The Version of Me Before: Trauma, Friendship Loss and Healing

In this deeply personal episode, Kassi opens up about the life-changing impact of trauma, the loss of friendship, the grief that follows, and the ongoing journey of healing. Through honesty, vulnerability, and hope, she shares how one difficult chapter reshaped her perspective without defining who she is.

Trigger Warning: This episode contains discussions of sexual assault, trauma, grief, and mental health. While no graphic details are shared, listener discretion is advised. 

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A real, raw, funny take on motherhood, chaos, healing, and remembering who you are under the mom-life mess.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:19

Welcome back to A Glass and a Giggle. Before we jump in, I do want to give a quick trigger warning. Today's episode talks about sexual assault, trauma, friendship loss, and some heavy mental and emotional topics. There won't be any graphic details, but it is a much heavier episode than my usual content. So if you're listening with little ears around, or if you're just not in the right headspace for a heavy conversation today, feel free to come back to this one later. Take care of yourself first. Okay, deep breath, let's get into it. If you're new here, hi, I'm Cassie. Mom of two tiny humans who somehow have the ability to need me simultaneously at all times, a wife, a small business owner, professional snack finder, and a woman who has spent the better part of the last few months trying to decide whether I was ever going to record this episode. So cheers to that. If you're listening in the carpool lane, folding laundry, hiding in your pantry, eating chocolate because your children can smell a snack from three rooms away, I'm glad you're here. However, this episode is different. And honestly, I don't know if there will be many giggles in this one. But I think that there needs to be honesty. Because if you've listened to this podcast for any length of time, you've probably noticed something. I've changed. My energy has changed. The things I talk about has changed. The way I look at the world has changed. And for months I felt like I was showing up here and giving you pieces of myself while hiding the biggest thing that has happened to me. Probably ever. Not because I wanted to hide it, not because I was trying to be fake, but because I genuinely didn't know how to talk about it. I didn't know how to put words around it. I didn't know how to explain what happened without hurting people, offending people, embarrassing myself, causing drama, reopening wounds, or honestly completely falling apart. And honestly, I still don't. But here we are. One thing that I've always promised on this podcast is that it would be real. I've talked about my postpartum depression, postpartum rage, intrusive thoughts, marriage struggles, mom guilt, body image, my mommy makeover surgery. The things that make us feel like we're the only person in the world experiencing them at that time. And every single time I've shared something hard, someone has messaged me and said, Oh my God, I thought I was the only one. So maybe this episode finds the women who think that she's the only one. A few months ago, something happened that changed my life. And before I go any further, I want to be very clear about something. This episode is not about the details. It's not about the story. This isn't a true crime episode. This isn't a gossip episode. And this isn't me trying to ruin anyone's life. This is about me and what happens after. Because that's the part no one prepares you for. Everyone talks about traumatic events, but no one talks about the fallout. Nobody talks about the fact that trauma doesn't arrive, ruin one day of your life, and then politely leave. It's really rude, honestly. Trauma has absolutely no respect for boundaries. And what I've learned is that the event itself was only part of my story. The aftermath was the real earthquake. I think before all of this happened, I genuinely believed that if someone crossed a line, everyone would immediately agree that it was wrong. I believed there'd be clarity. I believe there would be support. I believe there would be this obvious line between right and wrong. And maybe that's naive of me, maybe that's optimistic, but I really believed it. Instead, what I discovered is that trauma comes with questions. Questions from other people, questions from yourself, questions that show up at 2 a.m. Questions that make you doubt your own reality. Questions like, did I somehow cause this? Did I miss something? Was I too friendly? Was I too trusting? Did I put myself in this situation? Should I have reacted differently? Should I have said more? Should I have said less? Should I have thought harder? Should I have felt something off sooner? Should I have known? And here's the thing. I know you're all probably thinking, how would you have known? And intellectually, I do know that. Logically, I do know that. But trauma isn't logical. Trauma doesn't care what you know. Trauma cares what you feel. And what I felt for a long time was shame. Not because I did something wrong, but because something wrong happened to me. And those are two very different things that I'm just now starting to discern from each other. But our brains love to confuse them. I think one of the most frustrating parts of this entire experience has been realizing how quickly women are taught to investigate themselves. A woman gets hurt or assaulted and immediately starts building a case against herself. What was I wearing? What did I say? What did I do? What could I have done differently? Meanwhile, the person who caused the harm is rarely asked to undergo the same level of examination. And that's something that I'm incredibly passionate about now. Because if this episode helps one woman stop blaming herself for the something that wasn't her fault, then recording this and going through the trauma, it was worth it. I have spent months unpacking this in therapy. Months. And if you've never been to therapy, let me tell you something. Therapy is weird. It is wild. It is an emotional roller coaster. You walk in thinking you're gonna discuss one thing, and then somehow 45 minutes later, you're crying about something that happened in the third grade. I think it's witchcraft, honestly. I don't know how they do it. But one thing my therapist helped me understand is that grief doesn't only happen when someone dies. You can grieve relationships, you can grieve friendships, you can grieve trust, you can grieve versions of yourself. And I think that's what I've been doing. I've been grieving the version of me that existed before all of this. The version of me who felt safer, the version of me who trusted more easily, the version of me who believed bad things happened somewhere else, to someone else, not here, not to me, not inside of a circle of people I cared about, not in a situation where I felt safe. But life doesn't always ask permission before it changes you. And whether I wanted it or not, this changed me. The question I've been asking myself ever since is can I let it change me without letting it harden me? Because those are not the same thing. And honestly, I don't know the answer yet. I think that's what brings me to another hard part, the part I almost didn't include. Because if I'm being truthful, the things that really have broken me and broken my heart the most isn't even the event itself. It's not what happened to me. It's everything I lost afterward. I think when people hear the word trauma, they imagine the moment. They imagine the incident, the event, the thing that happened. But what no one tells you is that sometimes the biggest loss comes later. Sometimes it comes in the form of relationships. Sometimes it comes in the form of people you thought would be in your life forever. And that's the part that still makes me emotional. Because when I look back on everything that's happened, I don't just see one painful experience. I see years. Years of memories, years of friendship, years of holidays and vacations and birthdays and inside joke and late-night conversations. Years of believing that someone would always be a part of your story. And then one day you wake up and realize they're not. And the thing about friendship breakups is no one talks about them. When a romantic relationship ends, people understand. They bring wine, they bring ice cream, they let you cry. They say you'll find someone else. There are a million fish in the sea. But when a friendship ends, especially a friendship that felt like family, most people expect you to just move on. As if losing someone you talk to every day isn't a loss. As if losing someone who knew your children isn't a loss. As if losing someone who knew every version of you isn't a loss. And it is. It absolutely is. There are moments where something happens, and my first instinct is to still grab my phone, send a picture, tell a story, share a joke. And then I remember I can't text them. And it's like losing them all over again. I don't know if anyone listening has experienced that kind of grief, but it's bizarre. Because that person is still alive. They're still out there living their life. Yet the version of the relationship you love no longer exists. They chose a side that wasn't yours. And I've spent so much time wondering if there was a different ending. If there's a version of reality where some where everything could have been handled differently, a version where people choose accountability, a version where people choose empathy, a version where no one has to pick sides. And a version where people cared more about healing than protecting their comfort. But that's not the version that's realistic in a situation like this. And acceptance has probably been one of the hardest parts of all of this. Accepting that not everyone is going to understand. Accepting that not everyone is going to see things the way you do. Accepting that some people are willing to just tolerate things that you simply cannot. And maybe that doesn't make them evil, maybe just means that we're no longer compatible. That realization has hurt more than I can even explain. Because I think for a long time I kept waiting, waiting for someone to say the thing that I needed, waiting for someone to make it make sense, waiting for someone to fix it, waiting for someone to acknowledge the magnitude of what happened, waiting for the giant movie scene where everything gets resolved and everyone hugs and apologizes and suddenly the world feels safe again. But this isn't a hallmark movie. This is real. Real life leaves friendships fractured. Real life leaves you carrying things that no one else can carry for you. And that's been difficult. There have been days I've been angry, really angry, not just at what happened, but at how everything unfolded afterward. Angry that my life changed. Angry that people that I loved were affected. Angry that I had to spend countless hours in therapy trying to put myself back together while the other parties look like they're out living their best life. Angry that I lost trust. Angry that I lost innocence. Angry that something I didn't choose became something I had to heal from. Because healing is weirdly unfair. The person who gets hurt ends up doing the most of the work. You don't volunteer for the injury, but somehow you're responsible for the recovery. And some days that feels incredibly, isolatingly unfair. I think another thing people don't talk about enough is how lonely trauma can feel. Because you're not physically alone, but because you're carrying something no one else can feel. You can explain it, you can describe it, you can talk about it, but no one can climb inside your brain and experience it the way you do. And that can feel really isolating, especially when you're still expected to function. Because life doesn't stop. Nobody pauses motherhood, nobody pauses bills or work or responsibilities. My kids still needed breakfast the next morning. My daughter still woke up in the middle of the night. My son still wanted me to watch him do the exact same somersault 17 times. My husband still needed a partner. My business still needed attention. This podcast still existed and life just kept moving. Meanwhile, I felt like a part of me was breaking or standing still. Like part of me was frozen somewhere between who I was before and who I'm becoming, I guess. I think that's why recording has been so hard this past month. Because every time I sat down at this microphone, I felt like I was hiding. I would talk about motherhood or business or reality TV or whatever topic it was. And underneath it all, I just kept thinking, no one knows. No one knows what I'm carrying right now. No one knows how much energy it just takes to show up today. No one knows that some days I don't recognize myself. No one knows that some days I can barely get out of bed. And maybe that is why I'm recording this because I just don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to perform. I don't want to act like everything is fine because it makes other people more comfortable. The truth is, healing is ugly sometimes. It's grief, it's anger, it's confusion, it's therapy appointments, it's crying in the shower. It's having a great day and then suddenly remembering what happened and then not. It's missing people you're no longer supposed to miss. It's mourning relationships that can't be repaired. It's learning that two things can exist at once. You can love someone and still need to let them go. You can miss someone and still know that they're not healthy for your life. You can grieve someone and still choose yourself. And I think that's the lesson I've been learning that choosing yourself isn't selfish. Protecting your peace isn't selfish. Walking away from things that hurt you isn't selfish, even when it's painful. Even when you wish the story had ended differently. Even when a piece of your heart still wishes things could go back to the way they were. But the truth is, how can I go back? I don't think I want things to go back. I think I just wish this chapter had never existed in the first place. One of those things I've struggled to explain is why this has affected me so deeply. And I think part of it is because I haven't ever lived a life where physical boundaries were blurry. I've been with my husband for 12 years. 12 years. For those 12 years, my husband has been the only man I've kissed, the only man I've been intimate with, the only man I've shared that part of myself with. And when you've spent over a decade building that kind of trust, your brain develops certain assumptions. You assume your body is yours. You assume your boundaries will be respected. You assume the people around you are safe. You assume your marriage exists inside this invisible protective bubble. And again, maybe that sounds naive, but I think a lot of married women understand exactly what I mean. There are certain lines you can stop thinking about because you would have never imagined someone would cross them. I certainly never did. And what happened to me shattered that assumption. Not because it changed how I feel about my husband. If anything, it makes me appreciate him more, but it changes how I view safety, changed how I view trust, changed how I move throughout the world. Because before this happened, there were situations I would have never thought twice about. Now my brain evaluates everything. Who's here? Who's drinking? Am I alone? Do I trust everyone in this room? Do I have an exit? Would someone believe me if something happened right now? And these thoughts maybe were a small part of my life before just being a woman, but they weren't at the forefront. And sometimes I grieve that. I grieve the version of me who wasn't constantly scanning the room. I grieve the version of me who didn't know what it felt like to have their sense of safety interrupted. I grieve the version of me who assumed everyone viewed boundaries the same way I did. Because that woman was softer. That woman was more trusting. That woman felt safer. And some days I miss her. But something therapy has taught me is that healing isn't about becoming who you were before. Healing is about accepting who you have to be now. I will never be the woman I was before this happened. That chapter is over. The innocence is crushed. But that doesn't mean I'm broken. That doesn't mean I'm ruined, even though when it first happened, it certainly felt that way. And it doesn't mean that this is going to define me forever. It simply means I have a story that I never wanted. And every day I get to decide how much power that story has over the rest of my life. I think one of the reasons this has been so difficult to process is because it didn't happen in a place that felt dangerous. It happened in a place that felt safe. And that's something I have to keep wrestling with over and over again. Because when we're little girls, we're taught what danger looks like. We're taught to watch for strangers. We're taught not to walk at night alone. We're taught to be careful. We're taught to protect ourselves. And those lessons aren't wrong. But no one teaches us what to do when the danger isn't a stranger. No one teaches us what to do when it's someone you've known, someone you've laughed with, someone you've trusted, someone you've sat across from at family dinner, someone whose family is intertwined with people you love. No one teaches you what to do when the person who makes you feel unsafe is the person who is deeply inside your circle. And I think that's why I've struggled so much. Because my brain keeps trying to make it make sense. I keep looking for the warning signs, the red flags, the clues, the things I missed. Because if I could find just one thing that I missed, maybe I could convince myself this would never happen again. But there isn't anything I missed. Sometimes you just trusted someone who didn't deserve that trust. And that's not a character flaw. That's not stupidity. That's not weakness. That's being human. I think for a long time I wanted to understand why. Why me, why then? Why would someone risk so much, their own family, their own friends? Why would someone violate me? Why would someone put me in the position where I would spend months questioning everything? And therapy, again, has taught me something frustrating. Sometimes there's no answer. Sometimes understanding why doesn't heal the wound. Sometimes healing just comes from accepting that what happened was wrong, and you will never get an explanation of why. That's been a hard lesson for me. Because if anyone knows me personally, I'm a fixer. I'm a problem solver. I'm the person who wants to sit down, talk it out, find a solution, make everyone happy, smooth things over, and move on. I still want a solution. I still want closure. I still want a neat ending, but I'm never going to get that. I'm going to get this grief. This grief is messy. It doesn't follow a schedule. It doesn't care that I'm a mom. It doesn't care that I own a business. It doesn't care that I'm recording a podcast. It just shows up. Some days I feel strong. Some days I feel healed. Some days I genuinely believe the worst is behind me. And then other days something reminds me of this. And I just break the friendship, the memory, a picture, a conversation. And suddenly I'm back grieving again. Not because I wanted to go backwards, but because I never got to say goodbye to that old version of my life. And I think that's what people misunderstand about healing. It's certainly what I misunderstood before this. Healing doesn't mean you're over it. Healing doesn't mean it never hurts. Healing doesn't mean you stop grieving. Healing means the grief is no longer controlling everything in every room you walk into. It means the sadness doesn't get the final vote. It means you're learning to carry the weight without letting it crush you. And I want to say something directly to anyone listening right now who's experienced something similar. Whether it happened recently, whether it happened 20 years ago, whether you've told people, or whether you've never told a single soul, I need you to hear me. What happened to you is not your fault. Not because you were drinking, not because you trusted someone, not because you were friendly, not because you didn't react the way you should have. Not because you froze. Not because you stayed. Not because you left. Not because you questioned yourself afterward. None of those things make you responsible for someone else's choices to violate your boundaries. And if you're carrying shame that doesn't belong to you, I really hope you can set that down after this. Because I've spent months trying to learn that lesson myself. The truth is I still have work to do. I still have things I'm healing from. I still have days that are harder than others. I still have moments where I miss those people. I have moments when I'm angry. I have moments where I wish none of this would happen. But for the first time in a long time, I also have hope. Because somewhere along the way I realize something. That thing that happened to me is part of my story now. But it's not the whole story. The friendship loss is part of my story, but it's not the whole story. The grief is a part of my story, but it is not the whole story. I'm still a wife, I'm still a mother, I'm still a business owner, I'm still a friend. I'm still the woman who laughs too loud. I'm still the woman who occasionally hides in the pantry eating snacks. I'm still the woman who starts a simple target run and still leaves with $87 worth of things that I didn't want to get. Some things have changed, but not everything. And maybe that's the biggest thing I've learned. Trauma can change you without taking who you are away. You can be wounded without being broken. You can be grieving and grateful at the same time. You can be healing and hurting at the same time. You can carry scars and still live a beautiful life. And today, sitting here recording this episode, I think that's where I am. Not healed, not broken, just healing. One day at a time, one therapy session at a time, one hard conversation at a time, one honest podcast episode at a time. And if you've made it this far, thank you. Thank you for letting me share something I wasn't sure I'd ever talk about. Thank you for giving me a place where honesty is allowed. Thank you for reminding me that none of us are as alone as we think we are. And if no one has told you lately, I'm glad you're here. Keep going, keep healing, keep choosing yourself. And as always, the humans may be tiny, but the pores are definitely large. And I'll talk to you next time.