Trauma and Healing

sometimes, when we start to set boundaries, we are met with discomfort, resistance, an offering of guilt, even by those who have once celebrated our new voice, and the boundaries we set, with others. it can make us question ourselves, want to withdraw, or want to reconnect with those people pleasing parts, that previously kept us safe. or at least we perceived they did. these parts that encouraged us to play small, to compromise our authenticity, to keep us palatable in our a

sometimes trauma is in the big moments, the things that we see, the things that feel obvious, the things that happened to us. and sometimes, when we feel confused about our bigger emotions, and we replay our life, in search of these seemingly bigger moments, we come up at a loss. not realising we are searching for something that wasn't there. that the trauma itself actually lies in what wasn't there. the hug that was missing when you were scared. the apology that never came.

sometimes, we don't realise we have left ourselves behind, in the quiet moments of trying to make a relationship work, we start shrinking, just a little at first, softening our voice. hiding our needs. silencing our pain. little by little, maybe barely noticeable, until it's not. a silent bargain of self-abandonment, that thrives through our fear stories, to protect from abandonment by others. becoming who they need, even when it costs who we are. and we settle for crumbs of

there is no shame in choosing safety, and sometimes safety is all we can manage. we shut down, we numb, we disconnect, often it is necessary, it is primal, it is survival. though, there is a quiet cost to disconnection. sometimes it looks like emptiness, under guise of calm. and the pieces we push down, don't always stay hidden. they lose their invisibility, in our body, in our relationships, in the ways that we show up. they challenge capacity for joy, to find meaning, close

sometimes, grief doesn't arrive in tears, or rage, collapsed aches, embodied sobs, sometimes it comes as stillness, numb, surreal. a quiet fog that settles over everything. like the world keeps turning, but you don't. you go through the motions, go to work, wash the dishes, but your body is somewhere else, trapped in a moment that hasn't finished happening, you hear the words, they're final, they matter, though they float outside of your body, refusing to land, the news hasn'

the more we move toward our own attachment security, the more we encourage our partner to do the same. it starts quietly, learning to voice our own needs, offering calm to our own fears, to stay present, when it would be easier to fight or flee or freeze. the pulling, the pushing, we soften the parts that once protected us, we no longer need silence to feel safe, or distance to feel in control. our anchor becomes internal, and we stop searching for it in others. when we pract

trauma is not what happens to us, it is what happens inside of us. when what happened was too much. too soon, too heavy, too fast, too much. and we are left alone to hold it. an imprint. it is in the silence that followed, the safety that stayed missing, the disconnect from our body, from others, and from ourselves. and survival isn't the same as healing, healing is slow, it is gentle. it is in connection. it happens when we feel safe enough, to come home to ourselves again,

not all pain is met the same, and we learn quickly which parts are easier to love, easier for others to accept, to witness, to hold, to control. to shut down, we are 'calm', 'showing kindness' when we fawn, "easier to be around' when we numb, 'more comfortable' in our silence. though, our anger - the outward kind, is often one that is condemned, rejected, punished, misunderstood, and told it isn't okay. that our anger needs work, and our silence is preferred, we are difficult

not all emotions need to be solved or silenced, sometimes they just need space. to soften into an ache, to name what's there, without needing to fix, change, or make sense of it all. we can invite our emotions in, and offer them space, to feel without flooding. we can meet emotions gently, to be with, rather than lost in, to sit beside, rather than within, and know we don't need to carry them all the time, or forever, or all at once. we don't need to rush, or have it all figu

to know that beneath the statistics are real people, real hearts, real pain, and minds that fought to stay, real stories that were never meant to end this way. to invite compassion for what we cannot fully know, and gentleness for stories not our own. for suicide is not selfish, it is death by depression. the final symptom, a final collapse, and an ache to silence pain. and those who are suicidal deserve more than silence, more than guilt. more than shame. to feel their own l

to sit with grief, is to sit with pain. a longing, a yearning, homesick for a place that is no longer there, a desperation to fix, to make it feel better, to ease the quiet ache that screams so loud, for grief is love, searching for a new home. still reaching for where it once belonged, though grief can not be fixed, it only asks that we stay- to stay with our pain, to stay with what hurts, to stay tenderly consumed with our love, to trust that our ache speaks to how deeply w

over the past twenty four hours there has been a hurt and a heaviness, moving through hearts, and through nervous systems, following the violence and terror directed toward the Jewish community here in Sydney. for some, this pain is immediate and personal. for others, it may be quieter, and still heavy. a sense of unease, grief, numbness, anger, arriving through witnessing, imagining, remembering, and caring. a sense that the world has shifted, and our shared sense of safety

this year has moved through us, in ways both seen and unseen. maybe the changes have been loud, the kind that crack you open, in ways you didn't even know existed. beauty and pain, everything, everywhere, all at once, the kind that leaves marks, shifts, and openings, the kind you can feel, the kind you needn't look too close to see. maybe the changes have been quieter, gentle, soft, and subtle. at first glance maybe unnoticeable. and yet, if you pause, or take a moment to loo

how do we heal, while we're still in it? when the threat has not yet passed, our nervous system on high alert, mobilised, protective. watching. our body functioning by its very design, to survive. and healing can feel confusing, slow, or even impossible. deep integration, insight, and resolution - inaccessible, and this season isn't for forcing calm, or finding closure, it is building enough safety for this moment, gently widening moments of choice, and noticing where agency

the guilt you feel for setting boundaries, is a mirror for how deeply you were trained to self-abandon. to keep the peace meant keeping quiet, and closeness meant compliance, love felt safer when you were agreeable. so of course you flood with panic when you choose yourself now. though the discomfort doesn't mean you are doing something wrong, only that you are doing something different. and unfamiliar can feel unsafe, maybe dangerous, when self-betrayal once kept you connect

Sometimes, the urge is to figure it all out. to make sense of it, be curious, to lean into the why and while curiosity offers meaning, it may not always meet our need. for when emotion is big, messy, bold, and loud, the thinking part of us stays just out of reach, and trying to reason can tighten the knot, more tangled, more immobile, and we can become more undone. and sometimes, to resolve isn't to know and understand, sometimes it is simply to be with. to notice what is th