I have worked at the coalface of violence and trauma healing for over three decades.
And it shows.
Not just in the skills and knowledge I have learnt over this time.
Or the incredible humans I have had the honour of walking alongside.
But also, in my own nervous system.
These experiences and stories have left their somatic imprint.
A pattern within me, that at times can still fire up and constrict me.
It catches me unaware when I am stressed, tired or worn down.
A news story.
Another injustice.
Sometimes even watching my teenage boys on the football field.
A whiff of the pungent stench of potential familiar violence can sometimes still flip me.
My jaw tightens.
My gut twists.
My fists begin to curl.
My breath shallows and I can feel the fragmentation of old rage begin.
I hold it well.
I’m practiced at doing this.
But I feel its resonance all the same.
Sometimes its lack of resolve renders me sleepless in the early hours.
Wrestling with old images, thoughts and stories.
Tendrils of vicious trauma.
The despair at a world that never seems to change is sometimes simply overwhelming.
I am not alone in this space.
I stand alongside many others who work with survivors and victims of violence.
This work is hard.
It takes its toll.
It’s accumulative and ripples into our bodies and personal relating.
It shapes us and quite frankly is, at times indigestible.
Recently, I noticed the familiar constriction emerge in me during a business meeting.
It was fast that day and tracked quickly.
It shut me down and I felt angry and adverse.
My night was restless and I felt alone.
Bound in my own personal reactivity.
The discomfort was palpable.
My mind raced trying to find relief.
I tossed and turned. Paced, read and shifted positions.
And then…. a shift, an awareness trickled in.
I recognised the pattern.
The seeds of which had been planted over thirty years ago.
The two-edged sword where meaningful purpose meets the reality of human violence.
I noticed how constricted my body felt.
My mind wrestled with meaning making as I desperately tried to escape.
It only made things worse.
So, I changed tac.
I felt the softness of the mattress.
The support of the pillow.
I used my breath to let go.
I remembered I am not alone and called in my allies.
I felt for the Earth that holds me and my bones began to soften.
I sobbed.
Allowed the silent scream.
And slowly the tightness began to let go.
I found a slither.
A tiny thread of spaciousness.
Of choice.
I tugged on it gently and felt for more.
What did this tendril connect to?
I noticed and stayed attentive to the sensation.
Feeling for more space to emerge.
I could breathe.
My jaw began to let go.
I could feel the relief and stayed with it.
The container within me was opening.
I trust and know this space and allowed more.
In the morning, I felt the shift and could see the beauty around me again.
I noticed my openness to possibility and returned to unfinished conversations more available to explore.
I noticed my limits without charge.
And named them clearly.
This is a constant practice and edge for me.
Years of supporting survivors of sexual trauma and violence has left its mark.
One I have a responsibility to tend to.
