When Loss and Betrayal Change Us — And How We Can Listen to What Comes Next
Loss and betrayal don’t just hurt — they disrupt.
They change how we trust, how we see ourselves, and how safe the world feels.
Whether the loss is a relationship, a friendship, a job, a dream, or the version of life you thought you were building — the end of a marriage you never saw coming, a friendship that quietly faded after kids or career changes, or losing the future you imagined after a breakup, a layoff, or a health diagnosis — the pain can feel both sharp and disorienting. Betrayal, especially, adds a layer of confusion: How did I not see this? Can I trust my judgment again?
As a therapist, I want to say this clearly: there is nothing weak or wrong about how loss affects you. Your nervous system is responding to a rupture — and ruptures take time to repair.
But healing doesn’t always come from “figuring it out.”
Sometimes it comes from witnessing your experience over time.
A Simple Writing Practice for Loss (That Grows With You)
This is a gentle, structured practice I often recommend because it honors pain without forcing meaning too soon.
You’ll need a notebook — nothing fancy.
Step 1: Name the Loss (Now)
On a new page, write one sentence describing the loss or betrayal.
“The end of my marriage.”
“Losing the friendship I trusted most.”
“Being betrayed by someone I depended on.”
Then — and this part matters — leave two blank lines underneath.
Close the notebook.
You’re done for now.
No reframing. No silver linings. Just truth.
Step 2: Return After One Month
One month later, come back to that page and write on the first blank line:
What have you learned about yourself since this loss?
or
What feels different — even slightly — compared to that first day?
This might sound like:
“I cry less often.”
“I’m sleeping better.”
“I learned I can survive days I thought I couldn’t.”
“I’m more aware of my boundaries now.”
There is no “right” insight. Awareness counts.
Step 3: Return After Three Months
Three months after the original entry, return to that page and write on the second blank line:
What, if anything, feels different in you now — even if the loss still hurts?
If nothing feels positive yet, that’s okay. You might write, “I’m still angry and exhausted, and that is true for right now.” That is still part of your healing story.
This does not mean the loss was “worth it.”
It simply means you’re gently noticing how you are changing — or not changing — over time, and letting that truth be seen.
Examples might look like:
“I still feel raw, but I’m not as shocked as I was.”
“I’m still angry and exhausted, and that is true for right now.”
“I don’t feel any better, but I can get through more of my day.”
“I’m beginning to notice what I will and won’t tolerate anymore.”
This step isn’t about forcing gratitude.
It’s about honoring the reality of where you are and allowing growth and grief to coexist, in whatever way is true for you.
Why This Works (From a Therapist’s Chair)
Loss often feels endless because pain blurs time.
This practice creates markers — evidence that your inner world is moving, even when it feels stuck.
By revisiting the same sentence at different moments, you allow your brain and body to:
Process at their own pace
Build self-trust
See healing as a process, not a personality trait you either have or don’t
You’re not rushing closure.
You’re letting meaning arrive when it’s ready.
If you’re reading this and realizing you don’t want to keep navigating this loss or betrayal on your own, you’re not meant to.
I’m Laura Trapani, LCSW, a therapist in Littleton, Colorado. I see clients in person in Littleton and virtually throughout Colorado and Illinois. This slow, gentle kind of work — making room for your grief, your anger, your confusion, and your healing at your own pace — is at the heart of what I do.
If you’d like support with this, you’re welcome to reach out to connect and explore whether working together feels like a good fit for you. You don’t have to have the right words or a neat story. You only have to bring the truth of where you are now.


When Loss and Betrayal Change Us — And How We Can Listen to What Comes Next

