Loving in Layers: Choosing Polyamory While Healing Attachment Wounds

Polyamory Through a Trauma Lens

How did I get here, living polyamorously? I’ve asked myself this question many times.

I recall just a year ago huffing and puffing on my Instagram stories about how polyamory was not for me. Mind you, this was after multiple experiences with people who were using the label as a way to womanize which left a bad taste in my mouth. I thought it was not for me and yet it kept falling into my lap. And, here I am. Happily poly, dating, with one comet partner in my orbit. I feel more aligned, secure, and nourished in love and the way I relate to others than I ever have in my entire life. I want to honor the winding, often painful, and ultimately illuminating path that led me here.

I’ve been loved deeply. I’ve also been betrayed, gaslit, consumed, idolized, and abandoned. I think it’s important to say plainly: yes, I have commitment issues. Yes, I have attachment wounds. Yes, I have experienced both anxious and avoidant dynamics in relationships. But none of that makes me any less worthy of love. In fact, it makes me exquisitely aware of the shapes that love can take and the ways those shapes sometimes suffocate us.

In my twenties I was a serial monogamist who jumped from one relationship to the next. Within weeks of a breakup I’d have my new beau in tow. I was a lover girl fueled by unprocessed trauma. I had two relationships back to back that lasted nearly four years each and they were stable, but insecure. I ended the second one at age 28 and the sentiment I shared was “if I had known as much about psychology at the beginning of our relationship as I do now, I never would’ve dated you.” We were in the classic anxious-avoidant cycle of relating and I felt intimately unmet. Prior to our relationship ending, we opened up our connection to experience intimacy with others. We dabbled, but I soon realized this was a way for me to cling on to a relationship that wasn’t working for me, hoping that these experiences would shift us. They didn’t. I felt more resentment. The thought of him being in pleasure with someone else when we were not experiencing it together never sat right with me.

My first exposure to the frameworks that led me here came a decade ago at a Bulletproof conference where Neil Strauss spoke about his book The Truth. I was introduced to the idea that we carry little traumas and big traumas that shape how we attach, how we fear, how we love and it resonated deeply. I devoured his novel. From there, I dove into Esther Perel’s work on infidelity and began unraveling my relationship to jealousy. I used to spiral when my partner even looked at another woman. The shame. The rage. The story I told myself about what it meant. I read many books on attachment theory. These books gave me a new language, a new lens. One that said, maybe it’s not about me. Maybe this isn’t personal. I began naming my jealousy when I felt it rather than bottling it in. I became curious about it, and I befriended it. I started to see that my partner’s desire didn’t automatically mean I was being rejected. It wasn’t a threat, and it wasn’t proof that I wasn’t enough. It was just... their desire. Separate from me. I softened into that realization. I expanded my perspective enough to hold both: my discomfort and the truth that their attraction to someone else didn’t erase their attraction to me. I began learning more about polyamory and ethical non-monogamy.

My healing has never been linear. There was a period I felt certain I’d transcended my anxious attachment style and felt deeply secure. Nine months of bliss. Of feeling seen. Of believing I’d finally found my person. Them holding my face, looking me in the eyes, and letting me know I was the love of their life. I picked out engagement rings with their sister. And then, the betrayal happened, sudden and disorienting. It shattered me. I have lived a challenging life and this… this was the deepest grief I have ever known.

I immediately recognized that their actions were not a reflection of my worth. I also understood that the depth to which I was feeling this hurt was linked to my deeper layers of trauma and father wounds, abandonment. I felt really proud of myself for holding this perspective of self love and compassion as I navigated the immense pain I was feeling. I took this as an invitation to go even deeper into myself. I didn’t just grieve for him. I grieved my father. I grieved my childhood. I grieved the version of me who would have stood by his side at the altar and birthed his children. It was excruciating and forgiveness was not an option for me here.

What followed was a six month connection with someone I’d been long acquainted with that I still look back on fondly and cherish. A rebound, some might call it, but I was completely transparent about what I was experiencing, and they listened, held me close, and inspired me.

Then the pandemic hit. I began losing my grips on reality. I fell into a state of limerence and spiritual emergency and the connections I had during my extremely vulnerable time were darker: two psychologically abusive relationships that stripped me of trust and left me in what I now understand as disorganized attachment. The latter connection only lasted 90-days. We fell fast and hard, trauma bonded. They ended up being so codependent and clingy it pushed me to the other side of insecurity. We were monogamous and they would scream at me and slam doors in my face saying I was not sex-positive enough and needed to work on my jealousy. I ended it.

That pendulum swing of craving closeness and fearing it, of wanting someone near and simultaneously wishing they would leave me alone. I didn’t recognize myself. I’d never experienced this before, and it perplexed me. I’d spent years unravelling the anxious attachment style, to find myself feeling very secure and so in love, and now after a series of attracting partners through my pain body and self isolation, I was here, with brand new layers of trauma and wounding to tend to.

I then consciously embarked on a journey of celibacy, not out of fear, but out of reverence for my energy. Single not dating. I experienced immense healing and growth during these 10-months and beyond. I started seeing a therapist weekly and continued for the next two years. I was focused on my art and spent a lot of time self reflecting. I kept everyone at a distance, avoiding outside triggers. In peace.

I capped this period with a twenty-one day trip to Peru. I sat in six ayahuasca ceremonies with the Shipibo tribe, fully in my own energy. [I’ll dive deeper into these stories in the book I am writing.]

On the other side of this I still found myself in a predicament where I was largely avoiding love, avoiding connection, but I was opening. They say certain wounds are created in connection and the healing can only be done in connection.

I thought I would decide to start dating again and then boom a new love would just appear and we would be together. That was not the case. I would “dip my toes” out into the dating world and then almost immediately run back into my cave. What I didn’t realize then is that my body wasn’t just afraid of love, it was afraid of being misunderstood. Of being seen too soon, too intensely, through the lens of someone else’s projections.

As a beautiful and accomplished woman, I experience people idealizing me quickly and it doesn’t feel flattering. It feels destabilizing. Like my embodied presence is being turned into a mirror for their unmet desires.

This isn’t hypothetical. I’ve had people write me multi-page love letters after one date and me clearly stating it wasn’t a match. I’ve had people tell me they’re certain they’re going to marry me, too often. I’ve had multiple stalkers after brief interactions and it’s terrifying. Someone I’ve never met once messaged me on Instagram, explaining in vivid detail how sure they were that they could be the love of my life… based on a moment of eye contact we shared at an event. I carry a lot of scorpio energy, I stare into the depths of peoples soul at the grocery store.

I found myself feeling like it was unsafe to even explore connection on a first date or make eye contact without being clung to.

To my nervous system, premature attachment = danger.

So yes, sometimes I come off as coy, mysterious. I often hide my radiance, observing. Not because I’m playing games but because I’ve learned how often magnetism gets mistaken for consent, and I’m not available to be swallowed whole before I even know if I want to be held.

Energetically, I now understand this as pacing. Shielding. Trauma informed boundaries. Discernment. I don’t open just because, I open when it’s safe. And that’s wisdom I’m learning to trust.

I say this, and yet, there are exceptions. I fell deeply in love last year with someone who resembles my father. We moved quickly, in that dreamy, I’ve known you in a past life, essence.

When we first connected, he told me he was polyamorous. I said OK, I’ve been navigating non-monogamy this year, and I value honesty and fluidity in relating. About a month in, though, the conversation shifted. He asked if we could be monogamous, told me I was the only person he was pursuing, and stated that being poly was harder and we should focus on each other. I could feel some insecurity under the surface, and in wanting to honor the tenderness of our budding connection, I agreed to explore monogamy, for now. I was clear that we would keep the conversation alive, stay honest, and allow space for grace as our dynamic evolved.

Less than a week later, while I was at a Sacred Sons retreat, deep in ritual, exploring the roots of why I’ve never fully felt called to motherhood (a theme brought forward by his strong desire for children) and he cheated on me. There actually WAS another woman in his orbit he failed to mention when he got back from Burning Man. And they slept together again on my birthday. He decided not to come stay with me for my integration like we had planned, and instead told me there was someone else, while I was still in that raw and open post-ceremony state. I felt completely dropped.

The whole thing left me spinning. I was open to polyamory. That wasn’t the issue. What broke me was the rupture in trust, the bait-and-switch of it all. One minute we’re aligning around monogamy (his request, not mine) and the next, I’m blindsided. There was no conversation, no renegotiation of agreements. Just an impulsive decision on his part and a casual confession in the wake of my deepest, most vulnerable healing work to date.

It wasn’t even the fact that he had sex with someone else. It was the dishonesty. The lack of respect. The collapse of integrity right after inviting me into something sacred.

This is what makes polyamory so complex. It’s not just about who you sleep with, it’s about how you move. How you communicate. How you own your desires and your mistakes. I was open to complexity, but what I got was chaos without accountability. That’s not polyamory, that is insecurity and avoidance.

I’ve learned that I’m not afraid of someone having other connections. I’m afraid of someone not being honest about who they are and what they’re doing, especially if they’re asking me to rearrange my life around their needs.

And then I met someone different. Someone I don’t see often, but when we do connect, it is magnetic. Sacred. A full-body exhale.

They’ve been in an open relationship with their long-term partner for the past four years, and from day one, I’ve felt deeply respected. Welcomed. There was no weird pressure, no performative intimacy. Just real presence. They made space for me in their orbit, and just by being myself, I watched them soften and expand, telling me I inspired them to start sharing more openly with their friends and family about the kind of love they’re actually living.

This kind of secure attachment has changed me.

It’s the first dynamic in a long time where I’ve felt free enough to chase my dreams and feel held. Where I can practice healthy connection without getting smothered. The distance feels safe. Spaciousness is medicine. I get to keep most of my time, my solitude, my sovereignty, while still being seen and adored.

No pressure to perform. No demand to merge. Just a slow, steady rewiring of what love can feel like when it doesn’t come with urgency or chaos.

In the relationships I’m engaging in now, I can clearly feel the shift. I’m not relating from old survival patterns. There’s a different version of me at the table, one that’s regulated, self-aware, and not mistaking intensity for intimacy. I’m genuinely more open to the possibility of deeper connection, not just in theory, but in practice.

What’s especially interesting is that I’m starting to feel drawn to people I likely would have overlooked in the past. There’s something calming about that. I used to associate attraction with volatility and if it didn’t create a nervous system spike, I questioned its validity. But now, I’m recognizing green flags and not running. I can sit with safety. I can metabolize consistency. My system is learning that I don’t need to be on high alert to feel alive in a relationship.

This change didn’t happen overnight. It’s the result of nervous system work, somatic healing, and time spent alone rebuilding trust with myself. Now, I get to see what connection looks like when it isn’t distorted by urgency, fantasy, or fear.

I have become someone who loves connection but does not chase it. Someone who finds pleasure in solitude. Who rarely meets people I want to be intimately close to, and when I do, I proceed with discernment. Because I know what it feels like to be clung to. To be projected onto. To be adored not for who I am, but for what someone needs me to be.

So when I say polyamory feels like safety, it’s because in that framework, I find people who are studying their patterns. Who understand that love is not ownership. That connection can be sacred without being possessive. That commitment is not about proximity, it’s about presence.

Polyamory has allowed me to explore love with boundaries. With intention. With breath. It’s attracted people who talk about things, who sit in the discomfort, who’ve done their own work around jealousy and codependency. Not perfectly. But honestly.

I still want deep love. And I believe I will have it. But I no longer want to earn it through self-abandonment. I no longer want to perform security to gain closeness. I want connection that honors the full spectrum of who I am: radiant, sensitive, intense.

I don’t know if I’ll always live this way. But right now, polyamory is the only form of relationship that feels expansive enough to hold me. And that feels worth honoring.

XO,

Shay Rays