‘What Was Hidden — and What I Found Instead’
I am writing this as a male – I am going to deliberately talk about being a boy and a man and not as a generic ‘child’ or a person.
Only as a man, because I believe our challenges and perspectives are unique.
This is all about men – and what it means to be both a boy and, if we make it, a man.
Me.
I went into care when I was seven years old. Before that, my childhood was shaped by violence and abuse at the hands of the one person who was meant to protect me – my mother (and her partner).
My father didn’t feature at all – he left before I was born.
I’m not unique in this- I’m aware this is sadly a common occurrence for boys and this absence can have a profound and long-term impact. Often, we don’t know how much of an impact, until we become a parent, ourselves.
I was found alone in Brockwell Park in South London. At the time, being there felt normal. I spent a lot of time on my own, staying out of sight. That day marked the start of my life in care and, later, my placement in residential children’s homes.
In theory, those places should have been safe- they weren’t. My time in care brought further abuse and harm and reinforced an early lesson: the world was unsafe and I couldn’t trust anyone.
The impact of those years did not end when childhood ended. I lived with PTSD, periods of low mood and depression, dissociation, and long stretches where joy felt (and sometimes feels) absent.
There are gaps in my memory that will likely never be filled. Certain smells can still trigger powerful emotional responses without warning. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that can sit with me for hours. This still occurs – I’m 56 now.
I felt angry most of the time – I couldn’t enjoy events that should have filled me with joy. The sun on my face, exceeding the speed limit on my motorbike, my son’s sports day. All of it grey and flat.
Many years later, I recognised what anger really was – sadness and fear. Anger being the ‘bodyguard’ for both. I certainly wasn’t willing to show my vulnerability to the world.
For a long time, I believed these experiences defined the limits of what my life could be.
What changed was not the past, but my relationship to it.
With support, reflection, and connection, I came to understand that many of my responses were survival strategies, not personal failures. Slowly, meaning began to emerge where there had once only been shame.
Post-traumatic growth does not mean being “over it.” It does not minimise what happened. It means recognising that alongside pain, something else can develop – purpose, compassion, and a desire to protect others in ways you yourself were not protected.
I’ve worked in frontline 999 services (as a police officer) for many years and I now work in mental health, supporting people who carry their own hidden stories. Many believe it is too late to ask for help, or that their experiences are too heavy to bring into the open.
They aren’t.
If you recognise yourself here – particularly if you are a boy or a man who learned early on to stay silent – I want you to know this: you do not need all the words, and you do not need all the answers. You only need to take one step toward not being alone with it anymore.
What was hidden does not have to stay that way.
And what comes after trauma does not have to be defined by it.
You have my faith. Hang on.
Joe