When a Top Triggered My Past

When a Top Triggered My Past

I’ve always known that trauma can be triggered by the smallest things in daily life—a perfume, a sound, a voice, a taste, even a person. Anything, really. But until yesterday, I had never fully felt it on my own skin—or better said, I had never been aware when it happened.

Yesterday was a significant day for me. It was the launch of something so close to my heart: my first online support group meeting for survivors of human trafficking. This isn’t just a project; it’s a part of my soul. So naturally, the day carried a weight that I couldn’t ignore.

As I got ready in the morning, I put on a new top that had just been delivered the day before. It was off-the-shoulder—beautiful, feminine, and flattering. Yet, as soon as I put it on, I felt... uneasy. Unsettled. Emotional. But I was rushing through my morning routine, so I didn’t stop to think about it. I brushed it off and carried on with my errands.

When I finally had a moment of quiet, the tears came. A flood of them. And while I’m no stranger to letting emotions out, this time, I couldn’t pinpoint the reason. Speaking to my biggest supporter—my sister—she asked me, “Why are you crying?” I didn’t know. I assumed it was the pressure of the day ahead.

Her response stayed with me: “Just allow it… let it be. You don’t always have to be strong.”

And in that moment, it hit me.

I cried harder—loud, gut-wrenching sobs. But this time, there was clarity. The top. It was the top. The off-shoulder design triggered something deep inside me. I sat with it, trying to untangle the feelings I had ignored in my morning rush.

I realized what I felt when I put it on: naked. Uncovered. Exposed. Vulnerable. Open.

And then, the memory surfaced. I remembered how often I used to wear tops like that in my past life—when I was trapped in a world where my body was not my own, when I was forced into a life of exploitation.

That realization hit me hard, but it also brought a sense of connection. I reconnected with that part of me, and in that moment, it was as if I could see her standing right in front of me—so vivid, so real, like a piece of myself I had forgotten but never truly lost.

I reassured myself: You are safe now. You are allowed to feel sexy in a top like this. You are free. And I am with you, always.

I’m sharing this story not because I have it all figured out—I don’t. I never want to present myself as the counsellor who has all the answers. I see myself as more of a wounded healer. I am walking this path of healing alongside the people I help.

This is part of taking responsibility for my own story and embracing my vulnerability. It’s messy, it’s emotional, but it’s real. And if sharing my journey helps even one person feel less alone, then it’s worth it.

You are allowed to feel. You are allowed to be vulnerable. And you are allowed to heal, piece by piece.

With love, always.

Anca