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.”
Becoming Unboxed 