I needed the divide bridged—and for the first time, I finally feel like it has been, at least in some ways.
You see, as a trauma survivor, compartmentalizing comes far too easily. Compartmentalizing is the mental process of separating painful or conflicting experiences into different “boxes” in your mind as a way to cope and avoid certain feelings or triggers. It can protect you for a while, but after years of doing it, those boxes start to feel less like safety—and more like walls.
For 22 years, I’ve felt like I’ve been living in two separate worlds. And honestly I did not even realize it.
There’s the world everyone sees on the surface—my “other” world. The one where I go to work, go to church, build friendships, laugh over coffee, and try to live a normal, happy life. And then there’s my burn‑survivor world—the one that exists quietly alongside everything else. The one filled with hospital rooms, surgeries, therapy sessions, and scars that ache when the weather changes. The one where I know the smell of burn cream and the sting of stares from strangers.
In that world, I’ve met some of the most courageous people alive—fellow survivors who get it without me having to explain a thing. But the two worlds rarely touch. I’ve always felt like I had a secret life behind closed doors that just had to remain there.
I learned early on how to keep them separate. With friends who’ve never been through trauma, I learned to smile and say I was “fine” instead of explaining why I couldn’t walk far that day because it was too hot for my scars. I learned to change my clothes quietly if PTSD whispered lies in my ear after looking in the mirror or if the surgery site decided to bleed. I learned to politely decline an invitation because I knew the temperature, the stares, or the pain would be too much that day.
It’s not that people didn’t care. It’s that I didn’t know how to let them in without dragging them through the pain. So I compartmentalized. I lived in a dual reality—one foot in the burn world, one foot in the “normal” world—always balancing, never blending.
And that is exhausting and unfair to myself.
Now hear me clearly: this is NOT a pity party. I am far beyond letting those things define or break me. I am not the victim anymore. Do not feel sorry for me in any way because it is not meant to be a pity party of the challenges but a story of the triumph here. But some days are harder than others—and that’s okay. If that’s where you are right now, please hear me: it’s okay. You can have a bad day without it being a setback in your recovery! That is totally okay. So hear me on that one.
Okay off the soap box and back to your regularly scheduled program.
At this year’s Miracle Burn Camp of Iowa, something changed—someone changed it. A bridge began to be built.
My best friend—(and I’ve said this a million times, but I appreciate you more than you could ever know)—agreed to come with me as a counselor. For years, I’d been trying to get someone from my “other” world to step into this one. I needed someone to see why I’m so passionate about burn camp, to feel why it matters so deeply to me. But it wasn't until it happened that I realized how much I needed it. Selfish? Maybe a little but its the reality.
He didn’t just show up—he poured his whole heart into that week to make it magical for the kids. Ask anyone there; they’ll tell you he was incredible. But what he did for me went far beyond helping at camp.
For years, I’ve carried quiet fears I never spoke aloud: Will anyone outside of this survivor world ever truly understand me? Will they see the scars and still see me as whole?
Can I let both parts of my life exist in the same space?
Camp was always my safe place where "normal" people where there and I found them not being mean. But the compartmentalizing of my world meant I could put myself fully in "other" mode and not understand that thos translates outward as well.
I didn’t even realize how heavy those questions and that reality were until I watched him answer them without even trying.
He treated every camper—every survivor—with dignity and joy. He didn’t flinch at scars or shy away from moments of vulnerability; he just loved people where they were. My story is not new to Him but parts may have been, You would have to ask Him on that one but it did not change how he looked at me. He knew the moments when I needed a hug just to handle a moment or when my story became the inspiration to others even when I didn't realize it. And as I watched him love and serve in my world to my people, my heart started to believe something I hadn’t dared to before: maybe I don’t have to keep those two worlds separate. Maybe they can blend. Maybe, just maybe, I can allow all of myself to live in the daily world and not put the worlds separate anymore.
For the first time in my life, I wore a bikini-style swimsuit. Let that sink in—22 years of carefully covering up, of never showing too much, of protecting myself from looks and comments. But at camp I didn’t feel the need to hide. I didn’t feel strange. I felt free—because I looked around and saw someone who knows me outside of camp and became friends with me before knowing my story looking back with nothing but pride and friendship in his eyes. He didn’t see me as “less.” He didn’t see me as “other.” He didn't see the brokeness of my past. That is vulnerability no other friend outside of camp has truly experience from me. He saw me as me.
And in that moment, something in my heart whispered: You don’t have to live split anymore. You are fully whole now.
The Holy Spirit showed up for me in this beautiful camp setting and allowed me to finally see the full picture. My friends had given me a prophetic word that was on the line of, you are about to move beyond this being your only story and into a new reality. Little did I know that this was part of the switch!
(And on a lighter note—he also taught me determination in the silliest way. I hadn’t made a friendship bracelet in years, but I couldn’t stand the thought of him finishing his very first one when I, at year nineteen, didn’t finish mine!)
The gap needed to be filled—and he helped me see it could be. I am eternally grateful for that.
So what about for you?
Maybe you’re in that same place. Maybe you’ve gone through trauma or a hard season and feel like you can’t live in both worlds: the world of the survivor and the world of “normal” you. The world where it still hurts and the world where you are fine. You have found that compartmentalizing your different parts of yourself is easier than just living it blended together because it seems safer that way. Maybe you’re still stuck in victimhood and can’t find your way out. This is your sign!
I challenge you:
Find one person to step into that world with you. Just one. Then another will come, and another. Those who truly love you will love you no matter what you’ve been through. But sometimes one is easier to start with!
For me, only my family and friends of the family and a few early classmates remember me before the injury. But regardless of your story, there are people who will love you right where you are—if you invite them in. Fully in. Tell them why you need them. Ask them to help you build the bridge.
What might that look like?
Maybe it’s asking your best friend to attend an event with your support network—camp, a retreat, AA, NA, a luncheon, or a survivor meet-up. Maybe it’s asking someone simply to listen, without fixing or silencing. Maybe it’s letting someone hear your story and then move forward with you.
Everyone’s needs are different, but please don’t let yourself stay trapped in a victim mindset, endlessly compartmentalizing your pain. In the long run, that only hurts you more.
So I’ll leave you with this:
✨ How can you bridge the gap in your own life?
✨ What do you need to begin blending those worlds together?
Whatever it is—take that first step. You deserve to live whole. You deserve to live a life where you are who you are, not one version of yourself and a side version. So this is your call and your sign to go out and make the best for it! Blend the world together because it is worth it!
