Living With Complex PTSD: Why Going Outside Isn’t Simple for Me

I get asked, from time to time, why I rarely leave my home. Why I can go weeks or months without setting foot outside the door.

Why even a short walk can feel impossible.

And I understand why people ask — it comes from care, or curiosity, or confusion. It’s hard to imagine what it feels like inside someone else’s nervous system. Especially one that’s been shaped by trauma.

So I wanted to share a bit about what Complex PTSD actually feels like for me — what it is, how it changes a person, and why “just go for a walk” doesn’t work the way people might think.

What Is Complex PTSD, Really?

Complex PTSD (C-PTSD) isn’t the same as PTSD. PTSD is often the result of one traumatic event.

C-PTSD develops when there are multiple traumatic events over time — when the body and mind are overwhelmed again and again without time to recover.

That’s what happened to me.

Several deeply traumatising experiences piled up in a short period of time, and something inside me just… broke. My system never got a chance to reset. And once that happens, the brain rewires itself to keep you alive — even when the danger has passed.

I wish this were something that could simply be “treated” or undone. I truly do.

But C-PTSD changes the structure and function of the brain and nervous system.

It’s not curable in the traditional sense. Symptoms can be managed — sometimes — but the baseline wiring never goes back to the way it was before.

I’m still learning how to live with that reality.

Why ‘Outside’ Feels Terrifying — Even When I Know It Shouldn’t

This is where it gets hard to explain, because it sounds irrational… and it is.

But it’s also very real.

Rational thought does nothing to help irrational fear. If it did, no one would ever have phobias or panic attacks.

Even on a calm day, with nothing dramatic happening, my nervous system behaves as if danger is everywhere — behind me, beside me, waiting around the corner. Loud noises — trucks, motorbikes, someone shouting — feel like physical threats. Even small, unexpected things can send a shockwave through my body.

Earlier this year, I braved going across the street to the Co-op. It took several days to work up the courage to face it. I chose a time of day when it’s normally pretty quiet.

Just as I came up beside a woman ahead of me, she dropped something heavy into her trolley. it landed with a loud crash. My whole body went into panic mode. Heart racing, adrenaline flooding through me, vision going fuzzy. It took everything I had to get out of the shop and back home.

I haven’t been back since.

And then, just this morning, something that happens frequently and it never gets any easier. A simple ping from a text landing on my phone beside me made me jump and sent my system spinning for a few minutes.

This is the part people don’t see:

My body reacts before my brain can even process what happened.

And once the panic switch is flipped, it doesn’t simply turn back off.

Why Being Around People Feels Overwhelming — Even When They’re People I Love

Another part of C-PTSD that people don’t usually see is how it affects the social and sensory parts of the brain.

When the nervous system is stuck in a hyper-vigilant state, being around people — even dear friends — can feel unpredictable and overstimulating. It’s not the people that are the problem; it’s that my system interprets any movement, sound, or shift in energy as something it needs to monitor.

My brain doesn’t automatically sort “safe” from “unsafe” anymore. So visits that others would find enjoyable can leave me exhausted, shaky, or on the edge of panic.

I’m happiest connecting through phone or Zoom, where there’s no overwhelm, no sensory overload, and no pressure on my nervous system. I wish I could explain why in-person feels so hard — I’m still figuring that part out myself — but I do know it’s a common part of C-PTSD, and not a reflection of how much I care about the people in my life.

The Fear of Falling — The Other Layer of Trauma

There’s another piece to this: the physical trauma.

About a year after the C-PTSD diagnosis while I was still very much dealing with the fallout of the events that had caused it, I slipped on the ice. It caused an injury that was called “a catastrophic mechanical and neurological event.” My quadriceps were torn right off the bone. My kneecap was shattered. It took two years — two entire years — to learn to walk again without support.

Even now, I have permanent mobility issues. My balance isn’t reliable, and stepping off a curb requires caution. I can lose my balance even in my own home, where walls and furniture are nearby to grab — but outside, there’s no safety net.

Because of the last time I landed on concrete after that patch of black ice took me down, I fear tripping on a raised crack in the sidewalk.

The idea of falling again… I can’t even describe the dread. I don’t remember most of the first 18 months after the injury. What I do remember is terrifying.

So when you add that trauma to the emotional trauma?

Of course going outside feels overwhelming.

Of course my body says no.

And being physically limited makes me feel even more vulnerable, compounding the irrational fear of some sort of nameless threat or attack that I feel is lurking.

For me, “outside” is a terrifying place.

Why “Fresh Air and Exercise” Aren’t Always the Answer

People mean well when they suggest that going outside might help. I’ve heard it from several people since this happened.

And for many mental health issues, that advice is completely true.

But with C-PTSD, when the core problem is the nervous system’s terror response, forcing myself into the very situations that trigger that response doesn’t heal anything.

It makes things worse. It retraumatises. It pushes the panic deeper.

It’s not about weakness. It’s not about not trying.

It’s about living inside a system that alarms at the slightest unexpected thing — and then needs hours to calm again.

Fresh air is wonderful.

But not when terror comes with it.

Learning to Accept the New Me

This may be the hardest part:
I’m not the person I was before all of this happened.

Trauma changes people.

It changed me. And I’m still grieving that.

I’m still trying to understand this new version of myself — the one who has limits, the one who needs safety, the one who navigates the world differently now.

At the same time, I’m also learning to be proud of myself. To recognise the strength it takes to live with C-PTSD — and the added complications and challenges because of my leg and a rare disorder that came with the injury (CRPS).

I recognise the courage it takes to simply get through each day and try to create a new life for myself.

I’m learning to honour the fact that despite experiencings events that broke me and have caused lasting changes, I’m still here, rebuilding a life I can actually live in.

If you’ve read this far, thank you. Understanding means more than you know.

And if you’re someone who cares about me and has wondered why “outside” is so hard — this is why.

It isn’t about not wanting to go. It’s about living in a nervous system that doesn’t feel safe out there.

I’m doing my best.

And for now, that is enough.