I’ve had severe Complex PTSD nearly my whole life. In my young adult years, that meant a lot of financial instability. I tried my damndest to land and keep jobs, build a positive social environment, pursue education, keep my health together, and function. It was tremendously stressful, and stress is my nervous system’s biggest enemy.

Most of the time, I managed without welfare. I got by living in a van, a tent on Piscataway Indian land, a 101-year-old house with no running water, shacking up with a boyfriend, or poaching campsites at the state park. Twice, I ended up on welfare for a few months due to medical issues.

Those times were about forty years ago, and I still remember the humiliation embedded in every step of the process. These were reminders that I was supposed to see myself as a piece of crap for needing help. The message wasn’t subtle: “You’re the problem. You failed. We’re here to make sure you feel it.”

From an Interpersonal Neurobiology (IPNB) perspective, systems like this destroy the conditions human beings need to stabilize and heal. Our brains and bodies evolved to regulate each other through trust, safety, and connection. But instead of providing that, the welfare system is designed around suspicion and control. It treats people as if their needs are a moral failing, which strips away dignity and belonging, sabotaging our ability to recover.

This isn’t an accident. Shame keeps people small. Humiliation wears down the will to push back. And the more exhausted and demoralized you feel, the less likely you are to demand a system that supports people.

A healthy culture would see needing help as a moment to pull closer, to restore, to reconnect someone to their strength and place in the community. That would improve mental health almost like magic. Instead, we get a system that insists the only acceptable story is self-reliance, even after we’ve been destroyed by the people and institutions we turn to for help.