The Fences We Build: Childhood Trauma and the Battle for Boundaries

                                 “Fences should protect, not isolate.” – Bono

There’s a stretch of road outside town where the fences tell stories. Some are sturdy and tall, proud guardians of the land behind them, whispering to passersby, You may look, but you will not enter. Others are fragile, half-forgotten, with gaps where time has carved out its own permissions, their silent invitation being less clear, Enter if you must, but do not expect resistance. Then there are the fences that barely exist at all—just remnants of old posts leaning at odd angles, wire rusting and tangled, the idea of a boundary rather than the reality of one.
People who’ve lived through childhood trauma know these fences intimately. We build them in our minds, around our hearts, inside the spaces where safety should have been taught. Boundaries, after all, are nothing more than invisible fences, a way of defining where we begin and where others should respectfully end. And when trauma has been our teacher, those fences tend to be a mess—either too high, too broken, or nonexistent.
If you grew up in a home where safety was unpredictable, where trust was something dangled just out of reach, you learned early that fences don’t mean much. Maybe someone stormed through yours without warning, making your feelings irrelevant and your space disposable. Maybe the fence was never there at all—your needs and wants blending into the needs of the people who held the power, leaving you wondering if you were ever allowed to stake your own ground.
And so, in adulthood, the battle begins. For some, it’s the desperate need to build a fortress—high walls, iron gates, emotional locks. No one comes in without an interrogation; no one touches the wounds underneath. The cost? Isolation. Safety in solitude, but loneliness pressing against the walls.
For others, the fences stay weak. Every gust of guilt or manipulation knocks them further down. Sure, take whatever you need. Yes, I’ll do that for you. No, it’s fine—I wasn’t that hurt. Permission is given without consent, because saying no still carries the old echoes of punishment, rejection, or chaos. The cost? Exhaustion. A life spent catering to others while your own needs remain untended.
Then there are those whose fences are erratic—built strong in some places, but missing in others. One moment, boundaries are enforced with fury, the next, they dissolve with the right amount of pressure. These are the people who struggle most, caught between the need to protect themselves and the deep, aching fear of losing connection.
Healing, then, is learning how to build the right fence—the kind that stands firm without shutting out the world entirely, that opens its gate when trust is earned but never swings so wide that just anyone can walk in uninvited. It is accepting that boundaries are not cruel, not selfish, not weapons against others—they are acts of self-respect. They are proof that you believe in your own worth, that you are worthy of safe spaces and gentle love.
For those who have spent a lifetime battling the ghosts of childhood trauma, setting boundaries is rebellion. It is defiance against the voice that once told you You don’t matter. It is the quiet revolution of finally saying I do.
And so, the fences must stand. Not as walls that isolate, but as markers of self-respect. Not as barriers that punish, but as shields against harm. Not as cages that keep love out, but as careful lines that allow only the right kind of love in. Because this land—the space you occupy, the body you live in, the heart that beats inside you—has always been worth protecting.  There is a stretch of time in my life where the fences tell stories.  Most whisper courage in my ear to protect my being while others sway in the wind after being built so tall.  Today is a great day to paint a fence and grease the hinges of the gate to allow for all good things to enter.

 Anastasia Jorquera-Boschman is a retired teacher, principal and educational consultant.  She spends her time now writing, speaking and holding space for her clients as a Trauma-Informed Resilience coach.