Does Trauma Excuse Bad Behaviour? Why I'm Not A Fan of "Hurt People Hurt People"

This blog is based upon my podcast episode "Hurt People Hurt People... Okay, Now What?".

You've probably seen it all over the place: hurt people hurt people.

It sounds compassionate, it sounds psychologically informed, and honestly — the spirit behind it is pretty solid. But I've been watching this phrase get applied in some really problematic ways, and I think it's worth setting the record straight.

Because when it's misused, it doesn't just miss the mark. It can actively cause harm.

What "Hurt People Hurt People" Is Actually Trying to Say

At its core, the phrase is meant to offer a self-compassionate reframe. The intended message is something like:

when I've hurt others, it doesn't mean I'm a bad person — it means I was hurting, and I wasn't behaving from the best version of myself.

I genuinely love that framing. It separates behaviour from character. It says: my behaviour was bad, but I'm not a bad person. That distinction matters enormously, because most of the time when we behave badly, we are still fundamentally good people who've done something bad. This kind of reflection allows us to acknowledge our mistakes without collapsing into toxic shame — the belief that we are fundamentally flawed or broken.

So where's the problem?

When Empathy Swallows Accountability

The problem is when this phrase gets twisted from a tool for self-compassion into a tool for avoiding responsibility.

I've seen this happening everywhere. On social media, in mainstream media, and even from people in positions of significant public influence. And that's genuinely concerning, because these aren't just abstract ideas. They shape how we relate to each other, how we think and how we make decisions as a society.

Here's the key principle:

psychological context does not negate personal responsibility. Understanding someone's pain does not automatically make their harmful behaviour acceptable.

These two things — empathy and accountability — are not in competition. They have to coexist. When empathy consistently outweighs accountability, we have a real problem.

The Two Extremes (Both Are Wrong)

Let me be blunt about both ends of this spectrum.

All empathy, no responsibility sounds like: "They hurt me, but they were going through so much — I can't hold them responsible." That's in the bin.

All responsibility, no empathy sounds like: "I don't care what you've been through. You did something wrong, end of story." Also in the bin.

What we're aiming for is both, simultaneously — responsibility for harm alongside genuine understanding and empathy. That's the Goldilocks version. That's the one that actually works.

Understanding Is Not the Same as Excusing

From a clinical perspective, most behaviour is understandable. When we integrate someone's history, attachment patterns, personality, temperament, and trauma exposure, we can generally make sense of how they've arrived at a particular behaviour.

That's literally what clinical psychology does — it conceptualises cases and develops hypotheses about how we've arrived at an outcome.

But here's the thing:

understanding is not the same as excusing, and empathy is not the same as exoneration.

In therapy, a client's history and context should never be used to reduce or soften their responsibility for their behaviour. Instead, that context is useful precisely because it helps us take responsibility.

It builds insight. It helps us reflect and make changes.

So if, for example, your trauma history is causing you to have angry outbursts with your kids — that's something we can make sense of. But making sense of it doesn't make it okay.

The path forward looks like this: "I'm not okay with doing this. I need to understand why it's happening so I can change it." That's taking responsibility. That's empowering.

A more helpful way to frame a moment of losing your temper isn't: "I only yelled because I've been so stressed" — which subtly implies it's not your fault.

It's: "I'm sorry I yelled, I shouldn't have. I've been feeling overwhelmed lately and I'm not managing my feelings well." Same context. Completely different level of accountability.

Why Responsibility Is Actually Good for Us

Responsibility gets a bad rap sometimes, like it's punitive or harsh. It's not. Accountability is empowering.

It lets us right our wrongs. It enables us to repair relationships we've damaged, make genuine apologies, and actually grow. And here's the thing — you cannot learn from your behaviour if you don't take responsibility for it. It's a prerequisite. How can you grow from something you've convinced yourself wasn't your fault?

A history of trauma, pain, and adversity can explain behaviour. Of course it can.

But it doesn't absolve anyone of responsibility for that behaviour, and especially the harm it might cause.

Two Truths That Must Coexist

This is the crux of it. We're dealing with two truths that need to stay independent while existing at the same time:

1) Pain, suffering, and trauma influence behaviour. 2) People are responsible for their behaviour.

Both are true. Simultaneously. Always.

When we blur them together, trauma and adversity start being treated as mitigating factors to personal responsibility. They're not.

Your history doesn't reduce your responsibility for your behaviour. Full stop.

Why Some People Are So Vulnerable to This Collapsed Logic

I want to explore why certain people are particularly susceptible to this idea — because I don't think it's random.

The first group grew up in families where the person causing harm was consistently positioned as the real victim. A parent who lashed out because they were stressed. A caregiver whose behaviour was constantly excused because of their own difficult childhood. An adult whose feelings always came first, even when they were abusive, even when they caused real harm.

In these environments, the child's distress becomes irrelevant. The adult's emotional state dominates the household. The harm might be explained — "Mum's been going through a lot" — but it's never properly addressed, and certainly never apologised for. I have adults in my therapy room in their 30s, 40s, and 50s who have never once received an apology from a parent.

A child raised in that environment internalises some very specific beliefs:

• I'm not allowed to be angry when people treat me badly if there's a reason they did it.

• I have to feel empathy for the people who harm me, not anger.

• My feelings are less important than other people's.

• My needs matter less.

  
  

This is emotional abuse. I want to be clear about that, because it sometimes gets minimised.

I'll also offer a hot take here that might cause some pushback: I think a lot of adults who identify strongly as empaths had upbringings where their parent consistently framed themselves as the victim.

They've ended up with an enormous capacity for empathy but without the corresponding ability to hold people accountable — because they were never modelled what it looks like to view adults as people with genuine agency, choice, and power. Which, by the way, all adults have. Not equally — circumstances vary significantly — but adults possess more agency than children, and that's a fact worth sitting with.

The second group had a very different experience — parents who were permissive, who made excuses for their child's behaviour without ever meaningfully addressing it. Emotions got excessively validated, boundaries were weak, and consequences were either absent or inconsistent.

These children watched their parents justify and contextualise their behaviour, normalised it, and internalised it. As adults, they carry a genuine belief that their past pain or current difficult circumstances don't just explain their behaviour — they justify it. For this group, being held accountable often feels like a punishment rather than a natural consequence.

The logical collapse is similar in both cases, even though the underlying experience is very different.

How These Two Types Find Each Other

These two types of people often end up in relationships together, and it's one of the most common trauma bonds I see clinically.

Person one learned that other people's feelings are more important than theirs, that they're not allowed to be angry when treated badly, and that they have to feel sorry for the person who hurt them. Person two learned that their feelings and history justify their behaviour, and that their needs come first.

They agree on the following:

my feelings are more important than yours, you can't be mad at me because there's a reason I did it, and you actually owe me empathy. 

THAT is a trauma bond.

How Dangerous It Can Be to Omit Accountability

When "hurt people hurt people" is applied without balancing empathy and responsibility, the consequences are significant:

It shifts empathy away from victims and towards perpetrators.

It subtly implies that understanding someone means you have to forgive them or exempt them from consequences.

It can frame harm as almost inevitable given someone's history.

In abusive dynamics, it positions perpetrators as wounded souls rather than as adults with agency and choice.

Using someone's pain (including your own) as an excuse is enabling bad behaviour. There's no two ways about it, I'm afraid.

And if you're in a relationship where someone consistently blames their feelings, their history, or their trauma for all of their harmful behaviour — that is emotional abuse.

Even if they don't realise they're doing it. Even if it's been normalised for them since childhood. Intent doesn't determine impact, and the outcome is what matters.

Final Thoughts

I'm a trauma therapist. I believe in the profound impact of trauma on behaviour. I'm firmly on the side of compassion and psychological understanding — that's literally my job!

But compassion and empathy must be balanced with personal responsibility. They are not opposites. They belong together.

Your trauma and suffering are real, and of course they're important. Your history does influence your behaviour. And of course you deserve genuine empathy and support.

And — you are still responsible for how you treat people. Those two things are true at the same time.

That's not a contradiction. It's just the truth.

This post is adapted from Episode 2 of The Trauma Nerd Podcast. You can listen wherever you get your podcasts, or head to helenbillows.com to find the episode. If this resonated, share it with someone who needs to hear it — or, you know, send it passive-aggressively. I won't judge.

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