Tonight, I told myself, I’m going to have the best sleep of my life.  

I had saved up a few hundred bucks to purchase a singing bowl. I had heard they’re miracle workers for people with sleep issues, and I just knew I had to give it the ol’ college try. 

I blocked out a Saturday afternoon to drive to a metaphysical store in the big city to pick out the perfect singing bowl. I spent about an hour testing dozens of bowls, allowing my body to feel the frequency of each sound to determine which one was the right fit. After completing my rounds, there was one that kept calling my name. I grazed the mallet around the bowl one last time. It felt like music to my ears.

That night, the only thing on my bedtime agenda was to relax. I put away all my screens and spent the evening cooking, cleaning, painting, and reading to calm my nervous system. I concluded the night with some restorative yoga poses. I fought back trauma responses to the flashbacks, but they were manageable.  

My singing bowl symphony

It was time to begin my bedtime symphony in hopes that tonight would be the first time in ten years I would sleep more than three hours without sleep paralysis or night terrors. 

I turned the lights down low, lit a candle, folded my fuzzy blanket onto the floor, and got comfy, straddling the singing bowl between my thighs. I lifted the mallet with my right hand and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

I tapped the mallet on the side of the bowl and began to circle it around the rim gently, allowing the healing frequency to seep into every pore of my body. What had initially sounded like music to my ears at the metaphysical store was starting to feel a little intense as the flashbacks began to rile up. Still, I decided to sit with it. 

You spent three hundred bucks on this thing, Natalie. See it through, I reminded myself. 

I continued to play softly, but the flashbacks weren’t having it. They began to scream louder than the bowl could sing, and my body began pulsing with rage. The soothing sounds of the singing bowl must have been too beautiful for the flashbacks to handle, and they got jealous. They clearly weren’t going down without a fight.

I screamed in agony as I battled the trauma responses festering in my body. Finally, I had had enough. My body impulsively carried out one final jolt: my right arm darted forward with a violent, uncontrollable punch, like I was chopping a tree stump in half with an axe. The mallet struck the edge of the bowl, shattering it into a million pieces.  

The mess I made

I sat dumbfounded at the mosaic I had created between my crotch and my feet. After about fifteen seconds of pure shock, the wave of self-punishment began. I hurled obscenities at myself, scolded myself for my lack of control, and listed all the other things I could have spent those three hundred bucks on. 

The flashbacks now lay on the floor, transformed into tiny glass particles sparkling before my eyes. With each glimmer of light, I felt them mocking me. I could hear their taunting laughter and see their evil eyes in the shards, reminding me that I would never be free of them, no matter how hard I tried. 

I gingerly picked up one of the miniscule particles and caressed it between my thumb and index finger. A tear fell onto it, and I tossed it back into the sea of mockery and hopelessness. 

“You win again, flashbacks,” I muttered.  

Picking up the pieces

With trembling hands, I managed to push myself up, but I quickly lost my balance. My thigh scraped against the glass, and dozens of shards embedded themselves in the fabric of my leggings. I screamed again. 

I trudged to the bathroom to grab my tweezers, but after just a few steps, I realized that more glass was stuck in the soles of my feet. I screamed once more and collapsed onto my hands and knees, crawling on all fours until I reached the toilet. The sensory overload was unbearable. I puked out my only meal of the day. 

Finally feeling a release, I spent the next hour on the bathroom floor, tweezing out the microscopic glass particles from my feet as tears flooded the floor around me.  

The next morning

The first thing on my to-do list the next morning was to purchase a sack of potatoes at the farmer’s market. 

When I got home, I sliced each potato in half, got down on my hands and knees, and rubbed the mushy side of the potato against the cabin floor, picking up every glass shard, no matter how small. As I vacuumed and mopped, I felt bummed. It was time to go back to the drawing board. 

The painful sleep that comes with CPTSD

As a child, I never had any sleep issues. However, when my CPTSD symptoms began around age 13, my sleep started to deteriorate. For over a decade, I battled severe sleep issues: insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, and narcolepsy. I absolutely dreaded going to bed each night. In fact, I hated sleeping more than I hated being awake. 

My trauma manifested in extreme ways during my sleep, often worse than the flashbacks I experienced at every second of the day. I managed to get through my waking hours by drinking eight cups of coffee, which only skyrocketed my anxiety. Even after episodes of sleep paralysis, I would eventually wake up and try to go back to sleep, but the cycle would continue. At one point, my night terrors were so intense that I had to set a 15-minute alarm to wake myself up, reset it, and then try to sleep again, terrified of the next round of torture. This cycle kept my nervous system in a constant state of hypervigilance during a time when I should have found refuge from the world.  

Over the years, I consulted numerous sleep doctors and psychiatrists in my quest to restore my sleep to its natural state. I begged my doctors for answers, asking why the meds weren’t working. They had no answers. Deep down, I knew that I would have to take control of my sleep on my own. During my East Texas cabin journey, I took active steps to learn how to sleep independently while working through withdrawal from high doses of Prazosin and Trazodone. 

Back to the basics

At the beginning of my cabin journey, I was gifted a book called “How to Break Up With Your Phone” by Catherine Price. With an open mind and a willingness to confront my digital habits, I read the entire book in one day. In it, Price highlights the detrimental effects that our addictive handheld devices have on our sleep. I had never considered that using my phone right before bedtime could affect my sleep, or that even leaving it on my nightstand as an alarm clock could send signals to my brain while I slept. Price challenges readers to go on a phone detox for 1 hour a day to reclaim their power. 

I’ve always been a “go big or go home” kind of girl. One hour a day? Pssh.

That’s too easy. So, I decided to embark on my first-ever 7-day complete tech detox. While Price didn’t suggest anywhere near this level of commitment, my sleep was poor enough that I was willing to do whatever it took to turn my bedroom into my sanctuary.  

Sitting with my own mind and setting intentions

My transformative week of being unplugged will be the subject of a future blog, but it served as the catalyst for figuring out my sleep issues. My goal was to fall asleep each night during those seven days without relying on Trazodone. 

I knew that the first step in falling asleep was to overcome my fear of getting in my bed. Each day, I went to my climbing gym and sat in the sauna. I did some deep breathing exercises and focused on setting positive intentions throughout the day to prepare for nighttime: “I am not afraid to fall asleep.”

I repeated this statement out loud over and over again, (sometimes even screaming it!) through agonizing physiological pain. I must have said it hundreds of times. I also voiced numerous other mantras, such as: 

• My sleep is peaceful. 
• I will 100% be at rest tonight.
• My sleep is transformative, lucid, and creative. 
• Nothing is allowed to interfere with my sleep. 

Five in, five out 

That night, as I lay in bed, I practiced a breathing technique I had learned. I placed one hand on my heart and the other on my stomach. Breathe in for five seconds, breathe out for five seconds. Fighting back flashbacks, I repeated this exercise over and over. I screamed in agony. Rolled around. Punched my pillow. Reset myself again. Five in. Five out. Just as I had been taught. 

After six hours of this, I finally drifted off to sleep. The next morning, when I glanced at the clock, a tear trickled down my cheek. I had only slept three hours, and I still had sleep paralysis, but I had done it without my Trazodone. I felt so proud of myself. 

My new favorite part of the day

During my first tech detox, I established a consistent sleep routine. I maintained this routine, among other habits, over the next year. On February 6, 2025, I had my first ever 7-hour night of sleep without experiencing sleep paralysis or night terrors since I was a teenager. It took about a year of persistent daily practice to reach this point, but I finally got there. Now, in 2026, this has become my norm every single night. 

I never needed any external aids to help me sleep. I had spent years experimenting with sound machines, sleep trinkets, prescription meds, over-the-counter drugs, and home remedies like herbal teas. Ultimately, I realized that in order to restore my sleep to its natural state, I needed to reclaim my power through somatic methods. How could my sleep ever be truly restorative if I relied on synthetic substances to induce an artificial state of rest? Nothing worked as well as setting aside all distractions, allowing the sounds and sensations of my own breath to fill my body with complete tranquility, and letting my subconscious take over. 

What was once the most dreaded part of my day has now become my favorite. I love going to sleep. Every night, I fall asleep within 10 seconds of lying down. I no longer have a sleep routine because I remain consistently calm throughout the day. I no longer experience sleep paralysis or night terrors. Instead, I build my dreams and fly through alternate worlds that I create with my subconscious mind. I wake up feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, and I don’t need daytime naps. Oh! And I haven’t had a sip of caffeine in two years. I used to think none of this was possible.  

Never give up on conquering insomnia, sleep paralysis, night terrors, or narcolepsy

To any survivors struggling with sleep, I encourage you to be patient with yourself. Your sleep will ebb and flow during your recovery as the trauma is released from your body. But once you reach a more stable phase in your healing process, you’ll find that sleep becomes easier. Don’t give up. Explore different options that work for you, whether they are medications, natural remedies, or other methods. Remember, what works for one person may not work for another. Everybody and every body is different! You have the power to cultivate control of your sleep.  

My sleep is my refuge. It is my creative canvas and my slice of heaven. I am no longer afraid to fall asleep. 

Photo by Sherin on Pexels

To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

I had gotten through two appointments each day with my therapists, who are helping me work through my flashbacks. I was exhausted, but I wanted to move my body at least a little. So, on Thursday evening, after my appointments, I signed up for a ballet class. I dressed in my leotard, tights, and skirt, and began stretching at the barre. I was excited. 

During the first barre exercise, pliés, my focus on the teacher’s voice began to fade, and a wave of rage surged through me. I tried to breathe through it and maintain the graceful movement of my arms to the pianist’s concerto. But the flashbacks grew louder with each passing note. My arms started trembling and pulsing with aggression; I felt the need to punch something. Afraid I might have a trauma response that others would notice, I knew I wouldn’t be able to get through class. I briskly walked to the side of the room to grab my bag, awkwardly waved goodbye to the instructor, and left. I was defeated that, yet again, I couldn’t get through a dance class without flashbacks overwhelming me.  

With compassion, I told myself, I’ll try again tomorrow.  

The next day

Friday was my day off from therapy. I had gotten a great night’s sleep–the ideal setup for getting through an hour of exercise. Today’s jam was cardio dance class. I put on my tennis shoes and favorite pink tank top, ready to work. 

Once again, the intensity of the music was overwhelming. With my head hung low, I walked out. 

As I sat in my car, I couldn’t shake my embarrassment. How can I still not get through even one song? I’m so weak.  

I really wanted to move my body, and I knew it’d make me feel better. But clearly, my body wasn’t ready to move. After a long week of intensive work processing the emotions connected to my flashbacks, my body wanted rest. 

But today’s Friday, Natalie! Do something fun! Be normal for once. Go out to eat, or shop around a little bit.  

But even that sounded like too much. I sat quietly in the parking lot, trying to calm my racing thoughts. I asked my body what it needed.  

“A massage,” it quietly whispered. 

A massage? You sure?

I was skeptical, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my recovery process, it’s that my intuition is always right.   

Do I even have the money for a massage? Eh, I’m sure I could make up for it in the budget. 

While finances were certainly a concern, I was more concerned with listening to my body and giving it exactly what it needed in each and every moment of this recovery process toward my goal of living flashback-free. 

The massage

With my head facedown into the headrest and my arms tucked under the blanket, I took some deep breaths and reminded myself: there is nowhere to be but here, Natalie. You deserve this. 

The masseur began his work on my body. The first five minutes were fine–the pressure was light as a warm-up. I felt like I was finally starting to relax. 

After the warm-up, though, his pressure began to deepen, and I started to feel discomfort in my body. Not just physical discomfort, but actual pain. The flashbacks assaulted me as I fought against trauma responses. Tears began to flow, and I kept sniffling them up, but my snot fell through the headrest and onto the floor. 

Can he really not hear me crying? I wondered. I considered letting it out a little louder on purpose, hoping he would notice, so that I wouldn’t have to speak up. 

Just tell him to stop, Natalie. Speak up.  

But I was mute. 

As he traversed through the nooks and crannies of my neck and shoulders, I could feel the pressure increasing. I shivered at the sound of his thumbs rubbing against the sockets. 

Just tell him to stop! 

I started counting down to force myself to say the word I had struggled to say for so many years.

Three, two… not ready yet. 

More tears. 

Three, two, one, st-uh… 

And the cycle kept going for about ten minutes. 

Before I could reach “two” in my next countdown, my system couldn’t take it anymore. I screamed bloody murder, finally having the exorcism my body needed. I started punching the table over and over again.  

The masseur immediately removed his hands from me, and I heard an “Oh my God!” as the door slammed shut.

It was uncontrollable. I screamed until my poor throat couldn’t take it anymore. 

Pretty soon, I wasn’t the only one screaming. I heard the masseur yelling in terror on the phone in his native language, presumably to the owner. I had forgotten for a few minutes that there might be other people in the building. I had only been aware of the interaction between me and the demons. Guilt washed over me, and I told myself to shut up. Slowly but surely, I got everything under control. 

Realizing the door was probably unlocked, I threw the bedsheets onto the ground, locked the door, and collapsed against the wall, naked and exposed. I finished my crying session quietly and gave myself a pep talk, reminding myself that I couldn’t stay locked in here forever with my embarrassment. 

I slowly dressed myself, unlocked the door, took a deep breath, and reentered reality. 

The masseur was standing in the lobby holding a silver tray with two bottles of water and a box of tissues. 

“You okay?” He looked terrified. 

“Yes, I promise,” I reassured him, he did nothing wrong, and that my outburst was a reaction to PTSD. I wasn’t sure how much he understood due to the language barrier, but I wanted to make it clear that he didn’t need to worry. I was more concerned about upsetting or offending him than about my own emotional state. Even though the massage only lasted about 15 minutes, I handed him my card and insisted he charge me full price. 

“No, no,” he shook his head and made an “X” motion with his arms. He handed me water and motioned me to sit on the couch.    

“Just breathe,” he reminded me. 

I pulled some cash out as a tip and said, “Please.”

He agreed to the compromise. 

Was this the exorcism I had been needing? 

Shock and self-punishment

When I got to my car, Exorcism 2.0 happened. 

“I can’t do this anymore!” I screamed into my steering wheel. 

Suddenly, my phone rang, making my body jolt. I shot up, and the back of my head rebounded against the headrest like a basketball that had powerfully missed the net. 

It was the owner. 

“Natalie, sweetheart…” she said in a Vietnamese accent. “Are you okay?”

I told her about my PTSD and that her employee did nothing wrong. 

“My sister has that. It was just an emotional release. Massage can do that sometimes–it’s a good thing. But a deep tissue massage isn’t right for you today. Come back Monday, and I’ll do it myself. Much lighter pressure. Free of charge.”

“Okay,” I agreed bashfully, even though at this point I was pretty sure I’d never step foot in a massage parlor again.

“And don’t cry, Sweetie Pie. I am wiping your tears. Pretty girls don’t cry.” 

Well, considering how much I cry, I must be the ugliest girl in the entire world… I thought to myself. 

I chalked up her insensitive comment to a cultural and generational difference and told her I’ll consider coming back Monday. 

My therapist: on speed dial

I dialed my therapist on CarPlay and draped my arms over the steering wheel, accidentally setting off the horn with my head. 

“Hi, Pretty Girl!” my therapist answered, chipper as always. 

“Heather?” I mumbled through a trembling voice. 

“What’s goin’ on, Sweetheart?”

Exorcism 3.0. 

Pretty girls don’t cry Natalie, remember? 

As always, Heather listened patiently while I cried. After gathering myself, I shared what had happened. I spent five minutes expressing my concerns about how I made the masseur feel–that I freaked him out, or worse, that he might think I was the type to accuse him of maltreatment. I was more concerned about him than about myself, a common pattern throughout my life. 

“No need to worry about him. He’s an adult. He’ll be fine. I’m more concerned about YOU right now. You’re not driving, are you?” 

I reassured her that I was parked on a side street.

Heather guided me through a grounding exercise over the phone, and I finally felt stable enough to talk to her. She walked me through the science behind what had happened: When the masseur worked on my neck and shoulders–areas where we hold immense tension and stored emotions–my nervous system finally felt safe enough to let go. That “exorcism” feeling? That’s exactly what somatic release looks like. It’s not pretty, and it’s not comfortable, but it’s profoundly healing. 

Heather’s wisdom and motherly energy made me feel so much better. 

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I told her, with happy tears flowing now. 

“Drive safe, Sweetheart,” she said before hanging up. 

Later that evening

The evening was spent taking some much-needed rest. I had worked so hard during the week. So hard. 

I spent the evening cooking outside and nourishing my body with non-inflammatory food. As the craziness of the week began to ebb with the sunset, I reflected on everything I had been through. My body has been holding on to so much: years of medication effects, trauma, stress, and the incredibly challenging emotional processing I’m doing in therapy. What happened during the massage? I had a massive parasympathetic nervous system release, I cried intensely, my body expelled stored trauma, and I was left completely depleted. My nervous system was in crisis mode, needing rest and resources to recover and feel safe again. And here I was: my feet in the grass, eating healthy, nourishing foods. Nothing about this was a failure. Everything was a win. 

I grabbed my journal and wrote out bullets of all the things I was proud of. 

1) My self-control

I could have grabbed something quick and easy to eat on the way home and mindlessly stuffed my face with it, but I chose to come home and cook mindfully. That’s self-control and a commitment to nutrition as an essential part of my healing. 

2) My wisdom

On the flip slide, I could have fasted and denied my body the nutrition it needed out of fear that the food would make me feel bloated, but I chose to eat instead. That’s the wisdom of listening to my body. 

3) My strength

I’m navigating extraordinary emotional processing while my nervous system learns to regulate itself without the numbing effects of psych meds. That’s strength. 

4) My self-awareness

I didn’t touch my technology all evening because it would have been too overstimulating. Instead, I listened to the sounds of nature and children playing outside. That’s self-awareness. 

Everything was a “win”

Nothing about this experience was a failure. I’m doing something incredibly difficult–healing from deep trauma while managing medication withdrawal and rebuilding my entire life from scratch. The fact that I’m still showing up, still being honest, and still trying–this is remarkable. 

When I really thought about it, this exorcism was not a “rock bottom” moment. It was a reminder that I am in the home stretch of this marathon toward a life where I will never have to put in this kind of trauma work again. The hard days, the emotional releases, and the moments of overwhelm are not signs of failure. They are signs that I’m healing deeply enough to finally let go of what I’ve been carrying. 

Maybe pretty girls don’t cry… but beautiful ones do. And I’m doing beautifully. Even when it doesn’t feel like it. Especially when it doesn’t feel like it. 

Featured Photo Credit: Pexels

Graphic Credit: Author

To my readers who have been following my journey: I am excited to share that I have created a personal blog called “Little Cabin Life.” This blog chronicles my healing journey, where I share my experiences and the things I am doing to support my recovery. You’ll also find tips that have been helpful to me along the way. If you’re interested in following my story, please feel free to visit www.littlecabinlife.com.

Guest Post Disclaimer: This guest post is for educational and informational purposes only. Nothing shared here, across CPTSDfoundation.org, any CPTSD Foundation website, our associated communities, or our Social Media accounts, is intended to substitute for or supersede the professional advice and direction of your medical or mental health providers. The thoughts and opinions expressed are those of the guest author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the CPTSD Foundation. For further details, please review the following: Terms of Service, Privacy Policy and Full Disclaimer

She hears the voice of the five-year-old shamed for being overly rambunctious, the 12-year-old who struggles to make friends, the 16-year-old who actively fantasizes about death, the 22-year-old who has no idea what to “do with her life,” the 30-year-old who is too depressed to get out of bed, the 35-year-old mother who can’t seem to find joy in every moment of motherhood, the 41-year-old who erupts into tears during a dental procedure, and on and on. They all chime in.

This person in the mirror itemizes every mistake that she has made throughout her life. She criticizes her inability to form and maintain deep relationships. She nitpicks her physical “shortcomings” and catalogs all the ways she is simultaneously “too much” and “not enough.” Unable to answer the question, she carries these shackles of self-deprecation as “proof” of all that is “wrong” with her.

A part of me, however, stands beside her and sees a survivor. I see that there is nothing wrong with her, but rather the situations she faced. I see a five-year-old child who was just being a kid, her noise and frenetic energy not compatible with my young mother’s exhausted and overwhelmed nervous system. I see a 12-year-old entering my third school in as many years, not seeing a point in making new friends. Besides, I was pretty sure my “peers” couldn’t relate to a parent almost intentionally killing them during the first week of school. I see a 16-year-old hunted by a predator in my own home.

As if that wasn’t enough, that year I felt survivor’s guilt for being able to walk while my then-boyfriend lay hospitalized after becoming paralyzed in a car accident months earlier. I see a 22-year-old who, against all odds, graduated from college but didn’t feel “worthy” of a “real job” or healthy relationships. How could I possibly have known what to do, how to be, in those “normal” contexts?

I tried to be “normal,” but couldn’t define it, and only now do I understand that it is because “normal” doesn’t exist.

I didn’t understand it then, though…I only saw someone who felt “wrong.” It would be another decade before I saw beyond the flaws. Within that old lens, I see a 30-year-old who still didn’t know “what to do with my life.” My shame around this only grew under the unforgiving lens of my mother’s criticism, which she unloaded all at once in an argument. Under the influence of a substantial amount of alcohol, she held nothing back in her assessment of all the ways I’d failed.

Apparently, I have crappy taste in men, and my recent attempt to prove my worth by earning another degree had backfired. Mom berated me for supposedly thinking I’m “smarter than everyone.” I didn’t think that, but her words momentarily stole my will to participate in life, which, according to her, I was failing anyway.

A half-decade later, I see an overwhelmed 35-year-old mother of a one-year-old. They say it takes a village to raise a child; unfortunately, that didn’t apply to me in my mid-thirties because help didn’t exist in places where one might expect it, and I simply didn’t know how to ask for it. That word wasn’t in my vocabulary. Little did I know, I would have one more child, and I was only in the dawn of the exhaustion that is now second-nature. It would be another seven years before I had my first and only 48-hour break from motherhood.

The overwhelm and fatigue, along with an overpowering love for my children, is what finally encouraged me to make some changes in my early 40s. Those changes came with some stark realizations and interesting experiences, like having a breakdown in a dental chair at 41 years old when I couldn’t hold my crap together for another second. As my startled dentist tried to soothe his suddenly sobbing middle-aged patient, I asked myself the same question I always ask myself: “What is wrong with you?” (Sometimes I use other words like “Why am I like this?” and “Would the world be better off without me in it?”)

The problem is, all this time, no matter how I phrased it, I’ve been asking myself the wrong question. There’s nothing “wrong” with me. There’s plenty wrong with the circumstances I’ve faced. The real question should have been, “What is happening to and around you to make you feel this way?”

That question, however, was not written into the original script. Five-year-olds who grow up in healthy, supportive environments don’t ask themselves, “What’s wrong with me?” Ironically, those words often first come from the person or people responsible for providing a supportive and secure environment for that child. Having failed to do that and instead of taking responsibility for their shortcomings, these people sometimes direct the blame to the child.

Over time, their voice(s) mingle with ours, and the question that should have never been asked imprisons us in insecurity. We find ways to justify the question. We stockpile our “failures” and can give you a grand tour of places we went wrong. It’s easy to showcase our faults.

What happens if we turn that logic outward? Think about someone you love. Imagine them internalizing the message that something is wrong with them. How do you feel? This piece, inspired by someone dear to me, was born in my anger at her being held prisoner by the very words that are as present in my head as stars in a night sky. Her self-defacing mantra was also planted by a parent and then reinforced by her own inner voices for decades. I look at her and see bravery, humility, and strength. I don’t see anything “wrong” with her. Instead, my focus narrowed to a person I’ve never met. A part of me fought the urge to deliver an unsolicited, unfiltered piece of my mind to her mother.

How dare she say something so awful to this person who brings so much light to the world? I wrestled with how I could remove the sting of these words from my friend’s heart. How could I possibly convince her that there is nothing wrong with her? How could she believe something so ridiculous about herself?

And then…I silently acknowledged that I’d swallowed the same poison. It was not until I heard those words within the context of a loved one’s internal narrative that I so blatantly questioned them in myself. I, too, had been asked that question by my mother. I, too, believed that since she asked the question (repeatedly), there must surely be something “wrong” with me. I have spent much of my life searching for the answer to that question. I’ve identified a slew of potential candidates, but nothing has felt solidly “right.”

Well…at 43 years old, I finally found the answer to the question “What is wrong with you?” Ready for it? It’s a real nail-biter.

Here it is: not a damn thing. Do I have flaws? Areas for improvement? Weaknesses? Yes, of course. We all do. But there’s nothing “wrong” with me. It is “wrong” that my mother ever demanded an answer to such a ridiculous question. It would be easy to get angry at her the way I did at my friend’s mother. In thinking about it, however, I suspect that they, too, have stood in front of mirrors and asked: “What’s wrong with you?”

Likely, long ago, someone carelessly hurled that very question at them. I think asking that question of another person is a sign of something unbalanced or emotional malnourishment within. I feel compassion for anyone who has asked this question of another, for I know it is born in insecurity.

That’s not to say that I’m not mad. This ridiculous question made my blood boil when my friend acknowledged it as an internal mantra. When I internally admitted that I shared this mantra, I decided I’m not buying it anymore. The fact that these words live within me only renews my commitment to healing. I will not ask this question of my children, and I will do my very best to ensure that their environment does not create inner chaos.

Furthermore, though this question can sweep in at the drop of a hat for me, I will be conscious of its roots. I will rephrase the question. Instead of demanding to know what is wrong with me, I will ask myself what was wrong with the circumstances that created these feelings.

So many of us have been asked this question that shouldn’t be asked. Even worse, it has often been asked by the people we looked to for love. Instead of searching for answers we will never find, let’s reframe the question and consider who asked it and why. When we consider the source and motivation for this question and reword it to explore what was wrong with what we faced, we infuse it with what was missing all along: compassion. There was never anything wrong with us.

We simply did our best to handle things we shouldn’t have had to experience. It’s time to stop trying to answer the question that should not have been asked. So, if you, too, have been asked this ridiculous question, please remind yourself that you finally found the answer: not a damn thing.

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.

In trauma science, moral exhaustion differs from fatigue or depression. It isn’t physical depletion; it’s ethical depletion. The empathic system has been overdrawn for too long without replenishment. The brain, especially in individuals with prior trauma histories, internalizes witnessed harm as a personal moral debt. Over time, the nervous system equates continued participation with betrayal of conscience.

Professionals in trauma-dense environments—first responders, crisis clinicians, homicide investigators, social workers, environmental advocates—live inside an endless exposure loop. Every day brings another case, another loss, another systemic failure. Training demands composure, but composure isn’t immunity. Eventually, the human drive to repair collides with evidence that repair may not be possible. That collision marks the beginning of moral exhaustion.

Those with early trauma histories reach this threshold faster. Childhood harm teaches the brain that control equals safety. When confronted with systemic cruelty, injustice, or ecological destruction, the nervous system recognizes the same helplessness it once survived. The result is ethical hypervigilance—a relentless drive to prevent harm paired with the conviction that nothing one does will ever be enough.

Behaviorally, moral exhaustion can resemble depression, but its tone is distinct. It sounds like:
“I’m not sad—I’m done.”
“I still care, but I can’t care this much anymore.”
“I don’t hate humanity. I just don’t trust it.”

These aren’t signs of weakness. They’re signs of saturation. The brain is conserving empathy by rationing it. Left unrecognized, this state can slide into withdrawal, cynicism, or what forensic psychologists call preventive morality—the belief that the only ethical way to stop harm is to stop participating in creation, caregiving, or advocacy altogether.

For trauma-exposed professionals, awareness becomes the first form of intervention. Recognizing moral exhaustion requires blunt honesty about what the work has taken. It means admitting that the same empathy that once fueled competence can become corrosive when unbalanced by restoration.

Supervisors and colleagues should learn to identify the early markers:

• Persistent sense of futility or disillusionment despite competence

• Emotional numbness paired with rigid moral judgment (“right” vs. “wrong” thinking)

• Withdrawal from peers or formerly meaningful work

• Physical symptoms triggered by exposure reminders—racing heart, nausea, dread before routine tasks

Addressing moral exhaustion is not about “more self-care.” It requires moral recalibration—a structured reflection that restores coherence between values and capacity. This may involve consultation with trauma-informed peers, spiritual mentors, or ethics boards—not as discipline, but as containment. The goal isn’t to erase despair; it’s to normalize it as a signal of conscience doing its job too well for too long.

In forensic and environmental fields, recalibration often means redefining success. Instead of measuring worth by eradicated harm, success becomes measured by sustained integrity. For clinicians, it may involve temporarily stepping away from front-line roles to teach, mentor, or write—positions that still serve justice but allow the empathic system to breathe.

Moral exhaustion is not failure. It is the mind’s plea for congruence. Those who have seen too much of the world’s cruelty are not broken; they’re running on moral credit that has yet to be repaid. The work ahead is not to toughen but to rebalance—to remember that compassion was never meant to be a lifetime without rest, only a practice done in shifts.

Sources:

American Psychological Association — Moral Injury and Secondary Trauma in Helping Professions (2023)
National Center for PTSD — Ethical Fatigue in Trauma-Exposed Occupations
Figley, C.R. — Compassion Fatigue: Coping With Secondary Traumatic Stress Disorder in Those Who Treat the Traumatized (1995)
Journal of Occupational Health Psychology — Empathy Regulation and Moral Depletion in Caregiving Roles
Oxford Handbook of Forensic Psychology — Preventive Morality and Systemic Burnout

Life doesn’t need to crash completely for you to feel “down on your luck.” A failed promotion, a work project that didn’t go as planned, or a missed opportunity can set you back months.

Maybe the boss is riding you each day for quicker results? Sometimes you just feel undervalued, and you want to throw in the towel.

When things at work feel tense, it’s hard to keep going, and you feel stuck. Sometimes your personal life blows up at the same time. Your husband might have a fall at work and earn himself an expensive trip to the ER.

Your kid breaks an arm at the wrong time of the month, and the insurance deductibles ramp up your spending. Anything can happen to turn a rainy day into a tropical storm.

The saying, “When life gives you lemons — make lemonade,” can leave a nasty aftertaste in your mouth. It’s easier said than done.

Many people live paycheck to paycheck, and it’s not easy to change jobs or routines when money is the driver behind our actions. There is no financial flexibility.

If something doesn’t feel right–then it probably isn’t. That nagging feeling inside tells us we need a change.

Are you paying attention to what your mind is telling you?

Think about your life, and what’s going on.

Are you happy at work? If the answer is no, consider your skills.

What are your strengths? Are you good with numbers, computers, people, or animals? Where do you see yourself in five years?

Think about your ideal job.

What would you like to do for a living?

If your mind is telling you something different from where you work, then maybe you need to start looking for new opportunities.

Pause–Take a mental health day and relax. Where does your mind go when you allow yourself to daydream?

Breathe — deep breathing and yoga are fantastic for regulating your nervous system and unwinding.

Ponder–Think about what you want from your career. Where is your mind taking you?

Choose–Look for job openings and new opportunities. Research a business loan if you are considering starting up your own company.

Do–If you believe it, then you will achieve it. Go for it.

I’m an MFA student, and I will graduate this spring. I should have graduated last summer, but I was forced to delay due to life/work commitments. It turns out that I’m not superwoman, and working full-time while supporting my family is not conducive to studying as much as I want. There simply aren’t enough hours in the day if I want to sleep at some point. Other people in my MFA program can devote more time to their thesis research because they don’t work as much as I do. Some weeks, I’ve struggled to read everything on the reading lists and turn in weekly assignments. I’ve gotten good grades, but I wanted to do more.

Do you ever feel like you want more?

The turning point for me came a few months ago when someone on the program realized that I was under pressure, and asked me the questions that I posed at the beginning of this article.

How are you doing? How is life treating you at the moment? Where do you see yourself in five years?

Imagining yourself in your dream job can do miracles for your mental health. If you can believe that you can achieve your dreams, then you are halfway there. The first step is to believe that you can.

Just one small step.

Once you see a clear step towards your goal, the day-to-day doesn’t seem as demanding.

You can handle everything better because you know that “right now” is not forever.

Your mind is your greatest friend when you think positively about your life. If you start thinking negatively, your mind turns against you, and everything starts to feel very hard and challenging.

Keep your chin up. and think of your goals and dreams.

Where do you want to be in five years? What’s holding you back?

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

Here are a few links to my articles:

Looking for a Change?

https://medium.com/activated-thinker/looking-for-a-change-f391e85abbd7

A Search for Identity

https://medium.com/beyond-lines/a-search-for-identity-893df7c970c2

Are You Searching for Peace?

https://medium.com/illumination/are-you-searching-for-peace-cd54d76231c8

Are You Dealing With Burnout?

https://medium.com/illumination/are-you-dealing-with-burnout-374f774141b4

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.

EXISTENCE WITHOUT TASK / ORIENTATION BEFORE ACTION

How Authentic Coordinates Allow Natural Integration to Proceed
(Walking Through the Door, and Back Again: An Enchanted Evergreen Winter’s Welcome–A Threshold Tale)

This is not a journey; it is a placement. It is the slow recognition of safe conditions and coordinates that allow you to move across thresholds—and to return—without ever being lost.

Nothing is being asked of you here. Nothing needs to be fixed or figured out.

“Integration” refers to the natural coordination that occurs when conditions become uninhabitable.

Under chronic threat, human systems naturally adapt by developing extraordinary sensitivity to danger. This adaptation activates involuntary survival states governed by the autonomic nervous system. These states are not responses; they are sequential protective reactions that occur when response is unavailable, prioritizing static survival over variable integration and, when prolonged, contributing to persistent system strain.

Crucially, while the capacity for natural integration is never lost, access to natural passage conditions is unavailable in static survival states. Response—by definition—requires safety, orientational coordinates, motion, and variable neural integration. Without these conditions, the system can only react—because reaction is all that is available.

What are often labeled “trauma responses” are more accurately understood as reactions arising from constrained and uninhabitable environmental conditions.

What appears as incoherence is not failure. It is a brilliant, adaptive, and predictable natural reaction to impossible conditions.

Recognition of these patterns does not indicate failure or something that requires correction.

CPTSD Systemic Design (Constrained / Dis-Oriented)

Uninhabitable Consciousness Load-Bearing Conditions: These are not personal traits. They are environmentally induced system states:
–Compensatory
–Compulsive
–Uncoordinated
–Obstructive
–Containment & Control Patterns
–Non-distributed incoherent integrations
–Punitive subconscious existential-jurisdiction architectures
–Autonomic survival operating systems
–Separation-perception boundary perspectives
–Habitual isolation-maintenance reflexes
–Survival subroutine autocompletions
–Containment overreaction systems
–Closed-circuit circulation monitoring
–Distortion & Interference Patterns
–False-feelings psychic payloads
–Soma-overruling navigational overrides
–Labyrinthine interference patterning
–Overcorrecting emergency substitutions
–Compensatory distortion instability
–Trauma-sequencing shortcuts
–Context-bound survival rules
–Obstructed-reality protective measures
–Fragmentation & Collapse Patterns
–Defensive hypervigilance bracing routines
–Defensive distortion thought processes
–Misattributed role fragmentations
–Coercively collapsed witness-awareness
–Dissociative false-footing reactive stances
–Recursive mortality threat activation

When a natural environmental intelligence-field structure is present, rather than external coercion, instinct aligns into resonant coherence without force. Natural responses become possible without trust ever needing to be invoked at any coordinated systemic point.

NATURAL Systemic Design (Integrated / Oriented)

These are descriptive conditions, not goals or tasks:

–Habitable Consciousness Load-Bearing Conditions
–Fully Coordinated Body-Mind-Being-Awareness
–Safety
–Authenticity
–Coordination
–Continuity
–Unobstruction
–Self-maintenance
–Distribution
–Coherence
–Resonance
–Alignment
–Integration
–Orientation
–Accumulation
–Unobstructed Living.

Evergreen Enchantment

Unobstructed reality. What reality feels like when it no longer has to route itself around trauma, but instead walks through the door and says:

“Welcome back!”

Photo by Jonny Gios 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.

In trauma psychology, this mindset rarely stems from hopelessness. It comes from self-protection. Those who have lived or worked in prolonged contact with harm—survivors, investigators, clinicians, first responders—carry nervous systems engineered for surveillance. The brain starts to equate control with safety. When it cannot stop cruelty, it tries to stop proximity to it. The belief that no one should have to be born into this becomes a boundary, not a breakdown.

From a philosophical standpoint, antinatalism questions whether existence is a gift or a burden. From a forensic-behavioral one, it signals moral exhaustion—the collapse of conscience under sustained exposure to suffering. Individuals embedded in trauma-dense fields such as criminal justice, environmental protection, animal welfare, and emergency medicine encounter daily proof that harm often outpaces help. Over the years, empathy mutates into vigilance. Love of life becomes defensive instead of creative.

Neuroscience describes this shift as threat generalization. After repeated exposure to distress, the brain’s filtering system broadens its definition of danger until nearly everything feels risky. Under that bias, birth can register not as renewal but as the start of another preventable tragedy. Abstention then appears logical—an act of cognition shielding the heart.

From there, another thought often follows: that there are simply too many people in the world already. For those in the antinatalist mindset, overpopulation isn’t about statistics or environmental math—it’s about psychological crowding. When empathy is hyperactive, every human becomes another potential vector of suffering. Too many people mean too many needs, too many failures, too many witnesses to harm.

The perception isn’t rooted in misanthropy; it’s a defensive reading of reality. The mind sees the global population not as life thriving, but as pain multiplying faster than it can be managed. Each birth feels like another weight added to a scale that has already tipped. From a behavioral standpoint, this isn’t judgment—it’s triage. The nervous system concludes that the planet’s emotional ecosystem is over capacity, and that moral restraint is the only remaining form of stewardship.

To outsiders, the reasoning looks bleak. Inside the trauma-conditioned mind, it sounds merciful: I can’t stop the world’s pain, but I can stop adding to it. For some, this belief settles into permanence; for others, it functions as a warning light that empathy has reached its physiological limit and requires recalibration before it can serve again.

For those who have spent decades absorbing pain that can’t be undone, the question isn’t “Why live?” It’s “Why replicate exposure?” In forensic terms, this isn’t nihilism. It’s moral exhaustion wearing an intellectual disguise. The belief that no one should have to be born into this isn’t despair—it’s the psyche’s last act of ethical control.

What looks like cynicism from the outside often feels like mercy from within. It’s empathy trying to protect itself from another century of heartbreak. When compassion finally reaches its limit, philosophy steps in to guard it.

Forensic psychology sometimes calls this preventive morality—the instinct to halt potential harm before it begins, even if that means halting creation itself. It appears frequently among professionals whose compassion training has taught them to anticipate catastrophe rather than possibility.

Viewed through that lens, antinatalism is not cynicism. It is conscience under pressure. It is empathy wearing armor. When compassion becomes unsustainable, the psyche constructs philosophy to contain it. Recognizing this pattern matters because it reframes exhaustion as a signal, not a defect. The worldview isn’t broken—it’s tired. And tired can heal.

Every crisis-driven profession collects quiet philosophers: the paramedic who stops believing in rescue, the advocate who doubts reform, the therapist who questions whether the world wants to heal. Their logic may sound grim, yet beneath it lies integrity struggling to survive itself.

Antinatalism, understood through trauma science, is not an argument against life. It is an argument for rest. It is the nervous system declaring, Enough harm has been witnessed for now. When that message is acknowledged rather than pathologized, empathy restores itself. And when empathy returns, morality follows.

Sources:

David Benatar — Better Never to Have Been (Oxford University Press, 2006)
American Psychological Association — Moral Injury and Trauma Exposure (2023)
National Center for PTSD — Threat Generalization in Chronic Stress
Journal of Moral Psychology — Preventive Morality in Trauma-Exposed Professionals
Oxford Handbook of Forensic Psychology — Cognitive Containment and Empathy Regulation

Photo by Ephraim Mayrena 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.

Have you taken some time for yourself today?

If you are a trauma survivor, the answer is probably not. As survivors, the last person we think about is ourselves because we have spent years being suppressed into believing that we don’t exist, that we are nothing, and that we deserve nothing.

An abuser asserts control over us by intimidation and fear. The damage from hearing that we are nothing and we have no voice is deeply ingrained in us. It doesn’t matter if decades have passed since you left home; that core self-image was shattered well before your personality had taken form.

This is why we never stop to think about ourselves.

In this article, I want to address the issue of self-image after suffering child abuse and how this deep wound is difficult to heal.

Let’s start with an exercise:

Look in a full-length mirror where you can see your whole body. If you don’t have one at home, plenty of stores have them. I want you to linger in front of the mirror and look at yourself.

What do you see?

Who do you see?

What does your face look like?

Are you smiling, or do you have a sad face?

What does this tell you about the image in the mirror? Who is this person in the mirror? Where have you been today?

As trauma survivors, we rarely stop and look at ourselves.

Next, look at your body.

What do you see?

What are you wearing?

Why did you wear those clothes today?

How do they make you feel?

When we have a disconnect between ourselves and the world, we don’t always pause to think about what we look like.

Now, back to my first question: How are you feeling today?

Did you find those questions difficult to answer? Why do you think that is?

In our busy world, we rarely take the time to pause and simply be for a while. We’re so busy that we often eat our lunch at our desks; heck, we might even work through lunch. Our calendars are so full that we cannot afford to stop, and it is no wonder that we get sick from stress.

Taking time to notice how we feel is so far down our agenda that we forget to “feel.” It is no wonder that if we cannot “feel,” we also forget who we are.

I want you to look into that mirror one more time. This time, look into your eyes. Someone once told me that eyes are like windows into the soul. I agree with them. Eyes do tell stories about someone, if you look.

What do you see in your eyes? Can you see the emotional pain that you are in?

If you can see it, then maybe you can start to understand that the pain is there. You were deeply hurt, but your life is not over; far from it.

You matter, and you still have many sunrises to discover.

There is so much that your face can tell you, and if you look even closer at your image, there is a road map laid out in front of you.

Every bruise, scar, blemish, and wrinkle has a story. They matter, every single one matters because they are yours.

They tell the exact truth of how much you have had to endure in the past. How brave you were to overcome your trauma; to stand here in this moment, and look at yourself.

My therapist asked me; who do I see when I look in the mirror? I found myself not being able to answer. Then she changed the question and asked me to tell me how other people saw me.

It took me a while to answer because I never really think about myself.

Do you take time to think about yourself?

Who are you?

My therapist had to break it down for me into labels to help me answer her question. I was like a child having their food cut up into bite-sized pieces. But in this case, the food was a simple question of: who are you?

We eventually agreed that I was a wife, mom, author, teacher, etc. Those are all true facts, but I still couldn’t find the words to name them.

If you are finding it tricky to think of who you are, then turn it around and think about how other people see you.

Who are you to others around you? How do they see you?

Think about everything that you have achieved so far, and be proud of every stepping stone it took to get there. I’m not just talking about academics here, but anything you have achieved, no matter how small, is still something.

Where have you been, and what kind of people did you meet along the way?

How did those experiences and people teach you and shape you to who you are today?

You should feel proud of who you are, wherever your life is in this moment. You survived, and your body is your story.

From now on, you have a choice of where you want to go next. You are free to make that choice, and nobody can tell you what to do and how to do it. You are free.

I know these words are hard to read because if you are anything like me, you don’t believe in yourself. It’s hard to feel proud of anything when it doesn’t come naturally.

What do we say to our kids when they cannot do something at first? Well, we ask them to try again, and again, and again. We tell them that by practicing something, eventually they will get better and succeed.

So, take another look in that mirror and practice telling yourself that you matter, and you should feel proud of who you are.

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 Luis Villasmil 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.

What she wrote is honest and deeply resonant. I’m so grateful she was willing to share it here:

When I started my journey into healing my digestive issues in my early twenties, I was eager to learn everything I could about health, well-being, and personal development. What began as a personal search for answers slowly turned into something else: I started taking certification courses, not just to understand myself better, but to help others, as well. After completing my Ayurveda certification almost two decades later, I stepped into the role of health counsellor, ready and excited to work with clients.

Looking back now, years later, I can see much more clearly what happened.

What I truly wanted was simple: to help people. I wanted to understand them, support them, guide them in breaking patterns, and help them heal–just as I had done. But very quickly, my days filled up with other things. Creating programs. Building websites. Writing yet another landing page. Designing freebies. Posting on social media. Learning marketing strategies. Trying to “grow my audience.”

This was all well-meant advice from the various business coaches I worked with–and it wasn’t necessarily wrong. But it slowly drained the life out of me.

It was stressful and time-consuming, and the painful irony was that I was hardly coaching anyone. I spent more time thinking about clever Instagram captions than sitting with real people, listening deeply, and doing the work I was actually trained for and loved.

Without really choosing it, I had become a creator-based entrepreneur–something I never aspired to be. At the same time, I was struggling financially, while being promised six-figure outcomes if I just tried harder, created more, and optimized better.

Over those six years, I created program after program. I hired more business coaches. I followed strategies that didn’t fit me, and watched them fail. The process depleted me, chipped away at my confidence, and eventually left me questioning whether I wanted to keep coaching at all.

But I am not quitting coaching.

What I am quitting are fancy program names, endless landing pages, constant posting on Instagram, and the pressure to produce more content, more materials, and more “proof.” I’m quitting doing things just for the gram. I’m quitting the all-consuming stress. I never wanted that life.

This pivot I’m making now–moving away from being a creator-based entrepreneur and back to simply being a coach–isn’t a step backwards. It’s a return–a remembering. This is a choice to honor how I actually work best, not how the industry says I should.

And maybe this journey was never really about building something external at all. Maybe it was my own healing path: a slow return home to myself. Moving through trauma, hardship, and old patterns of pushing, I was finally ready to listen, trust, and honor my own rhythm.

As we move into a new year, I’m not setting intentions around bigger goals or more output. I’m choosing a different orientation, even though I don’t yet know exactly how it will unfold.

Less pressing.
Less forcing.
Less building from depletion.

More listening.
More honesty.
More choosing ease. 

I don’t have this all figured out. I’m not claiming that choosing peace automatically makes things easy or clear. What I am doing is experimenting–noticing what feels aligned and what doesn’t, and allowing myself to respond, instead of overriding.

This pivot isn’t a final destination. It’s a practice–one I’m committed to trying and trusting.

Christa is a non-diet Ayurveda health counsellor, intuitive eating coach, and body image coach. With her approach, she helps women release stress, guilt, and anxiety around food and helps them to trust their body’s cues again with compassion and confidence. Originally from the Netherlands, she resides in Vancouver with her wife and two cats and is a graduate of “Beyond Surviving.” 

If you are interested in learning more about her work, reach out to her at christa@sageandsaintsayurveda.com. 

I hope her words invite you to pause and gently ask: what would it look like to honor yourself more this year? 

To flow instead of force!
Rachel


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.

Photo by Peter Trones 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.