Trauma Healing – Becoming Unboxed

They Thanked Me for My Service. I Was Begging Them for Help.

I spent nearly half my life as a proud public servant. Twenty-six and a half years, to be exact.

How do you explain being a woman who proudly dedicated more than twenty-six years of her life to serving the people of Arkansas, only to find herself fighting the very government she spent her career serving?

How do you explain going from being a confident, respected professional to spending approximately nine months isolated in a windowless room?

How do you explain providing medical documentation, requesting reasonable accommodations, following procedures, and eventually seeking help from the highest office in the state, only to continue feeling unheard?

And perhaps the most important question of all:

Who protects the people who find the courage to speak up?

I used to believe that if I fought hard enough, someone at the top would care. That if the Governor of Arkansas knew what was happening inside the walls of one of her agencies, she would say, “Enough.”

But how would she know?

When an employee repeatedly asks for help, how far do those concerns travel? Who is responsible for ensuring they reach someone with the authority to act?

I didn’t know.

I still don’t know exactly what reached Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders personally.

What I do know is that I spent more than twenty-six years serving the State of Arkansas, and when I desperately needed someone to help me, I found myself fighting to be heard.

The Woman I Used to Be

I was proud of my work.

I appreciated the citizens I served, the relationships I established, and the taxpayers whose contributions paid my salary.

I believed in the rule of law and doing what was right.

I never assumed doing the right thing would always be easy. I asked questions. I challenged decisions. I wasn’t always the easiest person to agree with.

But I believed that when something wasn’t right, we had a responsibility to fix it.

On December 11, 2023, I experienced a sexual assault during my lunch break.

I reported what happened.

I never could have imagined that the events and decisions that followed would nearly destroy the woman I had spent a lifetime becoming.

I was transferred away from the workplace and county I called home, away from the community I had watched grow and helped serve for decades.

The professional relationships, responsibilities, and identity I had spent years building were suddenly changed.

Eventually, I was placed in a small, windowless workspace that I came to call “the box.”

For approximately nine months, there were no windows, no ordinary conversations with coworkers, no stopping by someone’s desk, and none of the everyday human interactions most people never give a second thought.

I was still an employee.

I still had a job to do.

But the physical circumstances of my workplace meant I could no longer interact with the community the way I once had.

Nobody had to explicitly tell me I was forbidden from seeing people.

The arrangement itself prevented those interactions.

Whether complete isolation was the intention or not, I lived with its consequences.

And I began losing the woman I had once been so proud to be.

The Agency That Was Supposed to Protect

There is an irony I have struggled to understand.

The Arkansas Department of Health is an agency whose mission centers on protecting the health and well-being of the people of Arkansas.

It works to protect children, promote public health, and connect people with resources during some of the most vulnerable moments of their lives.

We encourage people experiencing violence to seek help.

We tell people struggling with their mental health that their lives matter.

We promote prevention, intervention, and support.

Yet I was an employee of that very agency, trying desperately to recover from trauma while believing that the circumstances of my employment were making my recovery more difficult.

I provided medical documentation.

I requested accommodations.

I sought extensive treatment.

I followed procedures and continued performing my duties.

All while trying to hold on to the professional identity I had spent decades building.

I couldn’t understand how an agency dedicated to protecting people’s health could leave one of its own employees feeling so unprotected.

I couldn’t understand why the principles we promoted to the public seemed so difficult to find when I needed them myself.

And I couldn’t understand why I had to fight so hard simply to continue working while trying to heal.

A Governor Who Speaks of Families and Mental Health

As a woman and a mother, I have listened to Governor Sarah Huckabee Sanders speak about the importance of families, children, and mental health.

I have watched policies change to provide benefits to mothers that were not available to me when my own children were born.

I am glad that mothers today have opportunities and protections that women before them did not receive.

Progress matters.

But I also know what it feels like to be a mother, a woman, and a longtime public employee whose needs seemed to fall somewhere outside those public commitments.

How can we advocate for mental health while allowing employees to struggle under working conditions they believe are harming their recovery?

How can we encourage women to speak up about violence while leaving those who do speak up feeling abandoned?

How can we say families matter without recognizing what happens to an entire family when one person is struggling simply to survive another day?

These are not questions I ask because I oppose progress.

I ask them because I believe those values should apply to everyone.

Including the people who serve the government itself.

They Thanked Me for My Service

Eventually, I reached out to Governor Sanders’s office.

More than once.

I wanted someone to understand what had happened to me.

Not simply that I was unhappy with my job.

Not that I disagreed with a supervisor.

But that I had experienced a sexual assault, that my life had changed, and that I was desperately trying to recover while continuing to serve the state.

I later received a response from the Governor’s office.

It thanked me for my service.

And I want to be fair about that.

Someone responded.

Someone acknowledged my years of public employment.

But what I needed was more than acknowledgment.

I needed to know whether anyone had examined the circumstances I was describing.

Whether anyone had questioned how an employee with decades of service, medical documentation, and requests for accommodation had reached such a desperate point.

Whether anyone was willing to look beyond the correspondence and see the human being behind it.

The response did not provide those answers.

I cannot say what Governor Sanders personally knew or whether she ever read my letters.

But I can tell you what receiving that acknowledgment felt like.

They thanked me for my service. I was begging them for help.

And those are two very different things.

When Being Heard Becomes Another Battle

There is something particularly painful about trying to explain suffering to an institution through paperwork.

You learn to document everything.

Dates.

Conversations.

Medical appointments.

Requests.

Responses.

You become increasingly skilled at describing what happened while becoming increasingly exhausted by the need to explain it.

At some point, you begin to wonder how many times a person must ask for help before the request becomes something more than another document in another file.

I had spent my career believing in procedures, regulations, and accountability.

I knew why those systems existed.

But I also began to understand something I had never fully appreciated before.

A person can follow every procedure available to them and still feel completely powerless.

And the emotional consequences of that experience do not disappear simply because someone sends a polite letter.

Trauma changes how you experience the world.

It changes how sounds feel to your nervous system.

It changes your confidence, your concentration, your relationships, and sometimes even your willingness to leave your home.

Perhaps one of the hardest parts is remembering exactly who you used to be while desperately trying to understand why you cannot simply become that person again.

I missed her.

The woman who could walk into difficult situations without fear.

The woman who could challenge a decision and look someone directly in the eye.

The woman who believed she could make a difference.

I wondered whether I would ever find her again.

For too long, I wasn’t really living.

I was surviving until tomorrow.

And then trying to survive until the tomorrow after that.

Something Began to Change

Somewhere during that struggle, I began putting my experiences into words.

I began turning my pain into stories and art.

Not simply to describe what had happened to me, but because I wanted other people to recognize something of themselves in what I was writing.

The people carrying pain the world cannot see.

The people expected to continue functioning while their minds and bodies are struggling to survive.

The people who have been told to speak up, only to discover how difficult being heard can become.

I am not an angel.

I am not a saint.

And I am certainly not fearless.

But through all of it, one thing remained.

I still showed up.

I showed up even while afraid.

I showed up when I felt exhaustion in every fiber of my being.

I showed up when it would have been easier to disappear and allow my story to scatter into the wind like dandelion seeds.

Not because I had conquered every symptom or erased everything that happened.

But because I was beginning to understand that what happened to me does not get to decide the person I will become.

More Than an Acknowledgment

Somewhere along this journey, I began to recognize that this story was no longer just about me.

It was about every employee who has ever been afraid to report something wrong.

Every survivor of sexual assault who has questioned whether speaking up is worth the consequences that may follow.

Every person who has followed the rules, asked for help, and found themselves fighting a system they believed should protect them.

If this can happen to someone with decades of public service, professional expertise, medical documentation, and the determination to stand up for herself, what happens to the employee, the survivor, or the person who is too afraid to speak?

That is the question I cannot walk away from.

And it is why I want something more than an acknowledgment.

I am fighting for change.

I want protections that do not depend on how persistent an employee is or how many times they have to beg someone to listen.

I want meaningful accountability when a public employee reports an assault and subsequently experiences isolation, loss of professional responsibilities, or serious difficulties obtaining necessary accommodations.

I want independent oversight so employees are not left relying entirely on the institutions whose decisions they are questioning.

I want a system where seeking help does not become another battle that consumes years of someone’s life.

I want Melissa’s Law.

Not because I believe a law can erase what happened to me.

It can’t.

A law cannot give me back the nights I spent afraid, the months I spent isolated, or the pieces of myself I have struggled so hard to recover.

But perhaps it can help prevent someone else from experiencing the same thing.

Perhaps it can help ensure that the next person who finds the courage to speak up receives something more than a letter thanking them for their service.

Because public service should never require sacrificing your humanity.

And reporting an assault should not mean spending the following years fighting to recover your identity.

Becoming Heard

For more than twenty-six years, I served the people of Arkansas.

When I needed someone to protect the dignity and humanity I had spent my career extending to others, I found myself fighting to be heard.

I cannot change December 11, 2023.

I cannot recover every day I spent fighting to survive.

But I can decide what happens next.

For too long, all I was trying to do was survive until tomorrow.

Now, I want to believe in myself walking into tomorrow.

I have spent years trying to make people understand what happened to me.

Today, I want people to understand why it matters for everyone.

Because somewhere there is another employee afraid of losing a career. Another survivor wondering whether anyone will believe them. Another person who has convinced themselves that remaining silent is safer than asking for help.

Their voices matter.

Their dignity matters.

Their health matters.

And they deserve more than an acknowledgment.

They thanked me for my service.

I was begging them for help.

Now, I am demanding change.

The Voice on the Other End of the Line

One of the hardest things for a trauma survivor to do is reach outside their little bubble.

To move beyond the isolation that has started to feel safe.

To reach for another human being.

Another voice on the other end of the line.

Because after trauma, isolation can become comfortable in a strange way. Not because we necessarily want to be alone, but because being alone can feel safer than risking another misunderstanding, another dismissal, another judgment.

Sometimes healing begins with something that looks incredibly small from the outside.

Picking up the phone.

Sending a message.

Telling someone, “I’m not okay.”

And in the beginning of that journey, we are not expecting anyone to heal us.

We are not expecting another person to make us whole. We are not expecting one conversation, one relationship, one therapist, one medication, or one moment to suddenly make everything better.

Most of the time, we simply need someone willing to sit with us.

To listen.

To hear us.

Because something, someone, or some series of events hurt us deeply enough that, for a while, the expression of what happened may feel like one of the only things we still own.

Our words.

Our memories.

Our anger.

Our grief.

Our questions.

Our version of what happened to us.

Sometimes those expressions are all we have left while we are trying to understand who we are now.

That is why the response of the person on the other end matters so much.

It can take enormous courage to finally speak. And sometimes all it takes is one judgment for everything we have expressed outwardly to turn inward.

Suddenly, we are no longer simply saying, “I am hurting.”

We begin asking ourselves whether our pain means something is wrong with us.

Whether we should be further along.

Whether we are failing at recovery.

Whether what happened damaged us so completely that we will never find our way back to ourselves.

Whether we deserve pity instead of respect.

Whether we have somehow become something that should be judged instead of understood.

That is a tremendous amount of power contained in what can look like an ordinary human interaction.

The people we reach toward cannot heal us.

But their response can influence what happens next.

Whether they listen or dismiss.

Whether they stay or retreat.

Whether they make room for us or try to tell us who we should be.

Those moments can affect whether we are willing to reach outward again.

They can affect how safe connection feels.

They can even shape parts of who we become as we rebuild.

But there is another side to this.

No one person can protect another person from everything.

It simply is not possible.

We can stand beside someone.

We can warn them about danger.

We can try to shield them from pain.

We can carry what we are able to carry.

We can love someone so fiercely that we wish we could stand between them and every hurt, every disappointment, every loss, every sadness.

But we cannot live their life for them.

And sometimes, in trying so hard to protect someone we love, we unintentionally stand between them and something they need.

The chance to see clearly.

The chance to make their own choices.

The chance to discover what they are capable of.

The chance to decide what happiness looks like for them.

Protection can come from love.

But so can standing beside someone while allowing them to face what is theirs to face.

Because ultimately, most human beings are searching for many of the same things.

We want to be heard.

We want connection.

We want purpose.

We want some measure of happiness and productivity and the freedom to build a life that feels fulfilling to us.

The American ideal speaks of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

But happiness has never meant the same thing for everyone.

The clerk standing behind the counter at Dollar General may be every bit as content with their life as the millionaire sitting at the head of Walmart.

And either one can also be profoundly unhappy.

Money cannot tell us.

Titles cannot tell us.

Houses, accomplishments, jobs, and status cannot tell us what fulfillment looks like inside another human being.

And neither can we.

Maybe that is part of what we owe one another.

Not the promise that we can remove every painful thing from someone’s life.

Not the belief that we know what their happiness should look like.

Not the need to rescue, fix, or rewrite them.

Maybe what we owe one another is much simpler.

To listen.

To make room for another person’s expression without immediately turning it into a weakness, a failure, a diagnosis, or a judgment.

To trust that another human being knows something about their own life that we cannot possibly know for them.

To stand beside them without trying to become the author of their story.

There is a difference between saying,

“I will keep everything from touching you,”

and saying,

“Whatever happens, you will not have to face it alone.”

Friday Night Lights

I am here to support my son and his team on a beautiful fall evening. It feels almost surreal that nearly a year ago today, I could sit in these stands without trembling. Back then, I could feel the thud of the players’ feet, the sway of the bleachers, the contagious energy of youth—and still breathe without flinching.

I didn’t know then how sacred that internal calm had been. Back then, I just stayed somewhat numb to avoid the pain.

Now, every sound has a sharp edge. Every rhythm has a painful point my body still doesn’t know how to process it. The air hums with a tension that is somewhat unexplainable. A child keeps blowing a moose horn. I am sure they probably mean for it to distract the other team. Unfortunately for me, each blast feels like it’s aimed straight at my nervous system.

The Farmington High School Cardinals’ home field glows under the Friday night lights. In celebration of every touchdown, fireworks split the dark Ozark sky. They’re breathtaking against the untouched hills that form the backdrop of the stadium. The gentle rolling hills, full of natural beauty, still hide the stadium from the glare of city lights.

Yet for me, every explosion feels like an assault on my senses.

Gabe is a junior and not the starter. This is okay, because time moves like the blink of an eye. This is his last season as the low man on the totem pole. A place almost every adult who has played a sport remembers. With eight minutes left in the second quarter, our team is winning.

It is one of those moments when, as a parent, you find yourself hoping: Maybe he’ll get a chance to play but also realizing that this is someone else’s last season to shine.

After COVID, he found his love for football. When he was little, his autism made sports hard. We tried soccer and baseball. Instead of watching the batter, he would pick flowers in the outfield. Instead of kicking the soccer ball, he would follow the butterfly and go the other way.

So for him to thrive in football last year was incredible. I got to watch him come alive on the field. I got to watch my son find something that lit him up.

That was the first fall after the assault. I was already hypervigilant, but I could still gently calm myself enough to enjoy the energy of the crowd.

Then my employer force-transferred me into a confined, dark, cold closet.

After that, I developed a new kind of fear: agoraphobia.

Now I hear everything.

Every whisper. Every scrape. Every creak.

My ears became too alive, my body too aware. Even now, the faintest sound—a water bottle crinkling, a pen clicking—can feel like a warning:

Danger is near.

Friday night lights Farmington Cardinal Statium

Every touchdown brings another firework, another surge of beauty and panic intertwined. I watch colors bloom across the dark horizon, and I flinch anyway. The crowd cheers, and then the announcer plays “Kickstart My Heart.”

That song came out when I was in high school—when the world still felt wide open and loud in a good way. Hearing it now makes time fold in on itself, my youth and my son’s overlapping in the glow of the Friday night lights. In my mind, I can almost see the girl I was in those stands, laughing and carefree, unaware of what life would take and what it would teach.

The song’s the same, but I’m not.

Now it hits differently much louder somehow, as if it’s reminding me that my son is growing up inside the same rhythm that once carried me, and I’m fighting to stay steady enough to witness it.

My heart won’t stop. My mind won’t stop.

It feels like fighting a mental battle with the cancer of my memories—something that grows inside me without permission, spreading through nerves and thoughts alike. Surviving it feels like chemotherapy for the soul: exhausting, brutal, but necessary if I ever want to live again.

I look out onto the field and notice a girl with green cat-ear headphones snapping pictures of the team. I assume they are for the yearbook. Even though her ears are adorably covered, I notice that she, too, flinches when the fireworks burst.

I wonder if maybe she understands, or maybe she’s simply doing her job. Somehow, the reason doesn’t matter. Noticing her reaction steadies me. It reminds me that I may not be the only one enduring the noise in order to capture something that matters.

When the crowd gets too loud, I retreat to the concession stand and then find myself slipping beneath the bleachers to hide my tears from the world.

I know I am here because I love my son. I also refuse to let fear win.

Mind you, I know every part of me wants to go home. But I choose to stay, even while trembling, breathing too fast, and sick to my stomach. I remind myself that this moment matters.

Fighting through it matters.

Making moments become larger than pain matters.

I know trauma isn’t invisible; it’s physical. The symptoms I experience live in my bones, my pulse, in the way every nerve hums with false alarms. I carry it like a chronic illness—the cancer of memory that threatens to consume what’s left of my peace.

But I keep fighting, even if survival looks nothing like healing.

Tonight, I’m not whole. I’m not calm.

But I’m here.

I’m showing up in a place that once felt safe, even though it still hurts to inhabit. That, for now, is enough.

And as I look around, I wonder how many others are missing these moments.

It is not because they don’t care or because they don’t love deeply. I can promise you that is definitely not the case. The reason is much more complicated. Trauma or anxiety is stealing their sense of safety.

Maybe they’re sitting in parked cars outside stadiums or in dark rooms at home, wishing they could be there but unable to bear the noise from the internal alarm system trauma created.

One can only hope that maybe one day showing up won’t feel like survival for anyone who is suffering. Maybe one day the sun will set on our pain long enough for the celebration to feel like living.

Healing must be conducted personally, but suffering should never have to be.

I want others to know they are truly not sitting in the stands alone.

I am right there next to you.

Let’s move toward healing together.

The Strength We Hide

There is something deeply human about the way we hide our suffering.

It is not vanity. It is not pride. It is fear. Ancient and instinctive. The fear that if others see how much we are hurting, they will decide we are no longer worthy of standing where we once stood. That our pain disqualifies us. That our suffering is evidence of weakness rather than survival.

So we learn to tuck it away. We learn to smile carefully. We learn which parts of ourselves are acceptable to show and which parts must remain hidden, even in the moments when we need connection the most. Suffering becomes private not because it is shameful, but because the world has taught us that pain invites judgment.

And judgment isolates.

As I began my healing journey, still very early, incredibly fragile, somewhere in the first steps of learning how to live inside my own mind again. After the chaos and harm of the past few years of torment and self judgement; I found myself reaching outward. Not widely. Carefully. Toward the people who had reached for me before, even briefly. A call here. A text there. Small gestures that carried enormous weight.

One person, in particular, kept returning to my thoughts.

I had known her for nearly a quarter of a century, a lifetime by many measures. I could remember the first inspection we ever did together. I was still green, still learning, and she was brand new. Back then, even if you were fresh at your job, you taught the next person who walked through the door. We walked into a restaurant so infested with cockroaches that when you pulled the paper towels from the dispenser, the roaches came spilling out with them.

It was horrific.

And yet, it was also a place of happiness for her. It was where she had gone after getting engaged to the man who would become her lifelong partner. Someone who would stand beside her through everything that came after. I remember thinking, even then, that she had found something rare. I never envied her for it, but I noticed it. I admired it. I always had.

Over the decades, she became woven into the fabric of my life. She came to my wedding. She arrived as a brand-new mother of her second child, carrying that soft, luminous exhaustion that only new mothers have. I still remember how her face glowed illuminating beauty. A lot of pride and exhaustion all wrapped into one. Her smile carried warmth, happiness into the room. I remember how deeply it mattered to me that she was there, standing beside me in that moment of my life. Not out of obligation, but because she chose it. I realized presence is its own form of loyalty.

After that, she came to my son’s first birthday.

It was one of those ordinary milestones that doesn’t feel ordinary when you look back—balloons, laughter, the chaos of a one-year-old discovering the world. And there she was again. Showing up. Witnessing. Standing inside the small, meaningful moments that quietly build a life.

Those memories stayed with me.

And then, at one point in her life, she became ill.

Cancer.

The word itself carries judgment, whether we admit it or not. The world looked at her differently—not because of who she was or what she had built, but because she had been sick. People quietly decided she was no longer capable. No longer reliable. No longer the same.

Watching that happen to her impacted me. And now, as I look back, I realize she probably understood what I am going through now more than almost anyone else ever could.

Because I, too, have been judged not by my competence or my history, but by my pain. I have been treated as though being hurt means being diminished. As though suffering cancels out worth. And when institutions reinforce that lie, the trauma mind absorbs it. Begins to believe it. Begins to whisper that maybe they are right.

—Still, even during my darkest years, the years I wanted to give up and give the world a pass and just let the darkness absorb me, even when I couldn’t see in myself what I outwardly carried, she would tell me she envied my strength.

Strength, in my world, has never been abstract. I have a daughter with diabetes, and I have raised a son who taught me that every child asks something different of their mother. It required different patience, different advocacy, different ways of staying steady when life gets hard.

A diabetic child is a whole different layer of trauma and fear. It was measured in blood sugar checks and sleepless nights, in vigilance that never turns off, in learning how to stay calm when your child’s life depends on your steadiness. My friend saw that. She named it in words that have never left me., “They say God doesn’t give you more than you can handle, but sometimes I’m not sure what God’s plan was for you.“

She didn’t say it lightly. She didn’t say it cruelly. She said it with awe. With concern. With the quiet recognition that what I had been asked to carry was heavy—perhaps heavier than anyone should have to bear.

At the time, I didn’t know how to receive that. Trauma has a way of convincing you that endurance is not strength, just obligation. That surviving does not count if you are exhausted while doing it.

Something in me kept thinking of her. It was the same quiet, persistent pull I’ve felt my whole life. A mental pull, the one my grandmother, Rose used to talk about. She would call one of her children or grandchildren by the wrong name, then laugh and say, “They must be thinking of me” And most of the time, she was right. Someone would call. Someone would show up. Time and distance would collapse into closeness.

I think I inherited that from her. That empathetic sixth sense. The feeling in the pit of my stomach when someone’s name won’t let go.

So I reached out.

She is a cancer survivor, nearly ten years strong. But survival does not always erase the fear. The possibility of its return can linger quietly in the back of the mind, creating its own kind of darkness. Doubt. Questions about value. Questions about the future. Questions about whether the world might once again reduce a person to a diagnosis.

I want to stand beside her.

Because her illness never diminished her worth. It shook her confidence. It challenged her sense of self. But it did not erase the truth of who she is deep inside; a remarkable mother, a devoted partner, a capable leader, a woman who built something extraordinary even when fear told her she might lose everything.

During the recession, she worried she wouldn’t be able to feed her family. Later, she and her husband built an empire. An empire she still doesn’t fully recognize as evidence of her own strength. Suffering has a way of blinding us to our greatness. It teaches us to fixate on the fractures and ignore the structure still standing.

And here I am still isolated, still crying, unable to put up my Christmas decorations because I don’t yet know how to feel joy again. I don’t know how to live the way I once did. But I want joy for her. I want peace for her. I want her to see what I see.

I want her to know that what the world calls kryptonite was never weakness at all.

Trauma does not require a single violent incident to nearly destroy us. It can come from prolonged judgment. From betrayal by systems we trusted. From having our identities questioned and our value reduced to what we can produce rather than who we are.

A lawsuit can be trauma.
An institution turning against you can be trauma.
Having your faith in yourself put on trial can be trauma.

Kindness, then, becomes resistance.

Standing beside someone and saying, I see you. I know your strength. You are still worthy, is not softness. It is defiance against a world that confuses suffering with failure.

Watching my friend continue to fight, continue to live, to build, to love someone who internally feels so unlovable as me, helps inch me closer to remembering the life I once had. The strength I outwardly showed the world that I couldn’t internally allow myself to feel. It allows joy to return slowly, alongside the pain, rather than being consumed by it.

And maybe that is how healing works.

Not all at once.
Not loudly.

But through remembering one another.

Through refusing to let suffering be the final word.

Through choosing to see strength where the world looks away.

By building strength in those around us, by remembering that everyone is fighting an internal battle, and by rolling up our own sleeves to help the person beside us, that strength may become bright enough to light the way.

The Way My Mind Remembers : Trauma, Memory, and the Pain of Healing

People have often asked me how it is that I’m able to remember so many details.

The truth is, I don’t remember quite as well as I once did. A lifetime of incredibly difficult and unusual circumstances, wrapped up in the word trauma, changed the way my mind holds onto things.

Trauma has a way of affecting even someone who once could catalog everything in their mind down to the smallest detail.

That does not make me extraordinarily brilliant.

Quite the contrary.

I learned that much of my ability to remember came from my life circumstances. Somewhere along the way, remembering became one of the most important parts of me.

Maybe it came from what life threw at me.

Maybe it came from something much simpler.

I never wanted to be forgotten.

Maybe that is part of why I learned to remember so much. I remembered the details of people—their words, their faces, the things that mattered to them—because remembering felt important.

If I remembered you, you mattered. And somewhere inside me, I wanted to know that I mattered enough to be remembered too.

Remembering was also a defense mechanism because I never wanted to allow myself to become trapped, questioned, or ridiculed in a harmful situation again.

It is hard to explain what it feels like to have a mind shaped by trauma while trying to work through it, heal from it, and explain to others how deeply life’s experiences can become ingrained—so deeply that they are physically felt too.

I can often remember the sounds from an event—the flashes of light, the temperature—before I remember the words in the conversation.

I can remember the feeling in my chest before I remember the words someone spoke to me.

I can remember how the light shined.

I can remember their faces as they walked out of the room.

And sometimes I can still almost see the silence—the cold shoulder, the lack of empathy or care, the way someone can throw silence at you.

Maybe this is simply one of the skills a trauma survivor develops.

I can remember the weight of each moment as though my nervous system were keeping its own journal, a record of both positive and negative memories.

Other people may be able to remember joy simply as happiness. I often feel as though I remember all of it—the joy, the fear, the atmosphere, the weight of the moment—as though my nervous system is always keeping score because it never completely rests.

Maybe that is because I don’t simply remember what happened.

I experience it over and over again.

There is another part that has always been difficult to explain, and sometimes it can make you feel incredibly alone.

What can feel like a trauma survivor’s superpower is the nervous system’s ability to brace and sense, with every fiber of your being, the potential danger that may be around you.

Is that why, when I see memories, it feels as though I’m watching a movie from the outside?

Watching every scene of that memory, whether it is positive or negative?

Is that why I need to remember the whole thing?

But remembering everything is painful—the bad and the good.

Maybe that is part of why surviving trauma can feel so lonely. Life itself can become a painful, constantly on-guard experience.

It is hard to explain how you can see yourself standing somewhere and know what is about to happen. As you watch every moment unfolding in the past, you wish you could reach through the screen of your mind and change the ending.

I can’t.

No one who has survived incredibly difficult and complicated circumstances, all wrapped up in the word trauma, and made it to the other side can reach backward and change what happened.

Even though every fiber of your being can make it feel as though it is happening again, the movie always plays the same way.

For many years, I wondered if something was wrong with me because my memories felt different.
My descriptions felt deeper.

My words seemed to touch people as I told them the complicated stories of life with a passion that made them want to hear more.

I suppose it is only now that I understand that this is simply the way my mind learned to survive something overwhelmingly painful.

It is through this realization that I have changed the way I look at myself.

I no longer judge myself because a sound makes my heart race or because a memory arrives carrying the same physical sensations it carried the first time around.

I understand now that my body was paying attention even when my mind was desperately trying to survive.

Maybe that is why I remember so much.
My memories were never stored only as stories.
They were stored as sounds.

As sensations.

As images.

As fear.

As silence.

And remembering is painful whether the memory is bad or good.

Maybe this is what defines trauma healing and why it is so painful, because the pain is what stops or stalls the healing process.

So for now, I write these stories not because I could change anything when those things happened, but because I am no longer trapped as the woman inside those scenes.

Now I am also the woman watching—and healing in the process.

My hope is that, as you read these stories, you see yourself not in my incredibly difficult circumstances or trauma, but as the individual trying to change your own scene, grow, and heal outside of the trauma that has defined so much of your life.

Maybe healing is learning that trauma can be part of your story without being the only thing that defines you.