Finding Hope Again After Glennon Doyle’s Departure—A Trauma-Informed Lens
Why this loss cut deep for women and survivors—and how we begin to heal, together
A note to readers: You and I have likely heard the name “Glennon Doyle” ad nauseam—especially in light of what has happened on Substack this week. I’m feeling the absolute exhaustion from it as well. But for me, and maybe for other readers who have experienced harm and trauma, I believe taking a look at the aftermath through a trauma-informed lens can help us keep going with renewed purpose and clarity. I believe it can help bring healing—and offer the closure so many of us need in order to move forward with strength.
If you’re looking for a short snippet for context, please read my note reply here. For a longer explanation and further support, please refer to: Dear Women of Substack—Please Hear My Cry.
If this is not your cup of tea—no worries. Publishing days will remain the same on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, scheduled and polished. Sometimes, things come up that warrant an unscheduled post. For some of us, this might be one of them.
Thank you for your patience and I hope this helps some of us move forward with renewed hope, light, compassion and goodness.
May your voice always be heard—a light in the dark.
When Glennon Doyle quietly left Substack, something seismic shifted.
To some, it may have seemed like just another creator stepping away from a platform. But for many of us—especially those who have spent years healing from trauma, mental health struggles, and the lifelong work of reclaiming our voice—it felt like the ground trembled.
And many of us questioned if it was worth staying. In the wake of harm and hate, if a voice like Glennon’s could be pushed out with such cold hostility, couldn’t ours be next? Many of us have fought for our wholeness by choosing spaces that build us up instead of tearing us down. Is Substack still a safe place?
The ripple of Glennon’s departure was immediate. My nervous system has felt completely fried by the weight of it all.
But there’s something I haven’t seen spoken about yet: how do we move forward—from a trauma-informed lens?
Can we still find safety here? How does this moment change things?
When I sat down to write again, I knew this was the next step—not just for me, but maybe for many of us. This moment has stirred something that needs tending. It has left questions in its wake, especially for trauma survivors who may be feeling triggered, frightened, or uncertain about what kind of space they’re standing in now.
This post isn’t about the speculation so many of us are weary of. It’s about making sense of what’s happening within us, and around us—so we can begin to clear a path forward. It’s about naming the harm, anchoring ourselves in truth, and building on hope again.
Why This Departure Hurt More Than Expected
I won’t spend long rehashing what Glennon Doyle has meant to so many—by now, that’s been well articulated. Her writing and podcast created space for honesty, messiness, and the raw beauty of becoming. For countless women and trauma survivors, her presence was a lighthouse.
But it wasn’t just her quiet exit that hurt. It was what came in the wake of her leaving.
The coldness. The mockery. The pointed critiques cloaked in intellectual distance. I was shocked to see writers I once admired call her names, degrade her work as a “sob story,” and lump her into the category of “sad girl culture” that supposedly profits off pain. I’ve seen people cheering for her departure—treating it like a win for substance over softness. It’s been tremendously painful and honestly, horrifying to witness.
For trauma survivors—especially those of us who are writing our stories, rebuilding ourselves one word at a time, and offering those words to others as lifelines—it didn’t just feel like critique. It felt personal. It felt like a blow. Maybe not intended, but deeply felt nonetheless.
Here’s why this moment may have hit so hard and deep for so many of us:
It reactivates the fear of being silenced.
When a powerful voice like Glennon’s is mocked until she’s gone, it raises a terrifying question: If they could push her out, what happens to the rest of us? For many survivors, this mirrors the powerlessness we’ve felt before—when speaking the truth came at a high cost.It mirrors trauma reenactment.
Watching a once-safe space become hostile can feel like déjà vu for the nervous system. It’s the same emotional terrain as being betrayed by a caregiver, shamed by a teacher, or turned on by a community. What felt like healing ground suddenly isn’t safe.It dismisses vulnerability as weakness—or worse, manipulation.
The framing of trauma narratives as “branding” or “performance” echoes the very lies that kept us quiet: “You’re just doing this for attention.” “You’re exaggerating.” “You’re too emotional.” That kind of language isn’t neutral. It’s harm.
The Temptation to Leave Too
In the days after Glennon’s departure, I found myself hesitating every time I opened Substack. I thought about pausing my writing. I questioned whether this was still a place for me—for people like me. Inside, I felt so much grief over what I thought this platform was. I grieved some of the writers I knew I needed to unsubscribe to, in order to place a healthy boundary for my nervous system and to move forward more whole.
And I know I wasn’t alone.
Many of us who write about trauma, grief, mental health, or emotional healing asked ourselves a quiet, aching question: Is this still safe?
If a woman as established, compassionate, and widely loved as Glennon could be met with cruelty—what chance do the rest of us have? Will our own vulnerability be the next thing picked apart?
This is the moment where many survivors feel a familiar crossroads:
Hide or keep going. Disappear or speak louder. And let’s be honest—it would be easier to leave. Easier to protect ourselves. Easier to build elsewhere or go quiet altogether.
But for me—and maybe for you too—something kept whispering: Don’t go. Hang on.
Not yet. Not like this. Not when our voices still matter.
That said, I don’t blame anyone for leaving. Glennon did, and I deeply honor her decision. She left to keep herself whole. She listened to her inner voice—her intuition—the one that told her the personal cost of staying. The battle she would have to fight within herself, and within this platform, wasn’t worth it. And so, she chose to exit quietly, and with grace.
So why should we keep going?
Shining Hope in the Dark Together
For me, the answer didn’t come all at once—it arrived slowly, like light returning after a long night.
I started to notice what else was here. The women who are still here like us—those who have been through much and who are hurting too in this wake. The ones who commented with trembling truth, who reached out to say, “Me too. I’m still here and I’m hurting as well.”
I realized: if we all leave, the silence wins. The shaming voices win. The ones who mock vulnerability, who see tenderness as weakness, who intellectualize pain into something cringeworthy—they win.
Our healing is not theirs to govern.
This platform isn’t perfect. No community is. And sometimes, we have to hold two truths at once—about a person, or in this case, a platform: it can both hurt us and help us. The real question, both individually and collectively, is this: has the balance tipped too far into harm—into violating our personal boundaries—or is there still a way to move forward with care, clarity, and integrity?
Unfortunately, I’m not sure Glennon ever had the chance to witness the potential for that balance. She was met with an overwhelming wave of hate—and in the middle of that surge, she left. The dust hadn’t settled. Maybe, given time, those who led the charge against her would have seen the harm in their approach. Maybe there could have been space for a real conversation—one that defended women’s voices and goodness. Or maybe the roar would’ve only grown louder, more harmful. We’ll never know.
But what we do know is that Substack is still a place where survivors, seekers, and deeply human writers can tell the truth.
Substack is still a place where we can build something better—not because we were handed a perfect foundation, but because we chose to keep going.
And that’s what gives me hope: the women who continue to be here amidst the ground shaking. The ones who continue showing up—quietly, vulnerably—not because it’s easy, but because it’s needed, for our souls and for others. And the growing belief that we don’t need permission to make this space better. We are the space. And together, we get to shape what it becomes.
So I’m staying for now. With boundaries, with awareness, with softness—but I’ll be here with you. And we can be here with our fellow women and survivors.
Because shining a light, even in small corners, can still help someone else find their way through the dark.
A Gentle Word, If You’re Still Reeling
If you’ve felt shaken by all of this—if your chest tightens every time you’ve logged on lately, or your hands hesitate over the keyboard—you are not alone.
If you felt triggered, silenced, or suddenly unsure whether you belong here anymore, I just want to say: I see you.
Your voice, your story, your pain, and your presence matter.
You don’t need to be perfectly polished to take up space. You don’t have to be agreeable or easily digestible to be allowed to speak. You don’t need to shrink to be worthy of being heard.
Keep writing. Keep healing out loud. Not because it’s easy—but because it’s sacred. Because it’s powerful. Because it’s what keeps the rest of us from giving up.
We need your light and that comes through in your words. Darkness fills in the void when we are silent. It seeps into the cracks. It consumes.
A Silver Lining and Hope Amidst the Pain
As painful as this moment has been, I believe it’s also cracked something open.
Maybe this is the beginning of something deeper—something more honest and grounded. Maybe it’s a chance for us to stop tearing successful women down and start reclaiming this space as a place of real connection. Maybe we become more intentional with our words, more tender with our responses, and more attuned to the invisible battles so many of us are fighting behind the screen.
Perhaps we’ll build stronger communities—not built on aesthetic alignment, but shared values: care, safety, truth, healing.
Maybe more of us will speak up when cruelty masquerades as critique.
Maybe more women will gather in private spaces, or smaller circles, to remind each other of their worth.
Maybe a new generation of healing-centered creators will rise—equipped to stand together.
This could be a turning point. Not because we wished for it, but because we lived through it—and chose to respond with integrity, not silence.
And now we know our people—our audience when before, maybe those in the Health & Wellness or Mental Health writing genres did not. I think this has given us clarity. Now we know that no matter how gently or eloquently we speak, there will be those who shame us—sometimes unconsciously, sometimes in the name of critique, intellect, or tone. But they are not our audience.
And we are not here to convince them of our worth. We’re here to speak to the ones still curled up in silence, wondering if it’s safe to come out.
Our people are still here. They need light and hope—just like we do. And we can do this together.
Conclusion: We Keep Going, Together
This moment has left many of us raw. But maybe that rawness is its own kind of opening. A place where we rebuild—not from performance, but from truth. From integrity. From compassion.
We don’t all have to stay. The beauty of reclaiming our humanity is the truth we find in leaving people and spaces that desire to silence us—to make us small. There is agency in this knowing and autonomy. Survivors and those who have experienced trauma need this like oxygen—the fuel of hope.
For those of us who choose to keep clacking away at our keyboards and hitting “publish.” For those who keep clicking on our fellow Substackers’ posts, tapping the heart, leaving comments—to connect, to stay involved, to show we’re still here.
May we stay rooted in our purpose—not in spite of our tenderness, but because of it. May we protect our peace, honor our nervous systems, set boundaries, and still find ways to reach toward one another with kindness and courage.
This space is still ours to shape. This space still holds hope and the freedom so many of us desperately long for.
Because your voice is still here.
Because you are still here.
And that means everything.
With so much love and support,
Alice Wild
Further Reading
For more context, many women and beautiful souls have written on the subject of Glennon Doyle’s departure as well:
’s live: We Love You Glennon- ’s post: I Will Not Remain On My Knees
- ’ post: Glennon Doyle’s Departure
- ’s post: Darling, your jealousy is showing and it clashes with your bio - Abbey Wade
- ’s post: Glennon Deserves to be Here Just as Much as You Do; Settle Down
Wildflower Roots
A behind-the-scenes look at what’s next—and connection as we walk this healing journey together, through sunshine and storms.
📝Wildflowers Grow publication days are weekly on Tuesdays: paid and Thursdays: free.
💛 What’s next:
Tuesday, May 6th (paid post): Is Dissociation Silently Robbing Our Lives?
In this softer, honest and deep post, I open up about my own experience with dissociation in the wake of trauma—and how it quietly shaped my life without me even realizing it. We’ll explore how checking out sometimes protects us, but can also keep us from fully living. And we’ll talk about gentle ways to begin reclaiming the parts of ourselves we thought were lost.
Thursday, May 8th (free post): Finding Hope in Dark Times—an Exploration
As much as we long to retreat into solitude—especially as survivors—healing, like oxygen, is something we cannot live without. People may have wounded us with their pain, but it is also through people that compassion finds us, that the quiet gift of hope returns. We might be quietly surviving, tucked away in shadow—but perhaps that was never meant to be the end of our story. Maybe, when we are truly seen, we can finally heal… and find hope in the darkness.
💬 Join the conversation: How have you been feeling in the aftermath of Glennon’s departure? Has it shifted anything in how you write, share, or show up here? I’d love to hear how you’re processing—and what’s helping you move forward.
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Thank you Alice. I feel a weird collective sense of “ok, enough now” yet I want more of these conversations personally and will do more to help everyone feel safe in my space and as they build theirs too. ✨🩷🙏
To be honest, I had no idea any of this happened. Quite surprised to learn of it in your post but in a way, thankful not to be caught up in it. It unfortunately reveals a toxic aspect of this medium that so many were running from and found safety here.