting to be uncovered. It assumes you're still under construction, still growing, still evolving into someone you've never been before.
"Becoming" acknowledges that your survival strategies might have been exactly what you needed to get through what you went through. Instead of pathologizing those strategies, it asks: "How can we build on what already works and adapt what doesn't serve you anymore?"
"Becoming" is integration, not excavation. It's not about separating the "real you" from the "traumatized you"—it's about weaving all the parts of your experience into something coherent and whole.
For me, "becoming" looks like:
Accepting my neurodivergence for what it is. Unchangeable at its core. My intensity, my need for clarity, my excitableness, and direct communication style—are strengths to harness rather than inconveniences to others that I should destroy myself trying to “keep under control.”
Honoring my survival strategies while updating them. My hypervigilance, though not protecting me from the sexual predators, kept me alive as a child. As an adult, I can appreciate what it did for me while teaching my nervous system that it's safe to relax now.
Building forward instead of digging backward. Instead of trying to become who I might have been without trauma, I'm choosing who I want to become with the wisdom that trauma taught me. This shift from excavation to construction became the foundation for much of what I write about—the idea that we're not trying to return to some mythical "before" but creating an entirely new "what's next."
Embracing "still becoming" as a permanent state. I'm not trying to reach some finish line of perfect mental health. I'm accepting that growth, change, and evolution are lifelong processes.
The Relief of Giving Up Recovery
There's something to be said for abandoning the typical recovery model when it doesn't fit your experience.
I stopped trying to separate my "authentic self" from my "trauma responses" because I realized they were inseparable. The person I am includes both my natural temperament AND my learned survival skills. Both are real. Both are me. And I guess, if we’re being inconsistent (womp womp), both are the treasure.
I stopped seeing my adaptation strategies as evidence of damage and started seeing them as evidence of creativity, resilience, and intelligence. Four-year-old me figured out how to survive in impossible circumstances. That's a pretty dang admirable quality for an innocent child if you ask me. Learning to see my childhood adaptations as evidence of intelligence rather than damage was one of the most becoming realizations I write about—it dramatically changed how I talk to myself…most days.
I stopped waiting to be "healed enough" to start living and started living while still becoming.
The shame lifted. The self-blame quieted. The constant feeling of being behind on my own “healing” journey disappeared.
I’m not broken or weird or damaged or wrong. Ok, the not weird part is a lie, but still, I’m just me…trying to figure out how to be me. Who me wants me to be.
When There Was No "Before"
Here's what the recovery model misses: Some of us never had a "before."
If your trauma occurred during critical developmental periods—those crucial early years when your brain was still forming, when your sense of self was still coalescing—then recovery back to some pre-trauma state isn't possible because that state never existed.
This is especially true for neurodivergent children, who often experience the world as traumatic simply because it's not designed for how their brains work. We develop coping mechanisms and survival strategies as a way of EXISTING in a world that feels perpetually unsafe or overwhelming.
Our adaptations are the foundation itself.
A Different Kind of Hope
"Becoming" offers a different kind of hope than "healing back" does.
Recovery promises a return to some idealized version of yourself that existed in the past. Becoming promises you can create a version of yourself that has never existed before.
Recovery suggests there's something wrong with who you are now that needs to be fixed. Becoming suggests that who you are now—including the parts forged by struggle—might be exactly what you need to become who you're meant to be.
Recovery can feel like a constant reminder of what you've lost. Becoming feels like an invitation to discover what's possible.
My Becoming Story
At 50, I started this business because I decided to bet on who I was becoming rather than who I thought I should have been.
I’m building AuRTistic Expressions AROUND my differences, not despite them. And yes, I’m making so many mistakes, but you know what? I’m learning from them. And those mistakes, and that learning, are building on who I’m becoming rather than building on the idea that I’ll never get anything right. That I’m wrong for existing. For trying.
I'm still becoming. I still have hard days (today!), still struggle with anxiety, and still have autistic meltdowns when I'm overwhelmed. But I no longer see these as evidence that I'm failing at “recovery.” I see them as information about what I need, data about how to better support myself, and reminders that I'm human and still growing.
I'm not trying to heal back to some imaginary previous version of myself. I'm building forward toward a version of myself I've never been before—one that includes all my experiences, honors all my adaptations, and integrates all the parts of me that I spent decades trying to excavate or eliminate.
What If You Don't Need to Recover Either?
If you've been struggling with traditional recovery models, if therapy has left you feeling more broken than when you started, if you're exhausted from trying to dig up a self that might not be buried there—what if the problem isn't you?
What if your survival strategies aren't evidence of damage but evidence of creativity?
What if your sensitivity isn't a wound to heal but a gift to honor?
What if your differences aren't defects to fix but features to embrace?
What if you don't need to recover because you were never broken in the first place?
What if you just need to allow yourself to become who you've always been meant to be?
Not the person you might have been without trauma, but the person you're becoming because of everything you've experienced—the joy and the pain, the victories and the losses, the wounds and the wisdom they've brought.
What if healing isn't about going back, but about going forward?
What if you're not broken? What if you're just still becoming?
And what if that's not just okay, but beautiful?
I dive much deeper into this shift from "healing back" to "becoming forward" in my book—exploring how folks can build lives around their differences rather than despite them. If this "becoming" approach resonates with you, you might find it helpful: What If They’re Wrong About You?
This essay reflects my personal experience and perspective. It's not intended as medical or therapeutic advice, but as one person's journey toward a different understanding of trauma, healing, and growth. If you're struggling with trauma or mental health challenges, please reach out to qualified professionals who can support your unique journey.
Follow along on Instagram, TikTok, and LinkedIn for visuals and bite-sized insights from this piece. And if this resonated, share it with someone else who gets it.
Sign up here to receive our newsletter and stay connected!
About the Author
Gal is an autistic artist, late-diagnosed at 49, and the creator of AuRTistic Expressions—a space where neurodivergent truth meets creative survival. Through blog posts, printables, courses, and the “This Might Get Messy” podcast, Gal explores what it means to unmask safely, communicate authentically, and make art that doesn’t ask for permission. Stick around—there’s plenty more where this came from.
AI generated bio
