In 2 days, I will send my two teen sons off to summer camp for a week. I will have the entire place to myself for 6 nights. I have decided to use the time to revamp my Christmas ornaments, which are an amalgam of inherited color schemes, mismatched design motifs, and competing textile finishes. I have collected an array of spray paints, foliage to preserve for garlands and wreaths, and inexpensive pool noodles to use as topiary bases.

The last 12 months have been heavy. My mother passed away. My dog died. My older son was hit by a car (he’s ok), lawsuits, small claims court, family court, a very ill ex-husband, 2 surgeries for me, and more. This was in addition to dealing with a few family members who continue to attack me for telling the truth about child sexual abuse by my grandfather.

In the midst of this heaviness last year, I decorated the house early for Christmas, a few days before Thanksgiving. As always, I was dismayed by the lack of coordination in ornaments and decor unlike my living area, which is awash in harvest vineyard colors.

Then a week later when I picked my older son up from woodshop, he was hiding something behind his back. I wasn’t allowed to see it. Later that day, a wrapped Christmas present showed up under the tree.

“It’s for you, mom. I made it in woodshop just for you,” my son said.

My excitement was boundless. As a single mom, Christmas had become just for the kids. There was never a present for me under the tree. 

On Christmas morning, the living room became a hurricane of flying wrapping paper ripped from packages as the boys opened their gifts. Finally, It was my turn. 

I opened my one Christmas present. It was a piece of wood 4 inches wide, 16 inches long, and 1 inch deep.

“It’s a piece of wood.”

“No, mom, it’s a cutting board.”

“No cutting board is 4 inches wide.”

“It’s portable. You can take it camping.”

“Oh, great! Then it has a dual purpose right? If a bear comes along, I can hit it over the head with my portable cutting board.”

Despite my disappointment, the silliness of it all became the predominant mood. Suddenly, the heaviness of the year lightened immeasurably. 

And this has led to my upcoming project to redo the Christmas decorations, to bring them in line with the rest of my decor. And this has become a metaphor for redecorating my heart in preparation for the holiday season of 2026.

Christmas trees often become collections of memories:

• the handmade ornament,
• the kindergarten reindeer,
• Grandma’s angel,
• the souvenir from Disneyland,
• the ugly ornament Aunt Martha loved.

Most of those memories are pleasant. But some are painful. Still they are a record of life. And now my kids are teenagers.

Instead of all new ornaments, I will transform them. I will repurpose them, just as I repurpose memories both pleasant and painful. 

When my boys were young, a cohesive color palette was unnecessary. They didn’t care. It was simply an abundant tree. Yet, I saw too much visual noise, too much incoherence.

Recovery isn’t about accumulating more. It’s making decisions about which memories deserve a prominent place in my home, on my tree of abundance. It’s choosing what truly belongs.

Every year we unpack boxes filled with memories.

Some still make us smile.

Some we keep out of obligation.

Some we haven’t looked at in years.

Healing asks a simple question:

Which memories deserve another season?

I have spent the last 12 months editing my life.

Not deleting it.

Editing it.

Keeping:

• relationships that nourish
• traditions that still fit
• colors that bring peace

Releasing:

• visual clutter
• emotional clutter
• obligations
• inherited expectations

My ornaments reflect my identity, and not every ornament belongs on the tree. Some can remain packed away. Not every part of my history deserves equal prominence. Not because I’m in denial. Quite the opposite. I took those memories out, looked at them, analyzed their significance, and put them back in the box. 

The boys will head off to camp in a couple of days, leaving me with six quiet nights and a garage full of spray paint, ribbons, preserved greenery, and bins of Christmas ornaments waiting for their makeover. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, I hope the burgundies, deep plums, sapphire blues, timber greens, and antique brass finishes will finally feel like they belong together.

But I already know the most important part of the project won’t be the colors.

It will be the decisions.

Some ornaments will receive fresh paint. Others will stay exactly as they are because they already tell the story I want them to tell. A few may quietly return to the storage box for another year. None of those decisions erase the past. I choose which ornaments to display.

Recovery has never asked me to forget.

It has asked me to choose.

To choose which relationships nourish me.

Which traditions still fit.

Which expectations no longer belong to me.

Which memories deserve to remain on display, and which can be gently wrapped in tissue paper and placed back in the box—not because they are unimportant, but because they no longer define the room.

When people talk about healing from complex trauma, they often imagine becoming someone entirely new.

That has not been my experience.

Healing has felt much more like decorating a Christmas tree.

The ornaments are still mine.

The memories are still mine.

Even the painful ones helped shape the person I have become.

But today I get to decide where they hang.

And then there is one object that will never need repainting or repurposing.

The little “portable cutting board.”

The piece of wood that made me laugh after one of the heaviest years of my life.

The epic prank of a teen boy on his mother.

I still tell him that one day I’m going to mount it on a walnut plaque with a brass plate underneath.

The engraving will read:

Piece of Wood. Christmas 2025.

He rolls his eyes every time I say it.

I laugh every time.

And perhaps that is the greatest gift of healing.

Not that every ornament finally matches.

Not that every painful memory disappears.

But that after years of surviving, there is once again room for laughter beneath the Christmas tree.

Photo Credit: Unsplash

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Music and the Arts are wonderful pastimes, and many of us enjoy relaxing to songs streaming in our ears. I don’t leave the house without my earbuds. My kids have fun choosing and playing music in the car on the school run.

I wear my earbuds everywhere, whether I’m exercising, doing chores around the house, or doing laundry.

Music plays a significant role in my life, but it can also be bittersweet. Some days, music is my worst enemy.

Sometimes, a song will play on the radio or TV, and I freeze. My body instantly stops, like a robot that’s run out of batteries. I feel a twitch somewhere in my body, and I know I’ve been triggered. Seconds later, my brain hits me with unbearable pain.

I’m back there, decades ago, in a moment I want to forget, and there is nothing I can do about it. My brain has hijacked my body and is playing a private 3D movie inside my head.

No, I’m not sick or stupid, nor am I mentally ill. I have something called Complex PTSD as a result of witnessing and experiencing horrific things as a child, while also being abused in the worst possible way.

Trauma triggers can happen without any warning. I can only liken it to a seizure, in which your brain takes you inside your body, but you are completely aware of your surroundings. Your brain makes you remember, even when you don’t want to.

So, how do you come out of a trigger?

I may not be able to draw, but I can play the guitar and flute. If I’m having a bad day, listening to music doesn’t cut it for me.

I need more.

I need to feel the music emanating from my fingertips. This is when I turn to playing my own music. I feel much better after playing for an hour and have driven my emotions out through the beats and harmonies of the music.

How do you handle your feelings after a trigger?

Maybe you are like me and turn to music, but there are many ways to deal with triggers. You must try to find out what works best for you.

My most important advice is that you must take care of yourself after a triggered memory. They are exhausting, and it feels like your body has been for a workout afterward.

My name is Lizzy. I’m a trauma survivor, a wife, a mom, a teacher, and an author.

If you like reading my posts, then please follow me.

For more about me: www.elizabethwoodsauthor.com

Support your fellow writer:

https://ko-fi.com/elizabe69245484

Photo by Marius Masalar on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.

• Access to emotions that may feel too overwhelming or confusing to talk about

• A sense of control – you decide what to create, how, and when

• Permission to play – something trauma often robs us of

• An outlet for release, without needing to explain or justify

Even if you don’t consider yourself “creative,” this is not about masterpieces. It’s about process over product. Scribbles. Messes. Half-finished things. It all counts.


🎒 Ways to Try This Out

Here are a few low-pressure ways to bring creative healing into your week:

🎨 Intuitive painting or drawing – Set a timer for 10 minutes. Use whatever colors or shapes call to you. No plan. Just let your hands move.

✍️ Stream-of-consciousness writing – Set a timer and write without stopping. Let it all spill out. Burn it afterward if that feels freeing.

🖼️ Collage – Cut up magazines or print images and create a visual representation of what safety, power, or freedom look like to you.

🎶 Music and movement – Make a playlist that speaks to your current season. Let your body move gently to the rhythm.

🍃 Nature-based art – Use leaves, rocks, or sticks to build something outside. No pressure, just presence.


🌻 One More Thing…

Creative expression isn’t a replacement for trauma work, but it’s a beautiful support and companion.
Think of it like building a language with your soul – one where your wounds can be witnessed, honored, and gently reshaped into something new.

And yes, laughter counts as art. Dance counts as art. Journaling counts as art.

You, just as you are, count as an artist.

So this July, whether it’s doodling in the margins, scribbling in a journal, or dancing in your kitchen, let creativity be part of your healing toolkit.

🧠 Your body will thank you.
💛 Your heart will exhale.
🌅 And somewhere, without needing to try, you’ll remember – there’s life beyond surviving.


🎯 Try This Week

Set aside just 10 minutes and try one of these:

🖌️ Draw your current emotional state using only shapes and colors – no words.
📝 Write a letter you’ll never send to someone or something that hurt you.
🧩 Make a mini collage that reflects how you want to feel by the end of the year.
💃 Put on a song that moves you and let your body respond – no choreography, no rules.

👉 Then pause. What came up? How do you feel now?

You don’t have to be “good at art” to heal.
You just have to show up and create something true.


With you in it,

P.S. If you’re ready to take the next step in healing from abuse and would like to explore enrolling in the Beyond Surviving program, start by applying for a Discover Your Genuine Self Session.

P.P.S. Find other inspiration and resources here: 
https://www.rachelgrantcoaching.com/resources/creative/

Photo by Tim Mossholder on Unsplash

Guest Post Disclaimer: Any and all information shared in this guest blog post is intended for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing in this blog post, nor any content on CPTSDfoundation.org, is a supplement for or supersedes the relationship and direction of your medical or mental health providers. Thoughts, ideas, or opinions expressed by the writer of this guest blog post do not necessarily reflect those of CPTSD Foundation. For more information, see our Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer.