When the Past Wears a Uniform: Trauma, Power, and the Unexpected Triggers of Survival
Trauma doesn’t announce itself politely. It doesn’t wait until we are ready, or until we have the time, space, or emotional capacity to confront it. It often shows up uninvited, in the most ordinary of places; when we least expect it, when life feels steady, when we are simply going about our day. For survivors of abusive relationships, those moments can be especially destabilising. These encounters remind us that healing is not a straight line but a constant negotiation with memory, power, and safety.
Before I describe my own experience, I want to pause on a word that often enters conversations about abuse: narcissist. It’s a term that has become almost casual in popular culture, tossed around to describe anyone who seems vain or self-absorbed. In the context of an abusive relationship, the word is much heavier. It names a pattern of manipulation, control, and emotional erosion that can leave deep, lingering scars. When I say my ex is a narcissist, it’s not a throwaway insult—it’s an attempt to give language to the experience of being diminished and controlled over time. One such reminder of that history found me not in a therapy session or during deliberate reflection, but in the most mundane of settings: a supermarket car park on a Sunday morning. I wasn’t looking for the past, I was thinking about groceries and how to interact as little as possible with others. Then I saw him, my ex— sitting in the driver’s seat of a police van — in full uniform. My reaction was immediate, visceral, and almost primal. My chest tightened, my stomach dropped, and every muscle in my body screamed as tears came instantaneously. In that moment, I wasn’t sitting in my car in a supermarket carpark; I was faced with every memory of a relationship that broke me and with the stark reality that my safety wasn’t up for discussion. The uniform wasn’t just fabric; it was a symbol of authority and seeing him wearing it collapsed the distance between past and present.
The Lingering Echo of Trauma
Survivors of abusive relationships often carry echoes; even after we’ve left, we’re not always free. Trauma embeds itself in the nervous system, teaching the body to anticipate danger long after the immediate threat has passed. These are triggers: sudden, disorienting reminders of past harm that bypass rational thought and go straight to ‘survival mode’.
For me, seeing my ex in uniform wasn’t just about recognizing a person from my past. It was about what he represented. Authority, control, and the ability to dictate outcomes. A uniform, in many ways, is shorthand for power—and for someone who once twisted personal power into manipulation and intimidation—seeing that symbol draped over his shoulders was alarming. The thought that if I was ever in a situation that required police involvement, he may turn up at the scene or my door.
Symbols of Power and the Survivor’s Gaze
Uniforms, titles, and public roles carry weight. They are meant to inspire trust and convey legitimacy. Yet for many survivors, they can also provoke unease. When you have lived under the thumb of someone who abused power in private, seeing that same person aligned with institutional power is jarring. It raises further unsettling questions: Who gets to hold authority? What happens when systems of power overlap with personal histories of harm?
While most people might look at a police officer and feel a sense of protection, a survivor may feel the opposite. It’s not because survivors don’t value safety—it’s because safety once wore a mask. Abusers often cultivate outward appearances of respectability while concealing harmful behaviours behind closed doors. When those outward roles become official, it can amplify the survivor’s sense that the world is not built with them in mind.
For Police Scotland, there isn’t a formal policy that uses the phrase “Declaration of Conflict” when it comes to ex-partners. Instead, officers are guided by broader ‘conflict of interest policies’ and the Code of Ethics, which set expectations for how personal relationships should be handled if they could affect professional judgment. In practice, this usually means disclosure, possible recusal from certain situations, and a commitment to upholding impartiality. These measures are designed to protect both public trust and the integrity of the service. But here’s the questions that gnaw at me: can I trust that someone who was so abusive in our relationship — even though it was over a decade ago— would truly uphold those codes? Would I be believed if he said nothing and I reported that he was my ex, and that our relationship had been toxic and damaging—especially after so much time has passed? These doubts sit at the uneasy intersection of personal history and institutional power, where policy looks clear on paper but feels far murkier in practice.
Fear, Safety, and Trust
Trauma fractures trust in fundamental ways. It teaches survivors that appearances can be deceptive and that those closest to us can also be dangerous. Rebuilding trust—with ourselves, with others, and with institutions—is one of the longest journeys of healing.
When I saw someone I knew to be a narcissistic person wearing a uniform that I’ve been told all my life I could trust, it wasn’t just him I doubted—it was the system that granted him authority. My mind swirled with fear: Could I trust this institution if it empowered someone who once made me feel so small?
These are the internal conflicts survivors often face. Fear is not always about the individual abuser; it’s about the broader structures that can unintentionally reinforce feelings of powerlessness. The uniform became a trigger not only because of who wore it, but because of what it represented in a larger sense; the enduring difficulty of feeling truly safe in a world that so often prioritises appearances over hidden truths.
Systems and the Amplification of Trauma
This encounter made me think about the ways societal systems intersect with personal histories. Institutions like the police, the military, schools, medical fields, or even religious organisations often confer authority in ways that can magnify trauma for survivors. For instance, imagine seeing a former abuser elevated to a leadership role in your community, praised for qualities you know were weaponised behind closed doors. The gap between public perception and private reality can deepen the survivor’s isolation. It can feel as though the system is not only failing to recognise the harm but actively reinforcing it. This doesn’t mean survivors believe that authority roles are inherently unsafe. Rather, it underscores the complexity of navigating trauma in a world where power is both necessary and fallible. Survivors are often left holding this dual truth: that institutions can be protectors, and yet, they can also be blind to the ways they re-traumatise.
Coping, Resilience, and Navigating Emotional Responses
Watching that police vehicle drive out the car park, I wrestled with my body’s reaction. Part of me wanted to dismiss it as irrational—after all, years had passed. Another part of me knew better, the body doesn’t lie. Fear is a message, even when the threat is not immediate. Healing, for me, has meant learning to hold space for both the fear and the resilience. Instead of berating myself for feeling triggered, I’ve tried to treat those moments as reminders of survival. My body reacted because it remembered, and remembering is proof that I endured, that I emerged from what tried to break me.
Coping in these moments can take many forms: grounding exercises, reaching out to trusted friends, journalling, or simply acknowledging the feelings without judgment. The goal is not to erase the reaction but to meet it with compassion. Over time, this practice builds resilience—the ability to face triggers without being consumed by them.
Closing: The Work of Being Seen
Telling this story is not about vilifying a profession or an institution. It’s about naming the complex ways trauma intersects with daily life. For survivors, healing is not only about leaving the past behind—it’s about learning to exist in a world where reminders of that past can appear without warning, sometimes dressed in authority. What helps is being seen. When survivors share their stories, when systems listen and adapt, and when individuals approach these conversations with empathy, we create space for healing that extends beyond the personal.
As disorienting as this moment was for me, I knew that I had the agency to transform into something more: a reminder of resilience, a call for awareness, and an invitation for all of us to reflect on the ways personal and societal power intertwine. Healing happens when we acknowledge it, face them with courage, and find ways to reclaim our own sovereignty—not as symbols of control, but as testaments to survival.
Written by Rochelle Hanslow
