Teaching the Body Safety

 I’ve worked on healing my little girl for many, many years.

So much has changed.

The shame.

The guilt.

The feelings of worthlessness.

The beliefs I was taught as a child that I now know were never true.

I’ve changed the stories.

But here’s the catch.

I’m beginning to understand that trauma isn’t only something we remember with our minds. The nervous system can learn patterns of protection, and those patterns can continue long after the original danger is gone.

I had no idea this was possible until a few months ago.

I’m learning about the relationship between the brain, the nervous system, and pain. And I’m beginning to understand that the nervous system can play a powerful role in how we experience physical pain, as well as emotional experiences like anxiety and fear.

This has changed the way I look at healing.

 My body needs something different now.

Safety.

It’s time to teach my nervous system that I am safe.

Not by forcing it.

Not by arguing with it.

Not by demanding that it heal.

But gently.

Patiently.

Over and over again.

You are safe now.

You are not that little girl anymore.

The danger has passed.

You don’t have to brace anymore.

Maybe this is where freedom begins.

Not in making the past disappear.

But in teaching the body that it doesn’t have to keep living there.

Trying to Please God

 As I continue through this process of healing—both physically and emotionally—I sometimes feel like I’m getting it all wrong.

I hear that little girl inside me crying out to God:

Please tell me what to do.

I’ll do anything you tell me.

I want to be a good little girl.

I just want to feel loved.

I just want to feel safe.

And I don’t know how to get there.

I recognize that voice.

It’s the voice of a child who learned that being good might keep her safe.

That following the rules might keep her from getting in trouble.

That pleasing others might earn her the love she so desperately wanted.

And somehow, even now, that little girl is still looking outside herself for the instructions.

Tell me what to do, God.

Give me the rules.

Tell me how to heal.

Tell me how to get this right.

But maybe God isn’t asking me to get it right.

Maybe I don’t have to earn love.

Maybe I don’t have to perform for safety.

Maybe I don’t have to become the perfect good little girl.

Maybe what I’ve been searching for all these years was never something I could earn.

Maybe I was already loved.

And perhaps the healing now is learning to let that be enough.

Finding Our Voice

  I started blogging many years ago, and I found it incredibly helpful to share parts of my life out loud.

By the time I began blogging, I had already cleaned out a lot of shame.

Healing my shame gave me the freedom to speak my truth.

I didn’t have to hide parts of my story anymore.

I could talk about my experiences, my struggles, my growth, and the things I was learning along the way.

For me, blogging became a form of therapy.

Putting my thoughts into words helped me understand them. And sometimes, sharing them with others reminded me that I wasn’t alone.

There is a comment section below my shares.

If something I’ve written touches you, brings something up for you, or makes you think about your own journey, feel free to share your thoughts and feelings.

Sharing our stories is another way we remind each other:

We don’t have to carry everything alone.

Trapped Trauma

 It was a rough morning today.

But perhaps it was also a healing one.

Feelings of helplessness were triggered, and they brought me back to giving birth to both of my children.

I know childbirth is experienced differently by everyone.

For me, it was long and frightening.

I felt alone with my pain, with only a nurse in the room who was not kind to me.

At the time, neither she nor I understood that what I was experiencing could be traumatic.

But this morning, I felt those old feelings again.

The helplessness.

The fear.

The loneliness.

And I felt such compassion for that young woman who had to endure so much pain without feeling safe or supported.

It reminded me of the little girl I once was.

A child alone with feelings that were far too big for her.

Maybe some experiences stay with us in ways we don’t fully understand until much later.

Today, instead of judging that young woman for how she experienced those moments, I can finally sit beside her with compassion.

She was doing the best she could.

And now she doesn’t have to be alone with it anymore. 

Perhaps now it’s time to let the trauma go

The Turtle Wins the Race

 It has taken me many years to understand myself.

For example, I didn’t excel in school when I was younger. I found it difficult to sit through lectures, listen to someone talk, and absorb information that way.

For a long time, I thought there was something wrong with me.

Years later, when I went back to school, something surprising happened.

I did very well.

The teaching was different.

I now understand that I need more than words.

I need to take things in.

To experience them.

To make them my own.

I’ve also learned that, for me, less is often more.

I don’t need to take in everything at once.

I need time to absorb, reflect, and discover what something means to me.

I wasn’t incapable.

I simply learned differently.

Maybe I’ve been a turtle all along.

I may take my time.

I may need to stop and absorb what’s in front of me.

But given the right pace and the right environment, I can go farther than I ever imagined.

Looking for Comfort

 Growing up in my home, there was something very important missing.

Comfort.

My mother didn’t have a nurturing bone in her body.

My father had anger issues. When his anger was triggered, he didn’t ask questions. He didn’t want answers.

He released his rage.

My sister struggled with jealousy. There always seemed to be another lie, another betrayal, another attempt to get me in trouble or hurt me.

And that never really changed throughout our lives.

My brother was mostly gone from the house, out doing what boys did.

But I know now that he was deeply affected too. He struggled with serious drug and alcohol addiction for most of his life.

We were all carrying something.

But as a child, I didn’t understand any of that.

I only knew that I was looking for something I couldn’t find at home.

Comfort.

Someone to say, You’re safe.

Someone to hold me when I was afraid.

Someone to help me understand that I was okay.

Every child has the right to feel safe and loved.

I needed that.

And perhaps I’ve been searching for that comfort, in one form or another, all my life.

Now I wonder about the pain I carry in my body.

Could some part of this pain be connected to a little girl who spent so much of her life without the comfort she needed?

I don’t know.

But I’m willing to listen.