There’s something about Huda from Love Island that resonates deeply with me. Some people see her as aggressive, defensive, bossy. I see a survivor. A woman who was once a little girl no one believed. A girl whose own parent violated her. Who was bullied, silenced, and humiliated. And who—like me—had to learn how to survive in a world that kept trying to erase her truth.
Huda shared that she was sexually abused as a child, and to this day, her family still doesn’t believe her. She was bullied in middle school, and by high school, she decided it would never happen again. She developed armor—boldness, assertiveness, even aggression—because it worked. It protected her. And now, as a 22-year-old woman, that armor is still on. It may not always be healthy, but it helped her survive. And I get that more than most people know.
I, too, was sexually abused as a child. I was bullied in high school for being in foster care. People didn’t ask questions—they just judged, gossiped, and made assumptions. I felt completely alone. And like Huda, I survived because I had to. But surviving isn’t the same as healing.
I was in a toxic relationship in my early 20s, and later, when I finally dated someone who didn’t enable my behavior, everything I had buried came to the surface. He cared about me enough to call me out—and that was new. That relationship led me to therapy, where I was diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder. For years, I went weekly. I tried to rewire everything my trauma had conditioned me to believe and feel. Not because I wanted to be “fixed,” but because I didn’t want my kids to inherit my pain.
People criticize Huda for “not taking accountability.” But I see someone trying to explain herself—trying to be understood, not excused. There’s a difference. When you’ve been a victim for so long, it’s hard to let go of that lens. You don’t immediately start believing life is happening for you instead of to you. It takes years of work. I know—because it took me nearly three decades to get there.
Even with all that growth, I still struggled in relationships. Not everyone does the work. Not everyone knows how to take feedback without seeing it as criticism. I’d communicate my needs—something I learned in therapy—and it would still spiral into conflict. All because they hadn’t done the same inner work.
I remember one relationship where all I asked for was space during arguments. Not to abandon, not to punish—but just to regulate. I even reassured him that I loved him, that I wasn’t walking away. But he couldn’t handle it. Because he had been abandoned in the past. And because I didn’t hold that boundary firm, the pattern kept repeating. Later, when he needed space, I was expected to honor it. But when I asked for the same, it was seen as rejection. The hypocrisy hurt more than the argument ever could.
Eventually, I did meet someone different. Someone who had been to therapy. Someone who, when he felt insecure about my past friendship with another man, didn’t lash out—he looked inward. He shared how his ex had betrayed him. He took responsibility for his triggers instead of blaming me. And in that moment, I realized what emotional maturity looks like. It looks like reflection. It looks like growth. It looks like trust.
That’s what people need to understand about Huda. There are two kinds of people watching her. One group sees her and feels compassion—not because they excuse her behavior, but because they’ve been her. They’ve survived and healed, and they believe she can too. And then there are those who hate her—not because of who she is, but because she reminds them of a part of themselves they’ve buried. A part they haven’t healed. And instead of reflecting, they project. They ridicule. They dehumanize.
But here’s the thing—healing never comes from shame. It comes from safety. From being seen. From being believed.
At 28, I still acted like Huda sometimes. I was just lucky I wasn’t on national television while doing it. And I still felt isolated. Misunderstood. Judged. So when I see her trying—explaining herself, holding back tears, trying to advocate for her truth—I don’t see a villain. I see someone fighting for a voice that was taken too young.
I’m 33 now. And I’ve done the work. But I still see myself in her. I still believe in her. And I hope others do too.
Because if we’re going to claim we care about mental health, then we need to stop picking and choosing who deserves compassion. Accountability and empathy can coexist. You can call someone in without tearing them down. You can want better for someone without condemning who they’ve been.
Healing is messy. Growth is not linear. And trauma responses don’t vanish just because the cameras are rolling.
So next time you see someone like Huda—on TV, online, or even in your own life—pause before you judge. Ask yourself if what you’re reacting to is really about them… or about something you haven’t faced within yourself.
Because true healing starts with compassion. And we could all use a little more of that.
Your trauma is not your fault, but your healing is your responsibility.