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By Robert Espiau LMHC
There is a particular kind of wound that can develop in a family without anyone ever striking a child, abandoning them, or intentionally trying to harm them. It happens when a child speaks and gradually discovers that speaking does not seem to change anything. A teenager tells a parent that something at school is frightening them and hears, “You are overreacting.” A child tries to explain why they are angry and is told, “You have nothing to be angry about.” A daughter says that something a relative said made her uncomfortable and the conversation quickly becomes about maintaining peace in the family. A son tries to describe how overwhelmed he feels and is reminded of everything his parents have sacrificed for him.
Sometimes parents respond this way because they are distracted. Sometimes they are frightened by their child’s emotions. Sometimes they were never listened to themselves. Sometimes the family places a high value on obedience, toughness, loyalty, achievement, or keeping conflict private. And sometimes the adults truly believe that minimizing a child’s distress will help the child become stronger.
Yet the developing mind does not only register what happened. It also tries to understand what what happened means. A child who repeatedly experiences emotional dismissal may gradually arrive at conclusions such as, “My feelings are excessive,” “Talking about what hurts only causes trouble,” “Nobody really wants to know what I feel,” or “I need to have a very good reason before I ask for help.” Another child may conclude that if someone disagrees with their feelings, the feelings themselves must be wrong, or that other people’s comfort is more important than their own experience. Beneath these beliefs there is often a quieter and more fundamental conclusion: My voice does not matter.
These conclusions can survive long after the original family environment has changed. As a therapist, this is one of the important distinctions I make with clients. We are often not simply working with memories. We are working with conclusions that were formed inside those memories.
A growing body of psychotherapy research suggests that the meanings attached to emotionally powerful memories may be more changeable than we once assumed. Two approaches that have become particularly important in trauma treatment are eye movement desensitization and reprocessing, commonly known as EMDR therapy, and imagery rescripting, an approach in which a person deliberately revisits a distressing memory while introducing a different response to the emotional needs that were left unmet at the time.
A major randomized clinical trial by Boterhoven de Haan and colleagues (2020) offers an important window into this process.
Their research was not specifically about ordinary family invalidation. The participants were adults suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder related to traumatic experiences occurring before age 16. That distinction matters. We should not equate being dismissed during adolescence with severe childhood trauma. Still, the study illuminates something important about psychotherapy: experiences from childhood can continue to affect adults through the meanings, emotions, expectations, and beliefs attached to those memories, and those meanings are not necessarily permanent.
Boterhoven de Haan et al. (2020) conducted an international, multicenter randomized clinical trial comparing two trauma focused treatments for adults whose PTSD originated in childhood experiences: imagery rescripting and EMDR therapy. The study included 155 participants, and treatment consisted of up to twelve 90 minute sessions delivered twice weekly.
Both treatments produced substantial reductions in PTSD symptoms. At the eight week post treatment assessment, effect sizes for observer rated PTSD symptoms were very large for both imagery rescripting and EMDR therapy. Improvements also occurred in depression, dissociation, shame, guilt, trauma related cognitions, hostility, and other secondary measures. Treatment dropout was relatively low at 7.7 percent. Follow up findings suggested that gains were maintained and, on some measures, continued to improve over time (Boterhoven de Haan et al., 2020).
What interests me clinically is not simply that symptoms decreased. It is also what participants were being asked to do with traumatic memory.
In imagery rescripting, the person initially recalled a traumatic childhood memory from the perspective of the younger self, including what that child was thinking, feeling, and needing. A different outcome was then introduced into the imagined scene. Early in treatment, the therapist could enter the imagery and intervene. Later, the adult client imagined entering the scene themselves and responding to the younger self’s unmet needs. Eventually, the memory could be experienced again from the child’s perspective while the competent adult self was present in the scene (Boterhoven de Haan et al., 2020).
Nothing about this process suggests that the therapist is pretending history was different. The original event remains the original event. The work is directed toward what the person learned from that event.
That difference is central.
An adolescent rarely thinks in clinical language. A fifteen year old does not usually walk away from a painful interaction thinking, “My brain isnt working effectively, so I must be careful not to overgeneralize this interaction into a global belief about interpersonal relationships.”
They think, “Dad doesn’t care,” “Mom never listens,” “There is no point talking,” “I shouldn’t have said anything,” or “Maybe I really am too sensitive.” These are not necessarily deliberate conclusions. Over time, they can become assumptions about how relationships work.
Attachment researchers have used the concept of internal working models to describe the mental expectations people develop through repeated experiences in important relationships. These models concern questions such as whether other people will be available when needed, whether our emotional experience will be tolerated, and whether seeking comfort is likely to lead to support, rejection, or disappointment. Internal working models are not immutable personality traits. They are experience based expectations, and attachment theory recognizes that these expectations can be modified through later relationships and therapeutic experiences (Berry & Danquah, 2016).
This helps explain why being heard matters so much. A teenager who says, “Something happened at school,” is doing more than reporting information. They are taking an interpersonal risk and discovering what happens when their internal world becomes visible to another person.
Parents sometimes misunderstand validation because they equate listening with agreement. But these are different processes. A parent can believe that a teenager has misunderstood a situation while still taking the teenager’s emotional experience seriously. A parent can set a boundary while listening. A parent can disagree with a child’s decision while remaining curious about what led to it. A parent can eventually offer advice without immediately replacing the child’s experience with the parent’s interpretation.
Research supports the psychological importance of this distinction. In an experimental study involving 1,001 adolescents between 13 and 16 years old, Weinstein, Huo, and Itzchakov (2021) examined how young people responded to examples of parental listening during adolescent self disclosure. Adolescents who observed high quality parental listening anticipated greater well being and reported greater willingness to disclose to parents again. The effects were partly explained by increased feelings of autonomy and relatedness.
Listening therefore does something more than transfer information. It communicates, in effect, that the young person can remain themselves while staying connected to another human being. That is particularly important during adolescence, when a young person is simultaneously developing an independent identity and remaining emotionally dependent upon family relationships.
The opposite experience can send another message: to remain connected, parts of you need to disappear.
It would be inaccurate to suggest that every dismissive conversation produces psychological injury. Families misunderstand each other a lot; constantly. Parents become impatient. Children misunderstand parents. Parents misunderstand children. Healthy families are not families in which every feeling is perfectly recognized. Repair matters.
The deeper problems tend to arise when invalidation becomes repetitive, emotionally significant, or embedded in the structure of the relationship. Research by Buckholdt, Parra, and Jobe Shields (2014) provides useful evidence here. In a study of 80 parent and adolescent dyads, parental emotion dysregulation was associated with greater adolescent perceptions of emotional invalidation, and those experiences of invalidation were associated with greater adolescent difficulties regulating emotions. Adolescent emotion dysregulation, in turn, was related to internalizing and externalizing problems.
Again, this does not mean that a dismissive parent inevitably causes a psychiatric condition. Human development is far too complex for that. It does suggest that children learn something about emotions through the responses those emotions receive.
If anger repeatedly leads to punishment, anger may become frightening. If sadness leads to ridicule, sadness may become shameful. If fear leads immediately to lectures, fear may become hidden. If disagreement threatens belonging, a child may become unusually agreeable. If disclosure repeatedly goes nowhere, silence can become an adaptation. The difficulty is that adaptations formed in one environment often continue operating after that environment no longer exists.
This is why an adult client can sit in therapy at forty years old and say, “I don’t know why I can’t tell my partner what I need.” Often, the difficulty is not a lack of communication skills. The person may know exactly what they should say. The problem is that somewhere inside them, expressing a need still carries an old prediction: “If I say what I need, I will be dismissed,” “If I explain myself, I will be misunderstood,” “If I tell someone I am hurt, they will become angry,” or “If I speak honestly, I may lose the relationship.”
That expectation can remain emotionally powerful even when the adult intellectually knows that the current partner is not the parent from childhood. This is where purely rational insight sometimes reaches its limit. A person can know that a belief is outdated while still reacting as though it is true.
Consider a clinical example. I will call her Elena.
Elena is 38 when she enters therapy. She is successful in her profession and regarded by colleagues as thoughtful, reliable, and easy to work with. Yet she has tremendous difficulty speaking during conflict. When her husband becomes frustrated, Elena immediately starts explaining his point of view back to him. She says things such as, “I understand why you’re upset,” “You’re probably right,” or “I shouldn’t have brought it up this way.” What she almost never says is, “That hurt me.”
If her husband interrupts her, she loses track of what she was trying to say. If he becomes defensive, she quickly abandons the issue. Afterward, she lies awake replaying the conversation, sometimes constructing the exact sentences she wishes she had spoken. When I ask what she imagines would happen if she continued talking when someone was irritated with her, she answers immediately: “They won’t listen anyway.”
The speed of the answer is important. It does not sound like a hypothesis. It sounds like a fact.
Over time, we trace this expectation to several memories, but one particular scene from high school carries unusual emotional intensity. Elena is sixteen. For several months, a group of girls who had once been close friends have been excluding her. At first the behavior is subtle. They stop saving her a seat at lunch. Plans are made around her. Conversations become quiet when she walks over. Then someone begins circulating a humiliating story about Elena and a boy from another school. The story is not true.
One Friday afternoon, Elena comes home after discovering that someone has written the rumor on the inside of a bathroom stall. She has spent most of the school day pretending not to care. When she arrives home, her mother is preparing dinner. Her father is paying bills at the kitchen table.
Elena begins explaining what has happened. Halfway through the story, her mother says, “Girls your age are always doing this to each other. Next month it will be somebody else.” Her father keeps looking at his paperwork and says, “The more attention you give them, the worse you’re making it.”
Elena tries again. She says she does not want to go back to school Monday. Now her mother becomes worried about attendance. “You are absolutely going to school. We are not teaching you to run away from problems.” Her father finally looks up and says, “You’re a smart girl. Stop giving stupid people so much power over you.”
Nothing her parents say is overtly cruel. In fact, both parents believe they are strengthening their daughter. Her father believes he is reminding her of her competence. Her mother believes she is preventing avoidance. But neither parent asks the question Elena desperately needs someone to ask: “What has this been like for you?” No one asks what was written. No one asks whether she feels safe. No one says, “I can see how humiliated you must feel.” No one moves from across the kitchen and sits beside her.
Elena goes upstairs. She cries quietly because she does not want either parent to hear her. By Monday she returns to school. From the outside, the incident appears resolved. Internally, however, something else has happened.
Sixteen year old Elena has developed an interpretation: If I am hurting and people think my problem is solvable, they will not want to hear about the hurt. Over time that becomes, My feelings only deserve attention if I can prove that something terrible has happened. Eventually it becomes something even more concise: Talking does not help. Handle it yourself.
At 38, Elena is no longer avoiding a high school cafeteria. She is still obeying the rule that was written there.
If I simply told Elena, “Your parents should have listened better,” she might agree. But agreement is not necessarily transformation. She already knows intellectually that she deserved more support. The emotional memory carries something deeper.
When Elena remembers that kitchen, she does not merely remember her parents’ sentences. Her shoulders collapse slightly. Her voice becomes quieter. She feels embarrassed for having needed them. For a moment, the emotional experience of being sixteen becomes active again.
This is where an imagery based intervention can become clinically meaningful. Imagery rescripting would not involve pretending that her parents actually behaved differently. Instead, we might invite Elena to return to the memory in imagination and notice the younger Elena carefully. What is she feeling? What does she believe is happening? What does she need?
Perhaps adult Elena enters the kitchen. She sees the sixteen year old standing there with her backpack still over one shoulder. She recognizes something the parents in the original memory did not recognize. This girl is not asking somebody to solve high school. She is asking not to be alone inside what happened.
Adult Elena might imagine herself saying to the parents, “Stop for a minute. She isn’t asking you to tell her that she is strong. She already had to be strong all day. She is telling you that she has been humiliated and she needs someone to listen before anybody gives her advice.”
Then adult Elena turns toward the teenager and says, “I believe you. You do not have to convince me that this hurt. You deserved to tell somebody the whole story. Being affected by this does not make you weak. You do not have to stop feeling in order to be strong.”
The important therapeutic moment is not creating a fantasy in which the bullying never happened. It is allowing the younger self to encounter information that was missing from the original experience. The problem was not that she had feelings. The problem was not that she spoke. The problem was not that she needed another person. Most importantly, the fact that people failed to listen did not mean that she was not worth listening to.
That is a very different conclusion.
This distinction can be difficult to understand at first. People sometimes hear the term “rescripting” and imagine positive thinking. It is not simply replacing an unpleasant memory with a pleasant one, nor should therapy try to convince someone that harmful experiences were secretly beneficial.
Instead, rescripting asks whether the younger person reached conclusions because they lacked resources, power, context, protection, or emotional support that are available to the adult now. A child may conclude, “I caused this.” The adult can now understand, “I was twelve. The adults were responsible.” A teenager may conclude, “I was pathetic for being afraid.” The adult may now understand, “I was overwhelmed and trying to protect myself.” A child may conclude, “If my mother could not tolerate my sadness, my sadness must have been wrong.” The adult can now ask, “What if my mother’s difficulty tolerating sadness belonged partly to her history rather than to the legitimacy of my feelings?”
That is cognitive restructuring, but it is also more than cognitive restructuring because the new understanding is being brought into contact with the emotionally charged memory.
Research outside PTSD provides additional support for this possibility. Reimer and Moscovitch (2015), for example, found that imagery rescripting targeting autobiographical memories in people with social anxiety was associated with shifts in negative memory appraisals and negative core beliefs about self and others. A meta analysis by Morina, Lancee, and Arntz (2017) similarly found imagery rescripting promising across several psychological disorders involving aversive memories, while appropriately emphasizing limitations in the evidence base available at that time.
An updated meta analysis has continued to find evidence that imagery rescripting can be effective across disorders associated with aversive memories, while also finding that it does not clearly outperform other established active treatments such as exposure, cognitive restructuring, or EMDR therapy (Kip et al., 2023). That last point matters. Imagery rescripting is not magic, nor is it the only route to therapeutic change. It is one way of helping people encounter old emotional learning from a different psychological position.
Researchers later examined possible mechanisms of change using data from the same larger treatment project. Rameckers et al. (2024) studied whether changes in trauma related distress, memory vividness, and what researchers described as “encapsulated beliefs” helped explain improvement during EMDR therapy and imagery rescripting.
Within the imagery rescripting condition, changes in distress and changes in encapsulated beliefs predicted subsequent changes in PTSD severity. The researchers did not claim that this proves a single mechanism, and psychotherapy mechanisms are rarely that simple. Still, the findings are consistent with something clinicians have observed for many years: improvement can involve changing not only how intensely a memory is experienced, but what the memory seems to say about the self.
This is directly relevant to the belief, “My voice does not matter.”
The therapeutic question becomes: Is that a fact about who I am, or was it a conclusion formed in relationships where people did not know how to hear me?
Those are not the same thing.
One reason this kind of work may be possible is that human memory is reconstructive. We do not store perfect recordings and retrieve them unchanged. Remembering is an active process.
Researchers studying memory reconsolidation have explored whether reactivated memories may, under certain circumstances, become open to modification before being stored again. There is substantial experimental interest in this idea, but claims about reconsolidation in human psychotherapy should be made cautiously. Reviews of the human literature have found evidence consistent with reconsolidation while also emphasizing methodological uncertainty and alternative explanations (Elsey et al., 2018).
We therefore do not need to claim that imagery rescripting or EMDR therapy literally “rewrites the brain” in order to recognize the clinical importance of memory focused treatment. The psychological observation is sufficient: a memory can remain historically accurate while acquiring a different present day meaning.
“I was ignored” can remain true without “I am not worth hearing” remaining true. “My father minimized my fear” can remain true without “My fear was ridiculous” remaining true. “My mother became defensive when I expressed anger” can remain true without “My anger destroys relationships” remaining true.
This is the distinction between remembering the past and continuing to live inside the interpretation formed there.
There is another difficult aspect of this work. Adults who were not heard as children sometimes remain psychologically attached to the hope that the original family will finally understand. They may explain themselves again and again. They send the longer text. They give another example. They produce more evidence. They become increasingly precise because they imagine that if they can finally describe the childhood experience correctly, the parent will say, “Yes. I see it now. I understand what that was like for you.”
Sometimes families do reach this point. Parents change. Adult children change. Relationships can repair. But sometimes the parent cannot provide that recognition.
This creates an important therapeutic challenge. Healing cannot be made completely dependent upon receiving a verdict from the same person who was unable to understand the experience originally. At some point, adult psychological development includes becoming capable of saying, “My experience does not become real only when you agree with it.”
That statement is not a rejection of relationship. It is a differentiation of self.
People sometimes misunderstand reparenting or imagery work as telling yourself things you do not believe. That rarely helps. If Elena tells herself, “My voice matters,” while another part of her immediately responds, “No it doesn’t,” repeating the affirmation a hundred times will probably not resolve the conflict.
Therapy becomes more useful when we become curious about the part that disagrees. Why does it believe silence is safer? What happened when Elena spoke? What happened when she protested? What did she observe when other family members expressed needs? What price did people pay for disagreement? What did belonging require?
The old belief often makes sense when we understand the environment in which it developed. This is something I emphasize strongly with clients. We do not need to ridicule an old coping strategy in order to outgrow it. Silence may once have preserved connection. Agreeableness may once have reduced conflict. Emotional self containment may have helped a teenager function inside a family that became overwhelmed whenever feelings became intense.
The question is no longer, “What is wrong with me that I still do this?” A more useful question is, “What did this strategy once accomplish, and does my life still require it?”
That question changes the emotional tone of therapy. Instead of fighting the younger self, we begin understanding them. From understanding comes the possibility of choice.
Imagery is not the only corrective experience. The therapeutic relationship itself matters.
A client says something difficult and watches carefully. Will the therapist become uncomfortable? Will the therapist reinterpret it too quickly? Will the therapist start explaining? Will the therapist defend the parent? Will the therapist tell the client how they should feel? Or will another human being remain present long enough to understand?
This is one reason good psychotherapy cannot be reduced to techniques. A person who learned that disclosure leads to dismissal may need repeated experiences of disclosure leading somewhere else.
The same principle can operate outside therapy. A spouse listens without immediately defending themselves. A friend says, “Tell me more.” An adult child tells a parent, “I don’t need you to agree with every part of this. I need you to understand what it was like for me.” The person speaks in a meeting despite anticipating dismissal. They correct somebody who misunderstood them. They say no without producing a ten minute justification. They allow themselves to finish a sentence.
Each experience provides new information. The old prediction says, “If I speak, connection will be lost.” The new experience says, “Sometimes I can speak and remain connected.” Or, equally importantly, “Sometimes I can speak, someone may not like it, and I can still remain connected to myself.”
That is a different kind of security.
Another common obstacle appears when people feel that recognizing what was missing in childhood requires declaring their parents bad people. It does not.
Two truths can exist together. A parent may have loved a child deeply and still have been unable to listen to certain emotions. A parent may have worked extremely hard to provide materially, and the child may still have experienced emotional loneliness. A parent may have been doing far better than their own parents did, and something important may still have been missing.
A parent may never have intended to communicate, “Your voice does not matter,” and the child may nevertheless have received that message. Psychotherapy does not require a prosecution. It requires psychological accuracy.
Intent and impact are different dimensions of human relationships. Understanding the impact does not erase the parent’s intentions, and understanding the parent’s intentions does not erase the impact. Mature reflection makes room for both.
When adults return to these childhood experiences, the most important question is often not, “What should my parent have said?” It is, “What did that younger version of me need to know?”
Perhaps the answer is that they needed to know they were allowed to be affected, allowed to disagree, and allowed to need another person without first proving that the situation was serious enough. Perhaps they needed to know that strength and vulnerability could coexist, that they did not have to become emotionally invisible in order to remain loved, and that another person’s inability to understand them was not proof that they were incomprehensible.
These are not attempts to manufacture self esteem. They are attempts to correct conclusions that were larger than the events that produced them.
The goal is not to create a life in which everyone listens. No adult can have that. Some people will misunderstand us. Some relatives will remain defensive. Some partners will interrupt. Some workplaces will be dismissive. Some conversations will fail.
Psychological freedom comes from no longer turning every failure of listening into evidence about our worth. A child may conclude, “If you do not hear me, maybe I do not matter.” The adult gradually learns something different: I matter even when you cannot hear me.
The Boterhoven de Haan et al. (2020) study did not demonstrate that every painful childhood belief should be treated with imagery rescripting, nor did it study ordinary experiences of not being listened to in families. What it did demonstrate is clinically significant. Adults carrying PTSD from childhood trauma improved substantially through treatments that actively engaged trauma memories rather than requiring those memories to remain sealed away. Both EMDR therapy and imagery rescripting produced substantial improvement.
In imagery rescripting, the person did not simply describe what happened. The person revisited the emotional situation, recognized the needs of the younger self, and introduced an adult response that had been absent from the original experience. Later research from the same project suggests that changes in distress and trauma related beliefs may be particularly relevant to how imagery rescripting works (Rameckers et al., 2024).
For me, this has implications far beyond a single therapeutic technique. Much of psychotherapy involves discovering that what we call personality may partly consist of conclusions: “I am too needy,” “I am difficult,” “I should not get angry,” “I am safer when nobody knows what I feel,” “I have to explain myself perfectly,” or “My feelings become legitimate when somebody else agrees with them.”
These beliefs may feel ancient because, psychologically, many of them are. But ancient does not mean permanent.
The child had limited information. The adult has more. The child depended upon the family for reality. The adult can examine reality. The child may have needed silence to preserve belonging. The adult can learn relationships in which speaking and belonging coexist.
The task is not to erase the child who learned to be quiet. It is to understand why they became quiet, recognize what they were protecting, and then offer them something they did not have at the time: an adult who will stay, an adult who will listen, and an adult who will not require them to prove that they deserve to be heard.
Eventually, that adult can be you.
The clinical vignette involving “Elena” is a fictional composite created solely for educational purposes. It does not describe an actual therapy client, and no identifying client information has been used. Because the scenario is fictional rather than an actual clinical case, no claim of client permission is being made.
About the Author
Robert Espiau, M.A., LMHC, is a licensed psychotherapist specializing in religious trauma, dissociative disorders, and altered states of consciousness. With more than 35 years of experience studying clinical, contemplative, and cross-cultural approaches to psychology and healing, his work reflects an international perspective on trauma treatment. He has worked with trauma within a wide range of cultural settings while living and working across eight countries, including Spain, Thailand, French-speaking Quebec, Cambodia, and Vietnam, which has deeply informed his understanding of cross-cultural psychology and mental health.
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