Post Traumatic Growth | CPTSDfoundation.org

“The Difficult Path of a Survivor: Is It a Life Sentence, or Can You Recover to Live a Happy Life Free of Pain?

Morrene Hauser — Thu, 03 Sep 2026 10:00:00 +0000

Ten years ago, at the age of 50, I finally found the courage to confront my abusive childhood and begin the healing process. My mother is a pedophile as were the many sick men she brought into our lives. I was also physically and verbally abused. The abuse I suffered had instilled a fear in me from a very young age. Fear of the dark, fear of people, fear of my surroundings. Fear of the unknown. And that fear only grew the older I got.

By the time I left home to go to college, I didn’t realize it then, but I was in no way prepared to confront the big, scary world I was about to enter. My abusive childhood had left me with no groundwork, no tools, so to speak, on how to live a productive and happy life. When I look back at that 18-year-old I once was, I see a shell-shocked young woman suffering terribly as she continued to fight the many demons of her past.

Although I wish I had been strong enough to face all that I had been through as a child at an earlier age, I was unable. And for that reason, I have lived a very difficult life, one filled with chronic pain, substance abuse, depression, and anxiety. It has not been easy. I envy the survivors who are able to confront their past sooner than I did and begin healing.

These past ten years I have spent healing have been eye-opening. I have written a book about my childhood, and that has been eye-opening as well.

For years I rarely thought about what I went through as a child because it brought me too much pain. Once I started on my journey of healing, as the floodgates in my mind opened and the long-buried memories resurfaced, as I wrote, I often felt like I was reading somebody else’s story. It’s shocking to me how much of my childhood I had buried. WHO WAS I during those years? How did I survive? And, more importantly, how in the world could I have FORGOTTEN what happened? I understand that my mind did its best to protect me. Despite that bit of knowledge, the loss of memory continues to spook me.

These past ten years I have faced every demon that has haunted me throughout my life. Neurofeedback, counseling, Ayahuasca, hypnosis, EMDR, self-help books, listening to podcasts, etc., I have left no stone unturned in my quest for healing.

I have learned who I am, what makes me tick, and what led me to make the decisions I have made in life. I overcame years of alcoholism. I have learned how to calm my nervous system if I am being triggered. I have learned how to be in the present moment. I learned patience. And probably one of the most important lessons I learned was self-compassion.

As painful as these years have been, I can now look at them with gratitude. I am single. My children are adults. All I have had at this time in my life is to focus on myself and heal.

When I look back at the person I was ten years ago at the beginning of my journey and compare her to the person I am today, I don’t even recognize myself.

I have often heard that healing is akin to being a moth in a cocoon. As the healing progresses, that moth slowly starts turning into a butterfly until one day it pops out of the cocoon whole and complete.

Well, that is how I feel about my healing. I have literally become a different person. I walk differently. I talk differently. I have a confidence about me that I have never experienced in my life. The fear is gone. THE FEAR IS GONE. At first I thought I was just having “a good couple of days.” But those “good couple of days” have turned into months. The new me is here to stay. How liberating.

I have no idea where the Universe is going to take me on this next part of my journey, but I know all this healing has definitely set me on the path for a life much happier, healed, and more carefree than I have ever lived.

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8 Things Survivors Need to Stop Apologizing For | Part 8 | Healing Slowly

Rachel Grant — Wed, 02 Sep 2026 10:00:00 +0000

Healing is layered. Slow healing is still healing.

What are you learning to be more patient with?

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8 Things Survivors Need to Stop Apologizing For | Part 5 | Needing Reassurance (video post)

Rachel Grant — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

Wanting reassurance doesn’t make you needy. Sometimes it means your nervous system is still learning safety.

What helps you feel emotionally safe?

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When Safety Feels Like a Trap

Dr. Mozelle Martin — Wed, 12 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

There is a strange thing that can happen when a trauma survivor finally reaches a quieter life. They do not relax; they wait. They wait for the phone call, the slammed door, the accusation, the shift in someone’s tone, the bill they forgot, the person who seemed fine yesterday but may turn cold today. They wait for the next threat, even when nothing in the room says a threat is present. The body is not being dramatic. It is running an old survival program that once helped that person stay alive, stay prepared, stay watchful, or stay out of the way.

That is one of the crueler parts of trauma recovery. Safety may arrive before the nervous system believes it. A person can be out of the violent home, away from the abusive partner, years removed from the childhood environment, and still feel uneasy when nothing bad is happening. Sometimes the uneasiness gets worse when nothing bad is happening. Calm can feel staged. Quiet can feel temporary. Stability can feel like the pause before someone changes the rules. Kindness can feel like the first move in a longer game.

People who have not lived this often misunderstand it. They may say, “You’re safe now,” as if the survivor missed an obvious fact. They may think reassurance should work quickly because the danger is no longer visible. Some even become hurt or annoyed when the survivor cannot receive peace the way they expected.

But trauma does not train the nervous system through reassurance. It trains through repetition, shock, betrayal, threat, helplessness, and consequence. If safety once disappeared without warning, the body may not trust safety just because the room is quiet.

Safety Is More Than the Absence of Danger

Most people think safety means danger is gone. For trauma survivors, that definition is too thin. Safety is not only the absence of yelling. It is not only the absence of violence, manipulation, chaos, humiliation, addiction, neglect, sexual threat, emotional punishment, or household unpredictability. Those absences are necessary. No one heals well while the injury is still being repeated.

But safety also has to become recognizable inside the body, and this is where many survivors get blindsided. A survivor may enter a genuinely safer environment and still carry an internal alarm system calibrated to the old one. The body may scan for changes in tone. It may track footsteps. It may notice silence that lasts too long. It may read a delayed reply as rejection, facial neutrality as contempt, ordinary conflict as abandonment, or someone else’s mood as an incoming threat.

This is often misperceived a weakness but, in reality, it is conditioning. The nervous system learned that small cues could mean trouble. Sometimes they did. In a dangerous home, the shift from ordinary to unsafe can happen fast. A look across the room may tell a child whether to disappear. A pause in a conversation may tell a partner whether an explosion is coming. A change in breathing may tell someone whether to leave, freeze, flatter, explain, comply, or brace.

Then later, in safer adult life, those same detection systems keep firing. Sure, the danger has changed, but the body has not caught up yet.

Temporary Calm Trains the Body to Wait

One reason safety can feel like a trap is that many trauma survivors did not grow up with steady calm. They grew up with temporary calm and temporary calm is very different.

Temporary calm is the quiet before someone starts drinking again. The soft voice before the accusation, the good day before the withdrawal, the apology before the next incident, the holiday where everyone performs normal life for visitors, the clean kitchen before the screaming starts, and the calm adult who stays calm only until the child makes one wrong sound.

A nervous system raised around temporary calm does not automatically experience quiet as relief – instead, it’s more like a countdown.

That survivor may become more tense when things are peaceful. They may create tasks, problems, plans, or mental noise because stillness leaves too much room for waiting. They may over-prepare, over-check, over-explain, over-clean, or over-function. They may feel restless in healthy relationships because nobody is making them earn their place every few minutes.

Then the shame comes in. They know they “should” enjoy the calm yet may feel guilty for not enjoying it. They may tell themselves they are ungrateful, damaged, difficult, or impossible to satisfy. And that kind of self-attack does not help the nervous system learn safety. In reality, it adds another layer of pressure.

The Body May Associate Safety With Exposure

For some survivors, danger did not arrive when they were already guarded. It arrived when they trusted, slept, disclosed, hoped, loved, laughed, needed, rested, or believed someone. And that personal history leaves a mark.

If vulnerability was punished, the body may treat peace as exposure.
If tenderness was followed by betrayal, kindness may feel suspicious. If rest was interrupted by chaos, sleep may feel unsafe.
If asking for help led to ridicule or punishment, dependence may feel humiliating.
If happiness drew jealousy, mockery, sabotage, or control, joy may feel risky.

This is why a survivor may seem calm during crisis but uneasy during intimacy.

Crisis is familiar and gives the body a job. The survivor knows how to assess, act, manage, scan, solve, or endure. Quiet safety asks for something much more difficult. It asks the survivor to lower the shield without knowing, at first, whether lowering it is a wise or safe move. For someone who survived repeated harm, the fear is not always danger itself. Sometimes the fear is being unprepared for danger. Vigilance can feel like participation while trust can feel like standing still in a room where the exits have not been checked.

That is a large request for a nervous system that learned survival by staying ready.

Why Safer Life Can Feel Worse at First

From the outside, mistrust of safety can look confusing. A survivor may pull away from stable people and may become irritable when life improves. They may feel emotionally flat after good news, mistrust a partner who is consistent, and feel more anxious after leaving the unsafe situation than they felt while inside it. That last one especially confuses people, but it happens.

During active survival, the body often stays organized around immediate demands. Get through the day, keep the peace, watch the mood, protect the children or pets, hide the evidence, make the money, say the right thing, avoid the explosion, and by all means, do not collapse… yet.

Once the survivor gets out, the body may finally begin releasing what it had to hold. And that release can feel like deterioration when it is delayed impact. The survivor may think they are feeling worse because distance gives the system room to reveal the damage. That does not mean the safer life is wrong. It means the nervous system needs time, repetition, and evidence. Not one peaceful day, not one kind conversation, not one safe person making promises, but repeated evidence for your body and mind. In other words, safety has to stop being an idea and become lived experience.

Rebuilding Safety Is Often Repetitive Work

Real safety recovery is not usually a sudden breakthrough where the survivor announces they are healed and then moves through life regulated forever. Instead, it may look like noticing that someone disagreed without punishing you, going to sleep and waking up without crisis, asking a simple question and receiving a simple answer, a partner staying steady during inconvenience, a friend respecting a boundary without sulking, a therapist not rushing interpretation, or the survivor leaving a room and realizing no one chased them, mocked them, or made them pay for it later.

Small evidence counts because trauma was often built from small evidence too. The nervous system did not learn danger only from major events, it learned from the repeated signals surrounding those events. Tone, timing, facial shifts, silence, footsteps, doorways, names called from another room, text messages, late arrivals, alcohol breath, forced smiles, and the false calm before punishment.

So recovery often requires a new body record. Consistency is not glamorous, but it can be corrective.

Safe People Do Not Demand Instant Trust

One of the cleanest ways to assess safety is to watch how people respond to a survivor’s pace. Unsafe people often demand trust as proof of loyalty. They rush disclosure, punish hesitation, frame boundaries as rejection, become offended when the survivor needs time, and may say, “After everything I’ve done for you, you still don’t trust me?”

That is not safety, it’s pressure with better manners. Safe people do not need instant access and do not treat a trauma survivor’s caution as an insult. They understand that trust built under pressure is compliance, not trust. This does not mean survivors should never challenge their fear. Avoidance can shrink a life until the person is technically protected but emotionally imprisoned. Healing does require risk, practice, and contact with situations that are uncomfortable but not actually dangerous.

But the pace has to make sense because a survivor needs enough challenge to grow and enough control to stay present. Too little challenge can keep life small but too much challenge can recreate helplessness. That middle ground is where real trauma work often lives.

The Goal Is Accurate Response, Not Constant Calm

A healthy nervous system does not feel safe every second. That’s a good thing because that would not be realistic or useful. The goal is accuracy. An accurate response.

A recovering trauma survivor learns, slowly, to tell the difference between old danger and current risk. Between discomfort and threat. Between disappointment and abandonment. Between someone’s bad mood and personal danger. Between a pause and rejection. Between privacy and secrecy. Between conflict and catastrophe.

That takes work because trauma compresses categories and teaches the body to treat many different signals as one warning: harm is coming. Recovery begins separating those signals again.

That process is not always smooth especially when survivors overcorrect. They may trust too fast in one season and trust no one in the next, mistake boredom for safety or intensity for connection, and may confuse predictability with emotional deadness because chaos once felt like proof that something serious was happening.

This is where patience has to be practical rather than sentimental and that’s why the nervous system needs new data, and new data takes time.

When Safety Starts to Feel Real

Safety begins to feel real when the body stops waiting for every calm moment to turn. It may happen quietly. For examples, a survivor realizes they did not flinch when the phone rang, did not rehearse 12 explanations before answering a message, have finally slept through the night, allowed someone to be mildly disappointed without rushing to fix it, and accepted kindness without immediately searching for the catch.

For a trauma survivor, these are not minor moments – they often signal steps in a major nervous-system correction. Safety does not become real because someone announces it. It only becomes real when the survivor’s body has enough repeated evidence to stop treating peace as a setup.

That is why telling themselves “you’re safe now” can feel hollow when it is said too soon. Instead, saying “my body may need time to believe what my life is trying to show it” is more accurate. It also accurately reflects the work. Not forced trust, not denial, and not pretending the past is over because the address changed, the relationship ended, or the crisis passed. The work is teaching the body, through repeated reality, that calm does not always mean danger is waiting behind the door.

Sometimes calm is just calm and, for many survivors, believing that is not the beginning of recovery – it is one of the hardest-earned outcomes.

Sources

Courtois, C. A., & Ford, J. D. (2016). Treatment of complex trauma: A sequenced, relationship-based approach. Guilford Press.

Herman, J. L. (1992). Trauma and recovery: The aftermath of violence from domestic abuse to political terror. Basic Books.

National Institute of Mental Health. (2025). Post-traumatic stress disorder. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. (2014). SAMHSA’s concept of trauma and guidance for a trauma-informed approach. U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.

U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs, National Center for PTSD. (2025). Complex PTSD. U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs.

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8 Things Survivors Need to Stop Apologizing For | Part 4 | Changing

Rachel Grant — Mon, 10 Aug 2026 10:00:00 +0000

Healing changes your tolerance, relationships, and what you’re willing to accept. Growth is not betrayal.

How have you changed through healing?

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Becoming an Adult In Childhood: Ancient Innocence

Heather Jurvelin — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 10:00:00 +0000

As one day slid into the next, I transitioned from the final seconds of childhood into adulthood. Covering my head with a pillow to dampen the screams at the other end of the trailer, I only felt exhaustion as I crossed the threshold between ages 17 and 18. I wondered if this would be the chorus of my future, for it was the curse of my past and the discordant song of my present. I hoped I wouldn’t be pulled out of bed to mediate the ongoing screaming match between my mom and former stepdad. Now that I was an adult, would they lose patience with my inability to develop solutions for their problems, which often became mine?

In the days leading up to “official” adulthood, I’d convinced myself that once I exited childhood, the fear and helplessness wouldn’t penetrate as deeply. I was wrong.

Those things only intensified, and I felt helpless in the face of my powerlessness to thwart them. An adult by law now, I still possessed the mangled nervous system of a terrified child who’d long held the responsibilities of an adult. My 18th birthday felt like a cruel joke.

I became an adult long before society deemed me one. My childhood, though it held many glimmers of happiness, had also been suffocated by responsibilities that weren’t mine to bear. The people who should have buffered me from the pain that life sometimes delivers were often instead the perpetrators of chaos and heartache. Furthermore, they often saddled me with the cumbersome weight of adult burdens, expecting me to wear the heavy cloth of unreasonable expectations with a smile. In many ways, the roles of parent and child were reversed; this phenomenon is known as “parentification.”

Parentification comes at a grueling cost. You learn to take responsibility for things that aren’t yours to bear. You protect the fragile emotions of others at the expense of your own and provide emotional support in places where you should receive it. In other words, you care for those who should care for you. Along the way, you develop a tangled web of unhealthy coping mechanisms.

As if being robbed of vital pieces of childhood during your childhood isn’t enough, you may carry these burdens into adulthood. This might manifest in several ways, including but not limited to:

Social isolation related to exhaustion, fear, and an inability to relate to people your own age or people in general.
Viewing your needs as burdens.
Carrying a nameless guilt that seems to bear no origin and strangles your ability to live in the moment.
Measuring your worth by what you can do for others and/or accomplishments.
Caring for others at a cost to yourself and/or finding it impossible to say “no.”
Difficulty expressing emotions while feeling responsibility for other people’s feelings.

A quarter of a century after my “formal” induction into adulthood, I mourn the innocence that was torn from my grasp in the dawning years of my life. Longing for the pieces of my childhood that I never lived, I feel pangs of sadness for the fragments of my adulthood that remain trapped in the shadows of my childhood. And…I feel gratitude. While the most vigorous parts of my healing journey have only recently begun to take shape, and chaos has not been a stranger to me as an adult, the weight of my childhood burdens has not broken my back.

Over time, I instead built a backbone of steel. As a child, I didn’t have the strength to wrestle for control nor the power to negotiate my fate. Somehow, I never let the weight completely crush me. My persistence continued into adulthood. While I’ve lived in survival mode for much of my life, I’ve defied the odds again and again. Chances are, if you’re reading this, so have you. We’re part of a club we never asked to join.

In the early stages of rewiring my discombobulated nervous system, I’m no longer afraid, and I’m not powerless. In fact, I’d say the opposite is true. I’ve been told I’m “formidable” and a “force to be reckoned with.”

I agree. I don’t know if I would’ve become this version of myself if not for the pain that paved the way. When I reflect on the fearful, mild-mannered, and shy child I was, I’m surprised by the confidence I bear as an adult. I’m no longer mild, and though feeling safe is an uphill battle, I wouldn’t say I’m always fearful either.

In reflecting on who I was as a child and who I am now, I realize that the common trait I carried from childhood into adulthood is strength. I didn’t have any other choice. As I navigated one nightmare after another, I dug into my reservoir of fortitude. I learned to put up a fight and to keep going even when exhaustion weighed me down. I learned to persevere. Less poetic, but equally true, eventually I arrived at a blissful place where I no longer take anyone’s crap. Over time, those things added up to the person I am today. There’s one word that best captures what I’m describing: resilience.

In being forced to grow up before we’re ready, many of us develop resilience. Or…maybe we’re born with it? What does the word “resilience” mean? Well, you’ve heard the term, “to hell and back,” right? Resilience is essentially the ability to come back from hell…again, and again, and again. Resilience is not always born in trauma, but I think it takes on a unique “flavor” when it’s rooted in the challenges of “growing up early.” Those of us who “became adults” as children first used our resilience to survive. As a result, we started adulthood both behind and ahead of the metaphorical “starting line.” We entered “adulthood” exhausted and knowing too much.

We see the world through weary, sometimes cynical eyes that belong to a much older person. Have you ever been told you’re old or wise “for your age?” Me too. Although I’d love to have an even-keeled nervous system and a mind that doesn’t play out worst-case scenarios by default, I appreciate the wisdom and strength within me that emerged early; it’s only intensified with time. Furthermore, because of my cynicism and ability to read between the lines, I can detect BS from a mile away, and I’m not afraid to call people out if they have it coming. I’ve been silenced long enough, and my patience for what I refer to as “reindeer games” expired a lonnnng time ago.

Furthermore, although it’s aggravating to have a hypervigilant nervous system that sometimes drags me into overly strong bodily and mental reactions to small things. The “big stuff” doesn’t really faze me in the same way it seems to others. I view life as a bit of a jack-in-the-box, and I know there’s always more crap rolling down the line. And…I know I can deal with whatever it is because I’ve dealt with so much already.

I’ve crammed the pain of multiple lifetimes into one. This probably explains why I’ve never felt “my age.” Suspended between youth and old age, some days, I feel closer to age 70 both mentally and physically. But…something’s shifting. As I heal, some days I feel seven, but not the burdened seven-year-old I was. I see glimpses of the real seven; as I heal, I experience moments of unfettered joy that sparkled like rare diamonds in the dark cave of my childhood but could never be held.

I’ve learned a thing or two since then, though. Perhaps it’s because I feel like I’m at a place in my life where there’s less time left, but my goal has shifted from survival to thriving. Please join me. We’ve been surviving for far too long. It’s time to live.

Photo Credit: Unsplash

I’m Becoming One of THOSE People!

Heather Jurvelin — Thu, 23 Jul 2026 10:00:00 +0000

I’m becoming the kind of person I used to warn myself about. Optimistic and joyful adults who flutter about the room with childlike glee used to scare the crap out of me. With slight annoyance and a lot of internal head-scratching, I wondered what they were so happy about. I found their enthusiasm for life obnoxiously nauseating at worst and suspicious at best.

But…as I plunge deeper into my healing journey, I’m asking myself how I cannot feel this way. Lately, smiles light my face from the heart up, and I’ve broken out in dance multiple times. Yes, dance. If you’re reading this and don’t know me, I can tell you that not that long ago, I would’ve been more likely to voluntarily shave off my eyebrows with a dull butter knife than break out in dance. Morose and withdrawn for decades, I’m suddenly brimming with unfettered joy. I’m becoming the kind of person who once froze me in baffled shock.

Despite being older than I’ve ever been, I somehow feel the youngest I’ve ever felt. As I heal, I’m experiencing an inverse aging phenomenon. It’s akin to falling in love. You know…that warm, glowing feeling, gooey as a freshly baked cinnamon roll, nearly soggy with icing? Yep, that’s me. Happy. Sappy. Saccharine. So uncharacteristically not “me” that I, at times, wonder if I’ve been body snatched. Yet…I know that this is me. This is me in the state of Self. This is me when I’m not stuck in constant survival mode. No longer confined to a perpetual prison of my go-to fear responses, I’m truly experiencing the present for the first time in decades, if not forever. It feels like the transition from black-and-white to color in “The Wizard of Oz.”

I wonder how I could have not smelled the blooming flowers or heard the chorus of birds in the past, yet somehow, I’ve never experienced life this way before. (If I’m being honest, I did hear some of the birds, and I used to swear at them for making noise. Who gets mad at birds?) Anyway, it feels like all my favorite songs have been merged into one magical masterpiece, and someone has cranked up the volume. It feels like an orgasm of the soul. I realize that my life has played out for over 40 years, not quite void of, but severely lacking vibrancy.

It’s only fair, as we heal and begin to see life through the lens of hope, and dare I say happiness, that we question if this is what we’ve been missing out on?

Have people who have never lived within the CPTSD prison experienced this their whole lives? Is it this intense, or is it just another day for them? As these questions dance through our minds, we inevitably arrive at the question: why? What did we do to have this stolen from us all these years? The answer, of course, is nothing. That, however, doesn’t make it hurt any less or shake any sense into it. It’s not fair, and it’s infuriating. It’s easy to get stuck in this feeling, especially now that I can truly feel each angle and texture of my experiences. It’s okay to get angry, but we owe it to ourselves not to stay in a place of hopeless rage. We’ve been robbed of enough, so we must resist the temptation to rob ourselves.

How can we let go of our grip on anger and embrace what we have left of this journey? I think, just like with so many other things in our lives, we (being the resourceful survivors that we are) find or create something that works for us. I’ve decided that I’m going to push through this hangup about missing out by telling myself that most people don’t experience this degree of appreciation for life’s beauty. I’ve convinced myself that the decades trapped in the lonely halls of darkness illuminate the light at the end of the hall.

The contrast between life’s lowest depths exaggerates and magnifies life’s greatest heights. Once afraid of feeling, I now feel everything, good and bad, so deeply that my body seems to hum with emotion. It’s a superpower of sorts. I don’t wear a cape, but I wear a cocky smile knowing I’ve made it through hell and I’m still standing.

A now-gone, but never-forgotten loved one, who also lived a life filled with heartache and challenges, lived by the motto: “Don’t worry, it will get worse.” The first time she laid this line on me, I laughed for about two seconds before it dawned on me that it was the truest thing I’d ever heard. I think I surprised her when I said: “You’re right. That’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten.”

You’ve gotta just keep going, and when things are good, enjoy them. Give yourself permission to marinate in happiness and savor every last succulent drop of unquantifiable bliss. None of us has a crystal ball, so there’s no point in trying to forecast the future. (If you just read that and thought, “That’s easier said than done,” trust me, a part of me intensely agrees.) That said, we can only control and live where we are right now. I heard another saying once that resonated with me: if you have one foot in the past and one foot in the future, you’re taking a leak on the present. Good point, right?

Things haven’t been easy for many of us, and sometimes it feels like we’ve survived a series of painful tests only to be rewarded with more pain.

Again, it really is not fair. But, like most things, there is another way to look at it. I recently discovered musician Kate Wolf, and the lines to her song “Unfinished Life” ring through my soul like a siren calling me home. Wolf wrote:

“I’ve crossed so many rivers

In search of crystal fountains

I’ve found the truest paths

Always lead through mountains.”

Here’s the thing about climbing mountains to get to the other side…it brings us to a place where we see things clearly and from a place of advantage. We see the full scope of humanity. We feel the full scope of life’s experiences. I don’t know, maybe I’m full of crap, but it’s as good a justification as any. I do know one thing, though. The traumas that bring us to this page, where we seek answers, companionship, and hope, have changed us. They may have removed the power from our hands temporarily.

But…we survived. We have control over where we go from here.

Sometimes it takes Herculean effort to just enjoy the moment, but we can do it. How do I know? Well, mostly because we’ve already been to hell and back. So…if you’re finally able to hear the song and it makes you happy, it’s okay to dance! If you feel like you’re becoming “one of those people, look in the mirror and welcome yourself to the world. Maybe this whole thing is a bit like falling in love…with yourself and with life for the first time.

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The Power of Your Breath

Elizabeth Woods — Tue, 21 Jul 2026 10:00:00 +0000

Did you know that your breath is the fastest way to calm down when you are feeling dysregulated?

Nobody is immune from stress, regardless of age and we all have one thing in common — we react. How we react to stress is different for everyone, but there is a simple way we can all calm:

Through breathing

I see the way stress affects those around me. In my colleagues, my students and my own family and friends. None of us are good at juggling too many things, but many of us do.

I know I do. I take on too much and then I wonder how I’m going to get through it all.

Most of us forget that one of the most powerful tools that you have available is your breath. Breathing happens whether you think about it or not. It’s automatic, like a car engine stuck in gear.

Your breath is vital to keep you alive. Everything in your body is dependent on it. Without breathing, we would die within minutes.

When you are stressed, your breath often gets faster and shallow while your body goes through physical changes to cope with stress. It releases hormones to prepare your body for fight or flight to combat the situation.

Slowing down your breathing is the quickest way to calm down and get your body to go back into “safe mode.”

There are many benefits of doing regular simple breathing exercises to relieve anxiety, emotional overwhelm, panic attacks and improve your sleep.

As a trauma survivor, I have used many types of breathing techniques when I’m feeling overwhelmed or triggered.

I want to share these with you.

Five Finger Breathing

This is something you can easily do anytime and anywhere. I use this all the time and I’ve taught it to my students. Even kindergartners can do it.

Spread out one of your hands so that you have room between your fingers. (A little like reaching the keys on a piano). I usually start from the bottom of my thumb but you can start from your little finger, if that feels more natural.

How it works:

Put your index finger at the base of your thumb then trace your index up the thumb as you breathe in. Hold your breath to the count of 1,2,3 then exhale as you trace your index down the other side of your thumb. Keep breathing in and out as you move your index from your fingers to your little finger.

Star Breathing

This one is similar to the five finger breathing, but instead of tracing your fingers, you trace the shape of a star in the air. You can even do it on a piece of paper if it works better for you.

How it works:

Inhale on each line of your star shape, tracing up with your index. Hold for 1,2,3. Then exhale going down. Repeat as many times as you need to.

Tracing shapes or familiar symbols is repetitive and will slow down your racing thoughts and giving you focus.

Box Breathing (4–4–4–4)

This technique is repetitive and steady, which should help calm those racing thoughts in no time. It’s a great one to try if you simply cannot calm down and your breathing is almost out of control. This works if you stick to the times four rule.

How it works:

Breathe in for four seconds. Hold for four seconds. Breathe out for four seconds. Hold for four seconds. Repeat.

Belly Breathing

This is a technique that requires you to sit down or stand. Choose a space where you feel comfortable and won’t be disturbed for a few minutes.

How it works:

Put one of your hands on your belly and breathe in slowly through your nose. Take notice of how your body feels as your lungs fill with air. Hold to the count of 1,2,3. Then exhale through the mouth.

The 4,7, 8 Breathing Technique

This technique is great for reducing anxiety and panic attacks quickly. It’s helped me several times when I’ve felt this way.

It’s simple and you can do it anywhere and at anytime. I’ve noticed that not many people are even aware when I’m doing it. I’ve done it in meetings, in elevators, the mall, and even in the food market.

How it works:

Inhale to the count of 1,2,3 and 4. Hold your breath for 7 seconds. Then exhale to the count of 8 seconds.

Rainbow Breathing

This technique works best when you either stand up with a straight back. I’ve done this while sitting cross-legged too, but it only works when your back is straight.

How it works:

Imagine that you are drawing an invisible rainbow above your head.

Inhale as you spread both arms out wide and lift them into an arc above your head. Hold to the count of three. Then exhale as you let your arms down slowly into their normal position by your sides.

The Shoulder Drop Technique

This technique is good if you are feeling tense or angry. You can do it anywhere but if you’re conscious of prying eyes, privacy is best.

How it works:

You simply inhale as you lift both shoulders. Hold for a few seconds. The relax your shoulders while you exhale. Repeat as many times as you need and focus on the out breath. With every breath, you will start feeling your body becomes less tense.

A final note:

Being stressed is not a nice feeling, and most of us feel that way every day. There’s just too much going on. By trying out these simple and quick techniques, you will start feeling much better.

I know they all worked for me.

I hope you will start to feel the difference in your body too, as your body regains its equilibrium.

Which one will you try first?

Let me know which one has helped you the most.

Take care

Remember, you matter.

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

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Not normal but typical. Four words that guided my healing from CPTSD.

Lawrence Mieczkowski, MD — Wed, 08 Jul 2026 17:00:00 +0000

For most of my life, I described my childhood as merely difficult. It was a sanitizing word, one that painted over abuse, neglect, and chaos with a veneer of normalcy. To the outside world, I seemed to be living the American dream. I was a successful physician, named by my peers as one of the Best Doctors in America for years. My family and I lived in a lovely pre-Civil War home in an upscale community north of Cincinnati. Yet beneath that polished life, I had spent decades wrestling with a past I could not name. In 1999, like millions of others, I watched students flee Columbine High School with their hands behind their heads and terror on their faces. Something in that footage unlocked a door I had kept bolted for decades: the door to my own childhood.

In mental health, trauma is trauma. What matters is not how an event appears to an outsider, but how it lodges in the body and nervous system of the person who endured it. If an experience overwhelms your ability to cope, it is trauma

My adult life was built on buried memories: a cruel, narcissistic mother, an uncaring alcoholic father, and a home ruled by chaos, neglect, and emotional abuse. I lived through beatings, emotional abuse, and neglect. There was little food because my father drank away his paycheck and, according to my mother, consorted with prostitutes. I was six years old and did not even know what that word meant. The air in our house was volatile. I learned to be invisible. Shouting was the spoken language, and vulgarity took the place of affection. Violence was not an exception; it was part of the atmosphere.

When you grow up in an environment of disregard and danger, your brain adapts to survive. Mine learned hypervigilance. I learned to read the room, read my parents, and anticipate threats. The woods near our house became my refuge. Even at six years old, I roamed the hills alone because I dreaded going home.

When I finally crossed that threshold in 2001 and began an eight-year healing journey with my psychiatrist, Dr. Dan, I had to confront not only the truth of my upbringing but also the chaos it was still creating in my adult life. It had taken two years of sinking deeper into darkness before I made the call to his office. I was consumed by depression and anger. My nights were filled with recurring nightmares—wars, tornadoes, floods, and, most hauntingly, dreams that returned me to the childhood home where danger still lived.

We often imagine therapy as quiet and orderly: a comfortable chair, gentle questions, and a swift revelation that fixes everything. My experience was different.

The room was inviting, but my heart pounded as I fought the urge to flee, terrified of being judged or berated yet again. During that first visit, after hearing only an overview of my life, Dr. Dan told me that healing could take years, given the depth and duration of my trauma. I was stunned. I interrupted him and said he had three visits to fix me. I was exhausted and wanted the pain to stop.

Yet amid the emotional havoc of that first visit, I experienced a breakthrough. As we talked, something carried me back to childhood. I was five years old again, hiding under our dining room table in the dark. After dinner, my father had gone back to the Polish drinking club a few blocks away. My mother, expecting him to come home drunk and furious, locked the doors, as she had done before. When he could not get back inside, he erupted. My parents screamed at each other while my father yelled for me to unlock the door, and my mother ordered us to leave it locked.

I was paralyzed with fear, crying and pleading with them both, trapped once again in the middle of their fight. Then my father smashed the glass in the door, unlocked it, and went after my mother in the kitchen—and the flashback ended.

Dr. Dan asked gently, “Where did you go?” It took me a few seconds to decide whether I would tell the truth. My instinct had always been to say I was fine, but I knew that if I wanted to heal, I had to open that door. I described the scene in detail, looked at him, and broke down in tears. I did not just cry; I sobbed with a force I had never allowed myself to feel. The trauma I had carried into that room was suddenly visible. There was no judgment, no hostility—only empathy. That was the power of the room I spent eight years in: it could hold the toxic pain I had suffered for most of my life.

Healing required me to stop protecting the people who had hurt me and start protecting the child I once was.

The stigma around family dysfunction is powerful; we are taught that loyalty means silence. For me, that silence was corrosive. Healing came through years of intense psychodynamic therapy, during which I relived traumatic events and uncovered others I had buried even deeper. For a long time, I feared I was losing my mind or developing schizophrenia like my older brother.

Again and again, I asked Dr. Dan whether what I was feeling was normal. His answer never changed: not normal, but typical of someone in my situation. Those four words gave me more than comfort. They gave me language—and language made healing possible.

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Who Taught You To Carry All Of This?

Oak Arias — Tue, 07 Jul 2026 17:00:00 +0000

Some children become adults before anyone notices they were children. They learn early how to pay attention. They notice tension before anyone speaks about it. They become skilled at reading the room, anticipating problems, and adapting to whatever the moment requires. Adults praise them for being mature, dependable, and capable. Few people stop to consider what it took for a child to become that responsible.

Years later, those same children often become highly successful adults. They are leaders, entrepreneurs, clinicians, first responders, executives, and experts in their fields. They are trusted with difficult decisions and complex challenges because they have spent much of their lives learning how to navigate uncertainty.

Many of us recognize this story because we have lived it ourselves. We learned how to carry responsibility. We learned how to stay composed when others were overwhelmed. We learned how to solve problems, anticipate needs, and keep moving forward when circumstances became difficult. Those skills served us well. They helped us build careers, earn trust, and create success.

I have spent much of my life in environments where composure mattered. As an athlete, business leader, emergency responder, and crisis mitigation professional, staying calm under pressure was expected. That expectation followed me everywhere: in the gym, the boardroom, the back of an ambulance, and virtual meetings with employees half a world away.

What I eventually came to understand is that I was exceptionally good at being the responsible one.

I was far less skilled at simply being human. Sitting on a beach. Taking a day off. Letting someone else carry the burden for a while. Even when life was calm, part of me remained responsible for everyone around me.

Many high performers know exactly what I mean. We know how to show up for others. We know how to handle responsibility. We know how to keep going. Yet, there are moments when we quietly wonder why life feels so much heavier than it should. We may be respected thought leaders in our field, accomplished, and trusted by others, all while feeling completely disconnected from parts of ourselves when the workday is over.

For some of us, responsibility became more than a role. It became part of our identity because it was a survival mechanism. Being dependable does not feel like something we learned. It feels like something we have always been.

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