I received a message from a follower over the weekend, and it stopped me in my tracks. The story wasn’t unusual. I’ve seen it happen several times before. What stopped me was how clearly she described what she was going through.
She gave me permission to share part of her story so others would know it happens. Because of other things going on in her life, I promised to keep her anonymous, so throughout this article I’m calling her Jasmine.
Jasmine sent me a voice note, and I could hear both the strength and the pain in it. She was hurting so deeply, and she was so strong at the same time.
She asked for help
She told me that after many different circumstances in her life, she believes she’s in a CPTSD collapse. She’d said so to someone who was supposed to be an advocate, a helper on her side. When she told that person she was hurting and didn’t know what to do, the advocate set steps in motion that changed Jasmine’s and her son’s lives forever.
I want you to sit with that for a moment. This is someone who knew something wasn’t right. She’d felt the sparks. She put into words what she was feeling, went to someone she trusted, and asked for help. And everything collapsed around her.
Here’s where I have to be careful, because the last thing I want is for you to read this and decide it’s safer to stay quiet. Asking for help was the right move, and I’d tell Jasmine to do it again. It broke down with the person on the other end, who heard “I’m struggling” and translated it into “I’m a risk.” Your fear makes sense. Silence still isn’t the answer. The answer is knowing where to start, and I’ll get to that.
Jasmine was judged as fine because she was functioning, then judged a risk because she asked for help. This is exactly why I say functioning doesn’t necessarily mean you’re fine.
“That’s not a real thing”
Jasmine told this person she felt like she was in CPTSD collapse. The response was, “That’s not a real thing.”
I’ll concede that CPTSD collapse isn’t a clinical term. But the why is just as important.
In the U.S., clinicians, diagnosticians and support workers work from a book called the DSM-5-TR. It holds everything that counts as a diagnosis in the U.S. mental health system. Leaving something out of that book doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. It does mean clinicians are steered away from it, because the codes U.S. insurance runs on don’t include it, so they can’t code it or bill for it.
Outside the U.S., the World Health Organization keeps its own manual, the ICD-11. When the World Health Organization adopted it in 2019, it separated CPTSD and PTSD into two distinct diagnoses, and that version took effect in 2022. They recognized that the symptoms, causes and treatments were different enough to be looked at separately.
The U.S. didn’t follow suit. So people who believe they have CPTSD are often left right there, believing it, because clinicians fall back on the DSM. That means a PTSD diagnosis, or borderline personality disorder, or depression or anxiety. Those diagnoses start stacking on top of each other, and the root cause gets lost in the shuffle. Don’t come for me… alone these are very real diagnoses, and they do stack. I’m just saying they can also tend to hide something deeper.
Two kinds of collapse
So CPTSD collapse isn’t a diagnostic term, but it’s widely used in trauma communities. I believe it comes in two forms.
In an Ashes collapse, you’re doing just enough. That’s where Jasmine is: doing just enough to make sure her son is cared for, while trying to figure out why she doesn’t feel like herself anymore.
A Flame collapse comes after you’ve caught an Ember and realize you don’t really know who you are. You know there’s something underneath all of this, and you’re scared to see who it is. I wrote a lot more about the difference between the two in Running Out vs. Burning Off.
Why moms hide it
Jasmine isn’t the exception. She’s what happens to the moms who do speak up, and it’s exactly why so many don’t.
In a national study of more than 1,000 new parents, Nested and NYU found that nearly half of those who were screened for perinatal depression and anxiety felt they couldn’t answer the screening questions honestly. When the researchers asked why, parents described being afraid of judgment, or of being separated from their children. One mom said she knew exactly how to answer the questions to avoid raising red flags, “but inside, I was really struggling.”
It’s not just one study. A review of 32 studies on why mothers don’t get mental health care found the same pattern again and again: stigma, guilt, shame, and the fear of what telling the truth might cost them.
So moms do what Jasmine was punished for not doing. They function. They answer the questions right, keep the house running and get the kids where they need to be. And nobody asks what it’s costing them.
Where’s the line?
This is a much deeper conversation than the page can hold. I will be releasing a podcast episode soon that goes into more depth. This is not a call for people to hide; it is a call for the system to understand a request for help and a cry of desperation.
If moms don’t feel they can ask for help, we are just driving more people to an even thinner brink, putting more families and children at risk. I can’t pretend I have the answer. I see both sides, honestly.
Where do you think the line is or should be?
If you’re in it right now
If you’re having thoughts of harming yourself, or you’re not safe where you are, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide & Crisis Lifeline. If you’re pregnant or postpartum, you can call or text the National Maternal Mental Health Hotline any time at 1-833-TLC-MAMA (1-833-852-6262). And if you need a place to start, I put together If you need help right now.
What to read next
Read next: Running Out vs. Burning Off
Then: When You Can’t Feel Love for Your Kids (But You’d Die for Them)
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