Trauma heals different because it doesn’t care for your thoughts. It reaches into the depths of forgotten language, of memory, of feelings and sensations to tug us into a place where drowning is the only inevitable solution. 

You cannot heal through your thinking. To heal at the matrix level means to get to the root causation of all forms of ailments. Which is of course, where the root of all of our dreams and aspirations live too. 

At 35, I can confidently say that I know what me feels like. What a road it’s been, inhabiting the skins of my guardians. Cloaking my essence in crowd consciousness. Dampening authenticity for the fleeting rush of belonging to the bond of accepted behaviors.

It happened again last night. Waking up to the chilling heat of a full body panic. I don’t feel safe. Thoughts racing, grasping at stories to make sense of the boiling agitation and gripping of nerves coiled tightly around my spine suffocating me from the inside.

In the story I had written for myself, the selfless martyr always painted as priority. I am not an I but rather I belonged to other. I belonged to the service of healing, whatever was asked of me I did so perfectly. Wrapped my pride around the finger of meeting everyone else’s expectations, and never once established an expectation for myself.

My entire system feels like it’s on the brink of collapse, and my normal coping strategy (leaving my body) is the very strategy I am cognizant I am healing. The only way out, is through.

My joy, I relish in it. I’m nurturing it to expand and root into me, to penetrate the deepest layers of my realized self. To stroke the back of my wounded parts and accept the feel good nature of being good, at my core.