Why do we expect women to recover from trauma faster than soldiers?

Most people writing about trauma are doing just that… writing about trauma.

They are analysing research papers, discussing policy failures, reviewing statistics or examining systems from a position of relative distance. Their work is important, but there is a difference between studying the consequences of trauma and attempting to navigate them whilst they are still unfolding.

Over recent years, I’ve found myself writing from a very different place. I’ve been researching trauma whilst simultaneously living with its consequences; trying to navigate business circles, strategies to scale, understand institutional responses whilst navigating institutions myself; examining the impact of sexual violence on women’s bodies, careers and relationships whilst managing many of those realities in my own life.

That experience has left me returning to one question repeatedly:

Why do we seem to understand trauma so well in some circumstances, yet struggle to recognise it in others?

Most of us understand that war leaves deeply buried scars long after the soldier returns home. We understand that natural disasters, grief and loss, witnessing violence and the killing others changes people. We also know that living under threat changes awareness and the ability to relax, and that carrying memories of events beyond their control can affect sleep, relationships, concentration, confidence and the ability to function in everyday life. Entire support systems have been built around the understanding for veterans, grief of a loved one and personal injury, and yet when the trauma is sexual violence, particularly when the victim is a woman, much of that same understanding and continued support appears to disappear.[1]

The more I’ve reflected on this contradiction, the harder it has become for me to ignore.

Why do we readily accept that trauma changes a soldier, but continue to question whether trauma should change a woman?

Why do we recognise hypervigilance in one context and call it anxiety in another?

Why do we recognise disrupted sleep in one survivor and call it stress in another?

Why do we recognise altered behaviour in one group whilst expecting the other to return to normal as quickly as possible?

Why does our understanding of trauma appear to depend upon who experienced it and how that trauma entered their lives?

This is not because military trauma and sexual violence are identical experiences, nor because the suffering of one person should ever be ranked against the suffering of another. The comparison matters because the underlying mechanism is remarkably similar. Trauma changes us as human beings. Research consistently finds elevated rates of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder amongst both combat veterans and survivors of sexual violence, with some studies identifying rape as one of the traumatic experiences most strongly associated with the later development of PTSD. For individuals whose country is invaded and who have been subjected to sexual violence as a military tactic, the levels of PTSD are even higher.

And even though the battlefield may be different, the nervous system is still responding to invasion.

The territory entered was not a foreign country; it was a person’s own body, and whilst no international border had been crossed, physical, emotional and psychological boundaries had been violated in ways that continue shaping daily life long after the event itself ended. Whilst war is fought overseas, the aftermath of sexual violence is often fought internally, sometimes for years, whilst the outside world quietly expects normality to resume, and the victim not to speak about it

Over recent years, I’ve often reflected on how differently my own experience may have been understood had it occurred in another context.

Had I returned from military deployment experiencing hypervigilance, disrupted sleep, anxiety, exhaustion, intrusive memories and a nervous system permanently scanning for danger, most people would immediately recognise those symptoms as the consequences of trauma. Yet when similar symptoms emerge following sexual violence, the response is often very different.

Women are frequently expected to continue functioning as though very little has changed, continuing to work, care for others, manage households, maintain relationships and contribute economically whilst carrying a nervous system operating under extraordinary levels of strain. We are also expected to look good, attractive even, even though the last thing we want to do is attract attention. The expectation is not simply about recovery; it is that the impact remains largely invisible, or that a woman’s inability to ‘just get over it’ is accepted.

For years, I’ve functioned at a high level. From the outside, my life appeared relatively normal – albeit sailing around the world, building my business and studying for my PhD. I wrote books, supported clients and continued to attend and host meetings, events and conversations. Yet beneath that visible competence sat a broken woman, co-parenting her two sons from a distance, surviving on fractured sleep, and living with hypervigilance, anxiety, exhaustion, flashbacks and a body carrying far more physiological stress than I fully understood at the time.

One of the challenges with trauma is that most people are not equipped to deal with it; not the victim of it, and certainly not family and friends. Trauma rarely presents in ways people expect, and we don’t know how to support those with it, and that includes the organisations and institutions we work with and alongside.

Many people imagine trauma as visible distress, addiction, or emotional collapse. More often it appears as someone with a smile on their face, but look deeper into the eyes and you’ll see a different story. These survivors live with brain fog, irritability, exhaustion, loss of confidence, reduced tolerance for stress, drama and victim mentalities.

Those of us who are highly functioning gradually shrink from a full social life that was once expansive. We overthink our indecisions, have difficulty concentrating, and so we close the door to others whilst we expertly navigate the responsibilities of life and business with a composed and stoic demeanour. We feel like a fraud, but what choice do we have? We need to function, succeed in our chosen career – and we keep our head above water, because to not means we lose everything we have worked so hard to build and achieve. Losing our career, our home, friends and family means the rapist has won, and we cannot allow that to happen, further delaying the help we need and the release from the turmoil we feel inside.

These are not simply emotional experiences. They are physiological ones designed to protect us. As the signs of trauma present differently, they do not always resemble society’s blanket image of trauma, leading to them being frequently misunderstood, dismissed, overlooked, or attributed to personal weakness rather than injury. And for more and more women, these very symptoms are misdiagnosed as ADHD presenting itself in midlife. It isn’t. It is unresolved trauma and burn out caused by carrying too much, often alone, in order to survive every day.

Perhaps nowhere is this misunderstanding more visible than in the body itself.

Whilst conversations around trauma often focus on psychological symptoms, women are navigating profound physiological changes that receive far less attention. Significant weight gain following trauma is not uncommon. This weight gain is frequently interpreted through the lens of ‘letting ourselves go’, and a lack of personal responsibility rather than survival physiology. This is despite growing evidence that prolonged stress affects sleep, hormonal regulation, cortisol levels, inflammation, energy production and the nervous system’s ongoing search for safety. There is also a body of evidence growing related to the increase in fibroids in the uterus.[2]

In my previous articles, I demonstrated that the body does not distinguish between psychological threat and physical threat as neatly as our institutions often do. This is why so many experts in the manifestation and coaching world speak of the visualisation and ‘act as if’ methodology[3]. I’ve shown with research cited how it responds, adapts and protects, sometimes in ways that are not immediately obvious and often in ways that are deeply misunderstood.

I’ve described this as wearing a fat suit of protection as the body does its best to survive, avoid intimacy, and unwanted attention from men, who are often seen as those who only want one thing, or are predators. Our bodies are protecting us, rather than failing us, or intentionally being accusatory.

What follows can become another layer of trauma entirely, especially for those of us who are athletic and health-conscious by nature. The body that has already been violated becomes unfamiliar when our clothing no longer fits. The way we move has to change, and our levels of confidence plummets. The relationship with the mirror and with food becomes strained, for some even more so than ever before. We are not only navigating fractured memories, legal processes and nervous system dysregulation, but also learning how to accept and live inside a body that no longer feels like it belongs to us.

This adaptation requires compassion, not just from others, but from ourselves – and that is a hard thing to give when we’re in the throes of trauma.

What we as women encounter is judgment, the silent and not-so-silent judgment from others, in their glances, their avoidance and their visible disgust at how we now look.

We enter healthcare systems seeking answers, only to find ourselves reduced to assumptions about diet, exercise, ageing, hormones or stress. The swelling, bone-deep exhaustion, disrupted sleep, the weight gain and physiological changes sitting directly in front of professionals are more often than not acknowledged individually, whilst the deeper causes remain unseen and uninvestigated.

The irony and sexism are difficult to ignore.

The evidence exists. The body is presenting the evidence. Yet the evidence is frequently interpreted through pre-existing assumptions rather than investigated with genuine curiosity and care, and a desire to help.

In many ways, this mirrors what so many victims experience from the moment the harm took place. The signs are visible, as is the impact. The suffering is visible, and yet belief remains conditional.

Alongside these physical changes often come quieter losses that receive even less attention. Friendships are damaged, and some people disappear entirely. Others become uncomfortable with the long-term reality of trauma once it no longer resembles a temporary crisis with a neat recovery timeline and an obvious point of resolution. The ‘are you not over it yet?’ screams out of the looks of boredom from those who once were called friends.

There is a particular and painful loneliness that emerges when people expect the body and mind to move on long before the nervous system has regained any genuine sense of safety.

And this is where the consequences begin to move beyond individual well-being and into wider society.

If we misunderstand trauma at a cultural level, it is hardly surprising that workplaces misunderstand it too. When we, as a society, expect women to recover quickly, employers will expect the same. If society mistakes survival responses for weakness, organisations frequently mistake them for performance issues. If society struggles to recognise trauma when it appears in unfamiliar forms, leadership structures frequently do the same.

The workplace does not exist separately from culture; it reflects it.

This is perhaps why so many survivors quietly disappear from opportunities, leadership pathways and career progression. They do not lack talent, intelligence or ambition. They are carrying an invisible workload that nobody else can see, or as I have said many times before, “We’re busy on a cellular level”.

Whilst navigating trauma, many people are simultaneously managing healthcare appointments (if they can get them!), the various legal systems, hypervigilance, anxiety, social isolation, and the constant energy expenditure required simply to appear normal. They are then measured against KPIs designed for those with a normally functioning nervous system.

Looking back, I often wonder whether I’d have survived a traditional performance management process at all had I been employed by someone else. Like me, many victims of sexual trauma are highly intelligent, committed to greatness and professional capability. When combined with trauma, these attributes are harder to sustain. Our capacity varies from week to week, sometimes day to day. Tasks that once felt effortless require significantly more energy, and we become overwhelmed by feelings of failure, further deepening the presence of shame we live with – even though, as Giselle Pelicot states in her memoir, shame has to change sides. It is not ours, but it is socially conditioned to be ours, we only have to read newspaper headlines for evidence of this.[4]

What appears externally as inconsistency is often the nervous system attempting to manage an extraordinary internal workload that nobody else can see.

The irony is that much of the work produced during those years still changed lives. Books were written. Readers were supported. Clients were helped. Yet behind every visible success sat an invisible cost that very few people witnessed. Like many trauma survivors, I learned how to appear functional long before I felt safe.

The financial consequences of this misunderstanding are rarely discussed, despite the fact that many victims are simultaneously attempting to sustain careers, businesses and incomes whilst navigating legal systems, healthcare appointments, disrupted sleep and ongoing nervous system dysregulation. Some reduce their hours. Some leave employment entirely. Others experience declining performance, missed opportunities, stalled progression or the gradual erosion of professional confidence.

Trauma does not simply affect wellbeing. It affects earning potential, economic security and long-term career development.

Gisèle Pelicot’s case captured global attention because of the overwhelming evidence that led to the perpetrators being identified. The facts could not easily be disputed and public sympathy followed because as humans we love certainty.

Yet her case raises a far more uncomfortable question.

What happens to the countless victims whose evidence is incomplete, where memories are fragmented, and their trauma prevents them from recalling events in ways institutions find persuasive?

What happens when the experiences never produce the level of proof society requires before extending belief, compassion or support, such as the news and government agendas of war?

What happens when the burden of credibility remains entirely with the victim?

Many continue carrying the cost alone, not only emotionally, but mentally, professionally, financially and physically.

The question facing modern institutions is no longer about whether trauma exists; we already have an overwhelming body of evidence to prove it does. The question is whether leaders, employers, policymakers, healthcare professionals, safeguarding teams and justice systems are prepared to understand the true cost of ignoring it.

Every organisation is already paying for trauma, it is whether they pay through prevention and support, or through absence, disengagement, turnover, grievances, burnout, lost talent and institutional distrust.

Another question to ask ourselves is not why some survivors struggle after trauma, as that part is entirely predictable, but why we continue to act surprised when they do.

We understand that war leaves scars, and we understand that injury requires rehabilitation. With this knowing, and the evidence which has been in front of us for decades, we also understand that recovery takes time.

What remains uncertain is whether we are prepared to extend that same understanding to women whose bodies, minds, careers, relationships and futures have been shaped by sexual violence, because even though the battlefield may be different, the nervous system is still responding to invasion.

For too long, conversations about trauma have been led either by people studying it from a distance or by institutions responding to it after harm has already occurred.

I bring a different perspective: the combination of lived experience, research, publishing, public speaking and years spent examining the gap between what we know about trauma and how our systems continue to respond to it.

I work with leadership teams, safeguarding professionals, educators, healthcare providers, legal professionals and policymakers who are serious about understanding the human, organisational and economic costs of getting trauma wrong.

When organisations are ready to move beyond performative concern and engage with these issues honestly, I will be ready to join them.

[1] https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC8766599/

[2] https://cdn.icmec.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/07/CSA-CPA-and-Gynecologic-Disorders-Schliep-2016.pdf

[3] https://cogbtherapy.com/cbt-blog/2013/8/26/act-as-if

[4] For examples of poor headlines and what needs to happen within the field of journalism, visit https://therightwordsproject.org/