Trauma and Reverence

mandychueylcsw
Nov 26
4 min read

Trigger Warning

This article contains descriptions of trauma, sexual assault, and death. Please take care while reading.

Why I’m Sharing My Story

As a psychotherapist, I aim to support my clients in all areas of their lives, especially as they process trauma and loss. For years, I have been apprehensive about sharing my personal experiences outside of therapy sessions.

Recently, a long-term client asked me how and why I became a trauma therapist. Their question prompted me to reflect deeply on my journey. I realized that my personal experiences, while private, profoundly shaped who I am and inspired my path as a social worker.

Sharing this story is my way of answering that question—not just for that client, but for anyone who might wonder how personal history can influence professional purpose.

Early Life and Family Background

I was born one of six children to parents who did all they could within the limits of their own trauma bodies and emotional dysregulation. They suffered, so we suffered.

My father was the son of a first-generation Filipino man who struggled with alcoholism. He was also a U.S. Marine and Vietnam veteran. My mother endured profound childhood neglect and abuse. She often left us to escape the overwhelming reality of caring for six children while still needing protection and mothering herself.

During one of these absences, my mother met a woman with two small children. When our families reunited, we played together. One of these children, a girl named Angela, wore my hand-me-downs, and we shared afternoons with Barbies.

Angela’s Story

One day, Angela went missing while walking to visit a neighbor with her little brother. Her disappearance made headline news. I remember sitting quietly in my Kindergarten circle as the teacher held up the newspaper’s front page, Angela’s photo staring back with the word MISSING in bold letters. I was confused and scared, but I didn’t tell anyone I had played with her—how could she be missing? She should have been home. She wasn’t. Our parents piled us into our gold station wagon and drove through the rolling hills of Contra Costa County, ‘searching’ for her—as if the lost five-year-old friend we were meant to find could be spotted along the roadside. It was daunting and confusing for all of us.

A week later, Angela’s body was found. She had been assaulted and killed. She was five years old. The loss sent shockwaves through our families and the community—a grief and lack of safety that imprinted itself on my nervous system forever.

Thirteen years later, advancements in DNA technology led to the arrest of her killer. He was working at an auto shop not far from my parents' home. I recognize that Angela’s death was only the first of many developmental traumas that shaped my family’s nervous systems. Disruptions in our environment, combined with generational trauma and genetics, created vulnerabilities—mental health struggles, substance use challenges, attachment wounds, and even experiences with suicide attempts.

Yet, these hardships also shaped us into deeply complex, resilient, and compassionate individuals. Each of us carries the imprint of these early experiences, navigating life with strength and sensitivity born from our shared history.

Michael’s Story

In high school, my boyfriend Michael and two friends were carelessly drinking and driving, resulting in a deadly crash. One young man died on impact. Michael and another friend survived with life-threatening injuries.

I stayed by Michael’s side in the ICU, and when his health improved, we attended junior prom together—him still in his medical halo. Unexpectedly, months later, Michael died a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday from complications of his surgeries. My sister bought his burial suit, and I prepared the words for his headstone. I’m grateful for his family, their generosity, and their love.

Coincidentally, he was buried in the same cemetery as Angela, just yards away. I visit them and their resting places upon my return to my hometown. I wish it were the end of the young lives that I encountered that were lost too soon, but more heartbreak followed. A story for another time.

My Professional Journey

My schooling and professional growth continued alongside my healing. I worked at a homeless shelter, a mental health agency, and as an emergency response worker at Child Protective Services. My nervous system gravitated toward what was familiar—chaos and crisis.

I removed countless children from homes that mirrored parts of my own.

On weekends, to make ends meet, I nannied for affluent families in the San Francisco Bay Area.

During the week, I interviewed perpetrators in jail; on weekends, I moved through worlds of privilege—surrounded by Ivy League graduates, Nobel Prize recipients, Stanford professors, and venture capitalists.

The contrast between these environments was humbling and formative. I am deeply grateful for the kindness and generosity shown to me in each of these worlds, all of which shaped who I am today—as a person, a mother, and a clinician.

Healing and Reflection

Before now, I rarely shared these experiences. In many ways, I was a sympathetic witness—and so was my sympathetic nervous system—attuned to others’ trauma while absorbing my own. Through repeated attempts, I eventually found safety in meaningful relationships and connection.

My life and nervous system are now relatively peaceful. I live in beautiful Southern California with my family and run a small private practice. My measure of healing is being able to share these truths without being consumed by them.

Traumatic truth be told, I intimately understand developmental trauma, attachment wounding, and dysregulated nervous systems. This understanding allows me to empathize deeply with my clients. I deeply revere the lives of those who have entered and exited my orbit and admire my courageous clients who trust me to support their healing. It’s an honor to now walk alongside others as they reclaim safety, connection, and self-compassion in their own healing journeys.

Living and Loving,

Mandy