I didn’t expect to lose a friendship for being kind.
I didn’t expect my support to be twisted into manipulation.
I didn’t expect to become a target just for listening.
But it happened.
And it broke something in me.
This is the part of advocacy work that no one warns you about. When you try to hold space for someone else’s pain—especially pain that echoes your own—you assume your kindness will be received as it was intended: with care, with empathy, with solidarity. You assume that being honest, available, and trustworthy will be enough.
But sometimes, it’s not. Sometimes the people you’re trying to help strike back, not because you’re dangerous, but because you’re too safe.
Too safe for their trauma to survive.
Too safe for the walls they’ve built to stay standing.
Too safe for the lies they’ve been told about love and trust to hold up under scrutiny.
So they call you a manipulator. An opportunist. They accuse you of trying to exploit them. They project onto you everything someone else once did to them. And when you look around trying to figure out what you did wrong, there’s nothing. Nothing but your own tenderness being punished.
And you’re left with a broken connection, a hollow ache, and an unanswered question:
Why do we attack the people who try to help us?
This is not just my story.
This is the silent heartbreak of so many people who step up in the wake of family court trauma, abuse, disability discrimination, or alienation—and try to help others rise, too.
The survivors who offer a lifeline to another hurting parent, only to be accused of selfish motives.
The advocates who share resources, stories, or truth—only to be ghosted, blocked, or vilified.
The friends who simply show up—only to be pushed away and called a threat.
When you speak up about injustice, you become a mirror. Some people see themselves and feel validated. Others see themselves and feel exposed. And exposure, for those still living in fear or trauma, can feel like betrayal—even if you never meant harm.
Trauma doesn’t just wound.
It rewires.
People who have been harmed often adopt the instincts of survival over connection. They flinch at kindness. They interrogate love. They assume that anyone offering help must want something in return.
And sometimes, those people end up hurting others the same way they were once hurt—cutting ties before they can be left, hurling accusations before they can be vulnerable, controlling the narrative before the truth feels too dangerous.
And you—kind-hearted, well-meaning, hopeful you—are left holding the knife they put in your back, wondering if you deserved it.
You didn’t.
And I didn’t either.
What I’ve learned is that not every story is mine to carry.
Not every person is ready for support.
Not every connection survives when trauma is louder than trust.
But I will not let that make me smaller.
I will not stop being kind.
I will not stop offering space, stories, and safety to those who truly want it.
I’m still learning how to hold both truths in my hands:
That I can be a good man with good intentions, and still lose people to their pain.
That I can try to help—and still be hated for it.
This work—this life—comes at a cost.
And some days, I pay for it in tears, in loss, in aching solitude.
But I will keep showing up.
For myself. For others. For the brokenhearted who haven’t yet learned how to see kindness as safe.
Because someone needs to.
And because I know the pain of being misunderstood does not make me manipulative.
It just makes me human.
If this resonates with you—whether you’re an advocate, a survivor, or someone who’s been blindsided by the backlash of helping—you’re not alone.
Let’s keep speaking up. Let’s keep rebuilding. Even when it hurts.
Want more resources like this? Visit Father & Co. on Substack and REBUILT Studio on Gumroad for free tools, guides, and support for parents navigating the legal system.
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The Republic Dispatch 