In this first-hand account from an expert by experience from the East Surrey Domestic Abuse Service we hear first-hand of the impact intervention programmes like Steps to Change can have on turning helplessness into hope.

 

I am both a survivor of domestic abuse and a parent of a young person whose harmful behaviours stemmed from trauma. I advocate for trauma-informed, victim-centred practice that recognises the complexity behind harm, while never losing sight of accountability and safety.

 

Seeing my child transform their life through this approach, I believe meaningful change comes from bespoke, individual support that addresses underlying trauma – creating opportunities to reduce harm, build safer communities and transform lives across generations. 

 

This is our story.

 

No mother should ever receive a phone call from a college telling her that her child has destroyed property, fled the scene, and is now standing on one of eight motorway bridges – with no one able to tell you which one. But that is the call I received in 2021.

 

In that moment, my world didn’t just stop – it fractured.

 

My son was in crisis: a traumatised young man, overwhelmed and desperate. And yet when he reached out, when he needed the system to catch him, he wasn’t met with urgency or compassion. He was met with disbelief.

 

At 17, just 48 hours after standing on that bridge, he spoke to a college counsellor about a childhood shaped by domestic abuse. The response was: “That sounds a bit far-fetched.”

 

Mental health services later told me he didn’t meet the threshold for support because he hadn’t jumped.

 

As a mother, there are no words for what it feels like to be told your child’s pain is not enough. That their crisis is not serious enough. That they must fall further before anyone reaches out a hand.

 

My son is now 22. He is neurodivergent and lives with complex PTSD. His trauma began before he could understand it.

 

Growing up with trauma

 

He was 18 months old when he was first exposed to violence, held in my arms as I was grabbed by the throat. From that moment, his childhood was shaped by fear. He witnessed violence, lived within coercive control and experienced emotional abuse. By early childhood, that abuse was directed at him too.

 

I remember him being shut in his room, screaming until he vomited, while I was physically prevented from reaching him. There is a particular pain in hearing your child cry for you and not being able to get to them.

 

We fled when he was six. But the systems meant to protect him did not. Through contact arrangements, he remained exposed to harm for another seven years. He told teachers he was frightened. He showed it in his behaviour, his drawings, his words.

 

He was not believed.

 

I was told he had an “active imagination.”

 

His trauma remained unseen, unsupported and misunderstood.

 

By the age of 10, that unprocessed trauma began to surface in his behaviour. At 12, he experienced sexual harm during contact and disclosed earlier abuse. Yet I was the one who had to tell him that no action would be taken and that contact would continue.

 

That moment broke something between us. In his eyes, I became the person delivering harm, not because of what I did, but because of what the system failed to do.

 

My son was not a bad child. He was a traumatised child.

 

Like many traumatised young people, his pain came out in ways that were hard and frightening. He became overwhelmed and dysregulated. The only place he could unravel was with me, the only place he felt safe.

 

That unravelling looked like violence and self-harm. He hurt himself, damaged our home, and directed his distress at me. Episodes would last for hours and end with him sobbing, shaking and asking to be held.

 

Underneath it all was a child carrying intense shame, hurting the person he loved most and not understanding why.

 

I reached out repeatedly – police, children’s services, CAMHS, schools. No-one joined the dots. No one saw trauma. Instead of support, he was offered short-term anger management, placing responsibility on him without addressing what had happened to him.

 

When services don’t intervene, they do not remain neutral. They allow harm to continue and trauma to deepen.

 

At 17, he helped shape the No Victim Left Behind campaign, contributing to recognition of children as victims in the Domestic Abuse Act. The irony is clear, he supported change while remaining unseen himself.

 

The cycle of violence

 

Two weeks after the motorway bridge, he fractured his hand punching a wall. He described living with a constant internal explosion he couldn’t stop. We went to hospital he was terrified and ashamed.

 

By then, I was beginning to understand the extent of what we had lived through. I wasn’t just carrying my trauma.  I was watching it live on in my son.

 

Terrified for his future, but also seeing his pain clearly, I reached out for help. That’s when we were connected to a trauma-informed programme.

 

Steps to Change

 

He attended reluctantly, expecting to be judged.  Instead, something different happened.

 

The practitioner asked him about his weekend and learnt he had been to see Tina: The Musical.  That show, like his own life, holds themes of abuse, survival and resilience. And instead of shutting that down, the practitioner gently opened it up. She asked about how it made him feel and through something as simple and as personal as his love of musical theatre, they began to build trust.

 

That is where change began.

 

For the first time, he was met with understanding instead of judgement. With curiosity instead of labels. With accountability that did not crush him with shame.

 

He began to understand himself. He learned how to regulate, process emotions, and take responsibility in a way that felt possible. Slowly, I watched him come back to himself, the young man I always knew was there.

 

Not long after, he faced further harassment from his father’s family. This time, his response was different. He did not escalate. He did not harm. He used what he had learned to stay safe.

 

Today, my son is settled, in a healthy relationship, and living a life that once felt out of reach.

 

But we came close to a very different ending.

 

If we do not intervene at the right time, in the right way, we do not prevent harm, we allow it to continue.

 

My home has now been harm-free for three and a half years.

 

When the right support is in place, change is possible.  Not just for one young person, but for the future that surrounds them.