I’m coming to the unfortunate realization that the state of my mental health is directly dependent on how much time I spend online.

Picking up my phone and having a little doomscroll has become my socially acceptable self-soothing mechanism. I am able to look at that screen and effortlessly dissociate. It gives me a helpful amount of space from my life… until it doesn’t.

Until I start comparing my life to everyone else’s. Until I realize that they’re right, comparison really is the thief of joy. Until that uncomfortable, antsy, restless feeling of feeling so far away from where I want to be right now bubbles up to the surface. And I can’t seem to push it back down. Until the spiral continues into one of dysregulation, self-loathing, and despair.

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But wait, let me give you my excuses for it!!

A lot of what I do in terms of content creation literally forces me to be online! I scroll to get inspiration and stay tuned into what’s working right now! I have to open those apps to post the content that I planned out on Sunday! If I don’t post a few reels and a carousel every single week then my accounts won’t grow! And I’m already falling behind so I gotta get to it!

And also the work that I do offline is really fucking hard! Every week for the past year I have been showing up in spaces to do individual therapy, group therapy, to facilitate trauma-informed yoga classes in jail, a crisis center, and a recovery center, and I give Reiki sessions to people with substance use and mental health disorders and I’m constantly co-regulating others so I deserve a break! Let me tap out and scroll! Let me distract myself from all of the pain in this world!

I could go on…

I could endlessly rationalize why I have been turning to this little rectangular device to cope. But the rationalizing doesn’t erase the negative consequences that I inevitably come face-to-face with when I spend too much time on my phone.

It’s like the more I’m on my phone, the further away from myself I get. I get lost in the overwhelm of seeing 100 different people living 100 different lives, all of which are reflecting back to me what I don’t have.

I drown in it. I feel like shit.

Until eventually, I hit the same breaking point where I finally get so exhausted that I Brick my phone and force myself to do something else. Or I just go to sleep.

But is it really that damn phone?

Right now I live apart from my boyfriend and I only see him on the weekends. That time spent together is so limited and so sacred that my phone use plummets. I’m infinitely more present. And my vision expands to include all of the incredible blessings that are already flowing in and out of my life. It’s just that I’ve finally slowed down enough to actually see them.

So it makes me sit back and wonder, is it really that damn phone? Or is it the overstimulating, overwhelming, and under-nourishing environment I constantly feel compelled to escape from?

I don’t think this is an issue of discipline or willpower, I think it’s an issue of disconnection.

Because when I slow down and feel connected to the present moment, myself, the people, and the world around me, the phone loses its grip on me. The compulsion is gone. There is nothing to run away from.

And you cannot solve a disconnection problem by restricting access to the thing you are using to cope with the disconnection... You solve it by actually addressing the disconnection…

The phone use is not the root problem. The phone use might be the most obvious symptom. And like every other behavior we reach for when we are trying to cope with pain, it is just information. It is telling us that something is missing. And then we go from there.

What the fuck are we doing?

I’m still working on and trying to figure out how to be in right relationship with my phone. Brick has helped a lot. Spending the weekends immersed in the present moment with my soulmate is quite effective too. It helps me step away from work stress and break the cycle of self-imposed pressure, comparison, overthinking, and constant rushing.

And (I’m gonna keep it real here) still, the pull always finds a sneaky way to return.

To pick up my phone again and again, for a reason or for no reason at all. To open this app and then check that app. To read that email, and then stress about it. To compare my life to a stranger’s.

UGH.

The other day I was driving through my town’s square on the way to yoga. At a red light I stop to look around, and I notice that a disproportionate amount of people are all looking down at their phones, completely disconnected from everything happening around them.

A couple is walking together but each looking somewhere else. Someone waiting for coffee while looking down at a screen. Someone pushing a stroller with one hand while on their phone with the other. I feel the weight of my phone sitting on my lap and I think, what the fuck are we doing?

What the fuck am I doing?

We’re all here, but are we actually here?

I am only going to live this life once, so why is this stupid little rectangle consuming so much of my time and energy? Why am I letting it negatively impact my mental health?

There isn’t going to be a solution here because I am not on the other side of this (and I know I’m not going to trade my iPhone for a flip phone, no matter how much I want to).

What I can say is that I’m committed to figuring out a better relationship with my phone. And I think it starts with enough presence to sit with whatever uncomfortable feeling I’m trying to run away from, and then go from there.

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So instead of giving you another list of things you “should” do to fix your phone habits, here are a few questions I've been sitting with myself:

• What am I usually feeling right before I reach for my phone?

• What does scrolling give me that I might be needing in that moment?

• How do I typically feel after 10 minutes of scrolling? An hour?

• What kind of content consistently leaves me feeling worse about myself or my life? What kind of content leaves me feeling connected, inspired, or lit up?

• When was the last time I felt completely present without my phone? What was I doing? Who was I with? What did that experience give me?

Grab your journal and take a moment to reflect.

Want to drop into your body instead of scroll on your phone? Tune into this yoga class to create a felt sense of internal + external safety:

I turned my iPhone into a “dumb phone” (for free)

I recently learned about Assistive Access within iPhone settings and how you can use it to make your smartphone feel a lot more like a “dumb phone” without actually buying one.

I made a tutorial on how to set it up. Watch the step-by-step process on my Instagram here, or follow these simple instructions:

• Open Settings on your iPhone.

• Tap Accessibility.

• Scroll down and tap Assistive Access.

• Tap Set Up Assistive Access.

• Choose how you want your apps and screen to be displayed.

• Choose which apps you want available in Assistive Access.

• Set a passcode for entering and exiting Assistive Access.

• Tap Start Using Assistive Access.

• To exit Assistive Access, triple-click the side button and enter your Assistive Access passcode.

• Play around with it and make it feel like your own.

I don’t keep my phone in Assistive Access all day, but every single night I turn it on so that in the morning I am met with an under stimulating screen, and I keep it that way until after lunch. I am finding this incredibly helpful in limiting my social media and phone use.

I also love how you really have to pause and wait to enter/exit Assistive Access. I make myself have a little moment of mindfulness.

AND I also want to hold myself accountable to not letting this become the only thing I rely on. I still want to pay attention to my emotional state and my thoughts whenever I feel that strong urge to scroll and dissociate.

I hope this is helpful, and I also hope you feel less alone if you are intensely struggling with phone use.

This is a reflective workshop focused on deconstructing black-and-white thinking around safety in our bodies, relationships, and lives. Through education, discussion, and journaling prompts, explore how to identify and navigate the nuances of the spectrum of safety in your daily life.

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A couple weeks ago I went to my fourth J. Cole concert.

Yes, my fourth.

I know it may come as a surprise that a trauma-informed therapist-in-training and free spirited yoga teacher is a massive J. Cole fan with a LOVE YOURZ tattoo on her leg…

And I may have been the only person at the concert wearing Birkenstocks…

BUT if you listen closely, J. Cole drops some incredibly wise and spiritually expansive stuff. He is constantly navigating crossroads and intentionally figuring out the life he wants for himself, all within the public eye. It’s next level.

The post-concert depression was hitting me really hard because this very well could have been the last J. Cole concert that I ever get to go to. It was The Fall Off Tour, for the album he has been notoriously teasing as his last album since 2018.

The concert takes you on a journey from his come up in the rap game to where he is now: one of the greats. Of course he plays his hit songs but he also plays the songs that shaped his career and who he is today. He does all of this with his Honda Civic on stage, the car he sold his first mixtapes out of.

We see how all of his dreams became actualized. He said he was going to do it, and then he really fucking did it. His story is one of hope and inspiration and confusion and refusing to give up.

And this is all pushing me towards existential crisis.

Because I am starting to realize that whenever I have these incredibly connected, expansive, psychedelic experiences, it feels impossible for me to just be in them and then just… live on.

No no no I don’t want to let go of my grip on this!!!

I want it back and I want to live it over and over again!!!

It’s because it was so meaningful. And meaningful moments have a way of forcing me to confront the ridiculous idea that I want my whole damn life to feel like this.

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So naturally, I am questioning my entire life as I show up in jail to facilitate yoga classes as I do every Tuesday. I am happy to be there, selfishly in hopes that it will help balance out my brain chemicals and re-orient me to the meaning that I am always able to locate in my work.

Now, I don’t ever walk into jail to “make a change” or “save anyone” (even though yoga did, in part, save me). I go in there to offer the possibility of a new experience. Of feeling a little more present in one’s body. Of someone showing up at the same time every week. Of mutuality. Of being seen. Of experiencing a little lightness and playfulness through movement in a place where life can feel really fucking heavy and dysregulating and unsafe.

Maybe someone takes something from that experience and maybe they don’t. Maybe it is helpful that day and maybe it isn’t. I’m not there to decide what it means for anyone else. I’m just there to offer the possibility of something different. Take it or leave it.

Well it’s the Tuesday after J. Cole & I’m trying to get back into some sort of meaningful rhythm and the guys in the first unit we go to say “leave it.”

For the first time in 6 months of yoga classes in jail, I’m stood up! No takers.

I accept it for the cosmic lesson that it feels to be: “nah, you’re not going to get your meaning here either.”

Okay. Ugh. Noted.

What is this human fascination with meaning?

Why does it feel so urgent? Why do I feel so far away from myself when meaning is lacking? Why does the concert have to end and why do I inevitably spiral into existential crisis?

I looked into it.

You might have heard of Abraham Maslow from his hierarchy of needs, but he also spent a lot of his career studying what he called peak experiences.

Peak experiences are those moments of intense joy, connection, oneness, awe, and aliveness that feel spiritual almost to the point of transcendence. Peak experiences stand out from your everyday life and the memory of them is lasting. It’s like they’re processed and stored differently (think: “core memories”).

To illustrate some examples, it’s that feeling of watching a sunset and being fully content. It’s that feeling of being in love: with another person, with an animal, with a moment, with life. It’s that feeling of utter conviction that yeah… everything is actually going to be okay. You are stopped in your tracks. You lose track of time. You are present. You are fulfilled.

Maslow believed these experiences were not anomalies and that they were actually proof of what we are capable of feeling.

But he couldn’t ignore what comes after peak experiences…

The restlessness and flatness that comes with the crash. The ordinary Tuesday that feels, quite literally, unbearable by comparison. The way life feels like it loses some vibrancy. The grasping and futile attempts to recreate the peak experience and then the questioning of why nothing seems to measure up.

This part really fucking sucks. But it happens for a reason.

The high fades because it was always meant to fade. Because it has to fade. The meaning of the moment was never meant to sustain us forever. It was meant to show us something. And we can try and fight it but life was always meant to then continue on. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be as meaningful to begin with.

Why meaning matters so much

Psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, Victor Frankl, wrote the book Man’s Search for Meaning after surviving four concentration camps.

It was written after observing that the people who survived longest were not necessarily the strongest or the healthiest, but the ones who could find meaning even amidst unimaginable suffering.

He argues that the primary human drive is not pleasure or power, but meaning. We are meaning-making creatures at the most fundamental level and we just can’t help it!

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And I think this is especially true when it comes to trauma.

Because trauma can feel inherently meaningless. It can feel chaotic and random and senseless and it can so effortlessly destroy the ideas that we have about ourselves and how the world works and what we deserve and what is safe.

In the aftermath of that destruction, the search for meaning becomes more urgent because we are helpless without it. We become desperate for meaning: Why did this happen? What am I supposed to do with this now? How am I supposed to make sense of this? How am I supposed to live on?

The hunger for meaning is one of the most human responses to suffering there is. If we do not have meaning to hold onto, we are unable to make sense of it. If we are unable to make sense of it, it can quickly turn into a self-blaming narrative. A toxic shame spiral. You know how it goes…

Peak experiences as touchstones

That concert moved me so deeply because I have known what it feels like to be disconnected from aliveness.

The peak hits so hard when you know what the valley feels like…

Maslow called these peak experiences touchstones. They are not the goal of life but they are the moments you can return to in your memory when you forget what is possible. When you forget that this depth of feeling does exist inside you. When you forget that this capacity for awe, contentment, fulfillment, joy, and love always has been and always will be yours.

And ultimately, I think we really need these touchstones, because it can be so easy to forget.

Trauma loves to transport us back into the past and back into past versions of ourselves and convince us that we will never feel safe, connected, or happy again.

But we can orient back towards our peak experiences and then back to the present moment and tell our trauma to shut the fuck up. It’s not true. I experienced this and it was real. And nothing can take that away from me.

The unfortunate truth is that my whole life is never going to be made up entirely of peak experiences. But I can remember my peak experiences and bring those feelings back into my “ordinary” Tuesday or my really shitty Monday. I can drink a cappuccino and feel hope again. I can turn my face to the sun. I can laugh with my friends. I can pet my cat. I can breathe in and breathe out.

I am working on being present in the peak experience and I am working on expanding my capacity to be present in the “mundane” experiences.

And to end this full circle let me bring it back to J. Cole, who reminds us in his hit song Love Yourz that there’s always going to be someone with a nicer house, better clothes, more money, more success, more whatever.

And you can fantasize and compare all you want, but you are never going to be happy until you love the life that is yours!! And that actually, there is no such thing as a life that is better than yours!! Because it’s yours!!

And through writing this I realize that a meaningful life is not one that is made up of endless peak experiences (even if I think that I want it to be).

A meaningful life is one where I am present enough to notice how meaningful it already is.

This short somatic meditation is a chance to practice finding safety in two places: in your external environment and within yourself.

Using pendulation, we move back and forth between noticing something around you that feels grounding, okay, or safe enough — and then noticing an internal experience that feels grounding, okay, or safe enough.

Come back to this (and take the technique with you!) whenever you feel disconnected, overwhelmed, or when you need a reminder that safety can exist both around you and within you.

*The full somatic meditation is for members only.

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• we are not safe

• our bodies are not safe

• people are not safe

• the world is not safe

In this trauma-informed yoga class we move through different shapes, flows, and somatic skills to re-teach our bodies that:

• “maybe I’m safe enough right now.”

• “maybe this moment is okay.”

• “maybe feeling something different is possible.”

*The full class is for members only.

Upgrade your subscription to unlock this entire class and other exclusive resources within the Feel Something ꩜ content library.

Learn more about becoming a member here.

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I have sat with a lot of frustration in my own life and I have sat with a lot of frustration in therapy rooms with others. Especially the frustration that comes up when you’re dealing with the same shit you worked so hard to heal from.

Ugh. It can be a tough one to sit with. It can unravel us with ease.

We are really good at examining our patterns, picking them apart, and intellectualizing them until there’s nothing left. But what do we do when we understand the pattern and we’re still entrenched in it? When we know why we do what we do, but nothing feels like it is actually changing?

I think this is an especially important time to remember neuroplasticity, the scientifically proven idea that our brains can quite literally reorganize and rewire at any point in our lives.

And we can support that neuroplastic change by giving ourselves the right conditions to practice something different over and over again.

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I hate to break it to you, but you are never going to be able to hate yourself into change. Believe me, I have tried. It doesn’t work. You cannot shame yourself into being someone different.

You cannot beat your darkness to death with a baseball bat. You must turn on the light.

(Marianne Williamson said that)

We have to be willing to meet ourselves exactly where we are if we want to create and experience something different. And we have to be willing to love ourselves there. Right at the wound.

When we spiral back into old behaviors, maybe we shouldn’t be asking “what the fuck is wrong with me?” Instead, maybe we should try asking “I wonder why this happened again?”

Maybe we do not have to interrogate as the harsh inner critic who is armed and ready to punish, but instead inquire as a close friend that’s genuinely curious about what is going on with us. When we step out of judgment and into curiosity, we will have a much greater chance of being able to turn and face ourselves instead of running, avoiding, suppressing, or numbing.

This is a lesson I have been learning and witnessing.

One of my favorite parts about sitting in the therapist-in-training chair is being able to facilitate an open exploration by throwing out these heavy, loaded questions (knowing that I won’t have to answer them). And I won’t lie, I’ve posed some questions to clients that I, too, have been seeking answers to for a long time…

It is 9:45am on a gray Monday morning at a recovery center for people with substance use and mental health disorders. And in response to someone’s share I turn it back over to the group and ask, “Okay, well how do we change?”

Yeah, loaded question.

It is pretty quiet until someone eventually says “I think it just takes time.”

The response lingers amidst the heaviness in the room but we all recognize that we just came face to face with a simple and profound and undeniable truth.

It opens up space for more honest conversation, and then a client who I meet with individually every week chimes in with a metaphor I shared with him:

“You know, this reminds me of what you told me Francesca, that a lot of our behaviors run on a four lane highway. It’s effortless and they move fast. But every time we make a different choice, we don’t take the four lane highway, we take the small footpath through the woods. And that path isn’t as easy but every time we take it, it starts to get a little wider and a little clearer and a little easier.”

(Shoutout to Andrew Huberman for that wisdom and shoutout to my client for bringing that into the room).

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That, is how neuroplasticity happens.

The four-lane highway is the familiar route; the well-worn response.

The small footpath is the unfamiliar route; slightly inconvenient; but it’s there.

And it is not going to be the overnight transformation that we all so desperately want, but that is how we change: by stretching ourselves to take that small foot path through the woods over and over again. By strengthening what feels unfamiliar.

Through repetition. Practice. Time.

And what’s really cool is that every time we slip back into an old pattern, it doesn’t mean that we’ve erased all of the work we've already done. The footpath is not obliterated. We can fuck up and then return. We can remind ourselves that sometimes it just takes time.

A client shared something that Giannis Antetokounmpo said in response to being asked “do you view this season as a failure?” after exiting the playoffs. It’s a two minute video, you should watch it.

Giannis gets visibly frustrated before making the point that there is no failure in sports because every year you're working toward something. It's all steps.

I can also assert with confidence that there is no failure in this whole “healing journey” thing either…

There will be many slow steps and many detours. There will be days where you sprint down the four-lane highway. There will be days where you have the capacity to take the footpath. There will be days where you completely forget that the footpath is an option.

Until eventually, you notice that something that used to feel impossible is starting to feel a little easier.

There are days when I run group therapy where I’m thinking why am I doing this😭 and then there are days when I run group therapy where I’m thinking this is so fucking meaningful🥹

These 900 clinical internship hours have challenged me, humbled me, and impacted me in so many unexpected ways. That is an essay for another day (soon).

So, what do we do when we’re dealing with the same shit that we worked so hard to heal from?

• We remove the self-loathing, self-blame, and shame, and we get curious instead of judgmental.

• We meet ourselves exactly where we're at, and we practice loving ourselves there. Right at the wound.

• We remind ourselves that sometimes it just takes time.

• We find the small footpath through the woods and then we take it again. And again. And again.

That’s how we change and grow. By refusing to give up on ourselves.

If this resonates, you can become a member of Feel Something ꩜ and get access to trauma-informed yoga classes, somatic meditations, integration workshops, and resources all designed to create opportunities for new corrective experiences through movement, practice, reflection, repetition, and supportive community.

*You can save 30% on your membership plan until Friday 8/21!!

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Trigger warning: This essay discusses suicidal ideation and suicidal thoughts in depth. Please read carefully and at your own pace. If now isn't the right time, that's okay. Come back when (and if) it feels safer.

I posted this reel on Instagram last month and it got over 500K views and 42K likes.

Suicidal ideation is an incredibly painful and confusing experience to have. Suicidal ideation AND the invalidation that sometimes comes with it, is far worse.

Just because suicidal ideation is “passive” and does not always lead to an attempt, crisis, or hospitalization, does not make it any less real.

I want to say that again and again until you believe me.

Just because suicidal ideation is “passive” and does not always lead to an attempt, crisis, or hospitalization, does not make it any less real.

When people saw this message put into words on their screen, the comments got flooded. There was people expressing gratitude for the validation, there was a lot of pain and a lot of support from strangers who didn’t even know each other, and there was a lot of continuing conversation on what suicidal ideation is and can look like.

Let’s talk about it.

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Suicidal thoughts happen on a spectrum. Sometimes, there is the fleeting, passive thoughts that drift in and out without intention or plan. They might sound something like:

• “I wish I could just disappear.”

• “I wouldn't mind if I didn't wake up tomorrow.”

• “Everyone would be better off without me.”

• “I don't want to die, but I don't really want to keep living.”

Other times, these thoughts are intrusive, relentless, and lead to action.

There is a difference between these passive thoughts, and more active thoughts involving intent, planning, or preparation to end one’s life.

But just because they are different, does not mean one is real and the other isn’t.

One of the biggest misconceptions about suicidal ideation is that people think it only counts if someone has a plan or an intent to act on it. This is not true.

Above all, passive suicidal ideation needs to be taken seriously because no one deserves to carry that amount of pain alone. It can be heavy. And confusing. And exhausting.

"If you were really suicidal, you would've done it already."

Within the comments, a handful of people shared that what hurt as much as their suicidal thoughts was how other people responded to them. These were tough to read through. And somewhat unbelievable… that someone could have possibly responded to suicidal ideation with, “So if you’re really suicidal, why are you still here?”

Or “If you wanted to die, you would’ve done it already.”

Or “I’m tired of hearing you talk about it.”

These responses misunderstand what suicidal ideation often is. Many people desperately want the pain to end while simultaneously wanting to live. Those two things can co-exist at the same time. And this should be met with support, care, and compassion. Not judgement.

The thoughts don’t always sound like “I want to die.”

Another thing I noticed in the comments is how many people described suicidal ideation without ever actually using the exact words “I want to die.”

Suicidal thoughts take many different forms.

Sometimes they might sound like:

• “I don’t want to wake up tomorrow.”

• “I wish someone else would end this for me.”

• “I wonder what would happen if I stepped into traffic.”

• “I’m not going to wear my seatbelt.”

• “I don’t care what happens to me.”

Sometimes they might look like:

• Standing on a train platform every day and noticing that the tracks are there.

• Driving home and wondering what would happen if you simply didn’t turn the wheel.

• Taking care of yourself a little less and a little less. Skipping meals. Not drinking water.

• Reckless choices like not putting on your seatbelt or walking into traffic without really looking.

Sometimes suicidal ideation comes up as an active desire to die. Sometimes it comes up as an active desire for the suffering to just stop. Yes, those are different and yes, both deserve a lot of care and compassion.

“But I never attempted.”

So many people wrote things in the comments like:

“I’ve wanted to for years.”

“I almost did.”

“I wrote the note.”

“I went to the place.”

“I drove there.”

“I thought about it every day.”

“But because I never actually attempted, I feel like it doesn’t count.”

💔 Please hear me when I say that the absence of an attempt does not mean the absence of suffering. Please hear me when I say that you do not have to prove the severity of your suffering in order for it to be “deserving” of compassion, support, and care.

For those who relate

If you recognize these thoughts and if any of this feels or sounds familiar, I want you to know that I see you. If you have been here on earth longer than you thought you would be, I want you to know that I see you. And I am really glad that you are still here.

I also want you to know that you do not have to be in active crisis to deserve support. You do not have to have a plan or intent. You do not have to have come close enough to the edge so that other people finally take you seriously.

Please do not carry this alone. If you are in the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the suicide and crisis lifeline, any time, for any reason. No, you do not have to be in immediate danger to call. You can call because you are tired of it all and you need someone to talk to.

I wrote this because suicidal ideation is widely misunderstood, very often minimized, and I can’t fucking stand that.

I wrote this in hopes of someone realizing that they are not alone.

I wrote this in hopes that it helps one friend, partner, parent, therapist, or stranger respond with a little more curiosity and a little less judgment.

If you spend enough time on the “health and wellness” side of social media, nutrition quickly becomes overwhelming.

One person tells you one thing and another person tells you the exact opposite.

There's fasting, keto, paleo, carnivore, vegan, gluten-free, dairy-free, macro tracking, calorie counting, a million different supplements, green powders, the list goes on and on... and it’s exhausting.

This is a simple guide to understanding how food influences your nervous system and what it actually looks like to nourish yourself from the inside out.

I also put together a nervous system nourishment plate (a visual diagram of what a nourishing meal actually looks like on your plate) which you can access below.

Why stable blood sugar matters

One of the most overlooked stressors on your nervous system is unstable blood sugar.

Your brain depends on a relatively steady supply of glucose for energy, and your body works hard to keep blood sugar within a healthy range. When blood sugar drops too low, your body responds by releasing stress hormones (primarily adrenaline and cortisol) to stimulate the release of stored glucose from the liver and bring blood sugar levels back up.

This is an amazing survival mechanism, and it is not a problem in itself. Occasional rises and falls in blood sugar are completely normal. The issue arises when large spikes and crashes become a regular and constant pattern.

Frequently skipping meals, relying on sugary foods or refined carbohydrates without protein or fiber, or consuming large amounts of caffeine on an empty stomach can all contribute to greater fluctuations in blood sugar (which quite literally means that there will be more adrenaline and cortisol circulating around your body).

Each time this happens, your nervous system has to work harder to restore balance and regulation.

You might notice these spikes and crashes happen in yourself when you:

• feel shaky

• get irritated quickly

• have anxiety that seems to come out of nowhere

• get brain fog

• get intense cravings

• feel “tired but wired”

Now, the goal is not to eliminate sugar or avoid carbohydrates or become restrictive in any way. The goal is to build meals that provide a slower, steadier release of glucose/energy so that you can reduce the unnecessary physiological stress throughout your day.

Because every second of every day, billions of neurons are communicating with one another. They do this using chemical messengers called neurotransmitters, which help regulate everything from your mood and motivation to your ability to focus, sleep, learn, connect, and respond to stress.

Some of the most well-known neurotransmitters include serotonin, dopamine, GABA, and norepinephrine. While each has different functions, they all have one thing in common: your body has to make them!

It cannot create them out of thin air. It relies on the nutrients you consume every day to build these messengers, maintain healthy brain cells, and support the countless processes that keep your nervous system functioning.

Food, then, is much more than fuel.

It provides the building blocks your nervous system needs to function. While nutrition alone cannot heal trauma, it creates the physiological conditions that can make regulation, resilience, and trauma recovery more possible.

Think of food as one of the ways you can communicate with your nervous system. Every meal is an opportunity to provide the resources it needs to do its job well.

Protein = the building blocks of your brain

Okay I know everyone and their mother is telling you to eat more protein but I am going to tell you why.

Protein is made up of amino acids, which serve as the building blocks for neurotransmitters. Without adequate protein, your body has fewer of the raw materials it needs to produce the chemicals involved in mood regulation, focus, motivation, and emotional balance.

Protein also helps stabilize blood sugar by slowing digestion down and promoting a more gradual release of glucose into the bloodstream. This means fewer dramatic spikes and crashes, which can reduce the unnecessary activation of stress hormones throughout the day.

It also helps keep you fuller for longer, supports muscle repair, strengthens the immune system, and plays a role in hormone production.

Aim to include a source of protein with each meal. This doesn’t have to be complicated. A simple guideline is to include approximately a palm-sized serving of protein at most meals, adjusting based on your individual needs, activity level, and appetite.

Healthy fats = nourish your brain

Your brain is one of the fattiest organs in your body. In fact, about 60% of the brain’s dry weight is made up of fat, making healthy fats an essential part of nervous system function.

Omega-3 fatty acids deserve special attention because they have been extensively studied for their role in brain health. Research suggests they support healthy brain cell membranes, reduce neuroinflammation, and may contribute to improved mood and cognitive function.

Rather than fearing fat, aim to include a source of healthy fat at most meals.

Fiber = more important than you think!!

When most people think about fiber, they think about digestion. But fiber is so much more than regular bowel movements.

There are two primary types of fiber, and both play important roles.

Soluble fiber dissolves in water and forms a gel-like substance in your digestive tract. This slows digestion, helps create steadier blood sugar levels, feeds beneficial gut bacteria, and supports healthy cholesterol metabolism.

Many researchers believe one of the most powerful ways to support your gut microbiome is simply to increase the variety of fiber-rich foods you eat.

Beans deserve special recognition here. They’re one of the few foods that provide protein, fiber, complex carbohydrates, vitamins, and minerals all in one. Research has shown that regularly eating legumes can increase the diversity of the gut microbiome, and a diverse microbiome is generally associated with better overall health.

If beans tend to upset your stomach, don’t assume they’re off-limits forever! Your digestive system may need to adapt gradually. Start with a small amount (just a few tablespoons) and slowly increase your intake over time as tolerated.

Other excellent sources of soluble fiber include oats, chia seeds, lentils, apples, pears, citrus fruits, and psyllium husk.

Insoluble fiber does not dissolve in water. Instead, it adds bulk to stool, supports healthy bowel movements, and contributes to the overall health of your digestive tract.

Because insoluble fiber slows the digestion of whole plant foods, it also helps promote a steadier release of glucose into the bloodstream when consumed as part of balanced meals.

Good sources include vegetables, nuts, seeds, whole grains, and many fruits.

Your gut and your brain are besties

Your digestive system and your brain are connected through what scientists call the gut-brain axis: a complex communication network involving the nervous system, immune system, hormones, and trillions of microorganisms that live in your intestines.

This relationship works both ways.

When you’re under chronic stress, you may notice changes in digestion such as nausea, bloating, constipation, diarrhea, or stomach pain. Likewise, the health of your gut can influence inflammation, immune function, and many of the biological systems involved in mood and stress resilience.

So, supporting your gut = supporting the ecosystem that helps your nervous system function.

Prebiotics and probiotics = feed your inner ecosystem

You don’t need expensive supplements to support your gut. Most people can make meaningful improvements through food.

Prebiotics are types of fiber that feed the beneficial bacteria already living in your gut. Foods rich in prebiotics include:

• beans and lentils

• oats

• garlic

• onions

• leeks

• asparagus

• bananas

• apples (stewed apples are my favorite prebiotic)

Probiotics are fermented foods that contain live microorganisms. Foods rich in probiotics include:

• yogurt with live cultures

• kefir

• sauerkraut

• kimchi

• miso

• tempeh

• kombucha (but make sure there isn’t a ton of added sugar)

Please drink water

Water is involved in nearly every process that keeps your body functioning. Even mild dehydration can increase fatigue, reduce concentration, contribute to headaches, and make stress feel more difficult to manage.

A simple place to start is aiming for roughly half your body weight (in pounds) in ounces of water each day. For example, someone who weighs 150 pounds might aim for around 75 ounces, or about 9 cups, as a baseline.

This isn’t a strict rule because your needs will vary depending on your activity level, climate, health status, and how much you sweat, but it can be a helpful starting point.

One of the easiest habits to build is drinking a glass of water shortly after waking up. Before checking your phone, before your morning coffee, and before jumping into your day, give your body the hydration it has gone without overnight.

If plain water isn’t appealing, don’t force it. Try adding fresh lemon or lime, drinking sparkling water, making herbal tea, or adding electrolytes when appropriate.

A note on electrolytes

Electrolytes are minerals such as sodium, potassium, magnesium, and calcium. And your body relies on electrolytes to move fluids in and out of cells, transmit nerve impulses, support muscle contractions, and keep your nervous system functioning properly.

If you’re physically active, spend time in hot weather, sweat heavily, or drink large amounts of water, you may also benefit from salting your food appropriately or using an electrolyte supplement. If you choose a supplement, look for one without added sugar and with minimal ingredients (I like this one and this one).

When I was living in Mexico I got my electrolytes from coconut water or from adding fresh squeezed lemon/lime/orange juice + salt + honey to my water.

Before we move on

I am not a physician, dietitian, or nutritionist, and nothing in this article should be interpreted as individualized medical advice. The information shared here is based on current research on nutrition, physiology, and nervous system health.

My hope is simply to help you better understand your body and offer practical strategies you can explore in a way that feels supportive and accessible.

Now let’s simplify everything we’ve just covered into something you can actually put on your plate.

The nervous system nourishment plate

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I am still an entire semester away from making any sort of real decision on what I want to do with the next chapter of my life.

But I am now 851 hours deep into my internships and am slowly starting to realize that… maybe I had to go to school to become a therapist to figure out that I don’t want to be a therapist.

Okay that sentiment feels scary to write down given the time, energy, and money that I have put into this massive undertaking of learning.

And don’t get me wrong, I do not regret it in any way (because regardless, this three year grad school experience is going to point me towards what I want to do next, and I am so grateful for that).

But I feel a certain type of way and I cannot ignore it anymore. The more immersed I become in this field, the more I find myself wondering if we’ve misunderstood what people are actually looking for.

I don’t think the world needs more therapy.

I think it needs more kinship.

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When most people say they’re “going to therapy,” they’re usually talking about a space where they can process what came up for them during the week, unpack their past, talk through relationship problems and personal patterns, feel validated, and hopefully leave feeling a little lighter.

I do a lot of that work with clients right now and there is nothing wrong with it.

But it’s also very different from what psychotherapy was originally “developed” to be.

Psychotherapy isn’t primarily about advice, reassurance, validation, or helping someone get through a stressful week (or chapter of life). It’s about helping people understand and transform deeply ingrained emotional patterns that organize the way they move through their lives, relationships, and the world.

Psychologist Jonathan Shedler writes in this piece that what most people now call therapy often looks much more like “everyday helping” than actual psychotherapy.

He points to research describing what psychologists call the “lay helper phase.” Before therapists receive extensive training, they naturally try to help the same way everyone else does: by encouraging, reassuring, validating, advising, comforting, fixing.

Because that’s how human beings naturally care for each other.

Psychologist Michael Karson says it even more bluntly:

“Few therapists act like therapists because it is hard to do... the vast majority act like guidance counselors, friends, older siblings, doctors, mentors, or advisers.”

And I argue that what is commonly referred to as “therapy” has changed so much because our culture has changed so much.

We have become a hyper-independent society where self-sufficiency and “not needing anyone” is applauded. “Protect your peace” is emphasized over inconveniencing yourself in any type of way for someone else. Burdening others with your problems is unthinkable. Disrespectful, even.

So now we pay a therapist a $25 copay once a week to avoid being that burden.

I don’t think that’s because therapy became more popular.

I think it’s because kinship became more rare.

Father Gregory Boyle says in an emotionally charged commencement speech (please watch it) that “the measure of our compassion lies not in our service to those on the margins, but in our willingness to stand in kinship with them.”

From my seat as a therapist in training, I translate this as: the measure of our compassion does not lie in the services we provide. It does not lie in EMDR or CBT or IFS. It lies in our willingness to stand right next to someone in their pain.

To just be with someone without trying to solve, explain, fix, or eradicate their pain.

To just listen!

I am continually amazed at how healing it is to just listen to a client for an hour.

And I am even more amazed at how unfamiliar that experience is for them.

Kinship is to really listen. Attune. Witness.

Not from above someone but right beside them.

This concept of kinship has also now derailed my five year plan, leaving me questioning this entire trauma therapist career path I decided on three years ago.

Because I think we have a tendency to medicalize trauma (to reduce it to symptoms, diagnoses, and problems to be treated) and in doing so, we underestimate (and even forget about) the healing potential inherent in kinship.

No, not the DSM. Kinship.

So much of trauma is rooted in experiences of isolation and disconnection. Which means that perhaps one of the most healing things we could ever offer someone is simply the opposite:

“Hey, you don’t have to sit in this alone anymore.”

In my heart of hearts, that is what I want to do with my life.

I want to walk alongside the people who have been pushed to the margins of their pain and I want to fight for them.

To remind them that they are worthy of care, worthy of support, and worthy of having someone right beside them as they navigate some of the hardest parts of being human.

(Some therapists might argue that it is inappropriate to stand next to a client in battle against the voice of their trauma. I know it is never my job to wage that war for them, but I refuse to let them fight it alone. That, to me, is what actually feels unethical.)

I don’t want to do CBT or EMDR or IFS. I don’t want to reduce someone’s wounds into a set of symptoms to be managed.

I want to sit with someone long enough that they begin to experience something different.

“Maybe I don’t have to do this alone.”

“Maybe I can let someone in and still be safe.”

“Maybe connection doesn’t always end in harm.”

“Maybe I can have a life outside of my trauma.”

“Maybe I can be known and not abandoned.”

I believe in the power of therapy and it has changed my life.

But I am becoming less and less convinced that one highly trained professional sitting across from someone for fifty minutes a week can replace what an entire culture used to provide.

Community.

Belonging.

People who notice when you’re struggling and check in with you.

Neighbors.

Elders.

Kinship!

Maybe what we’re calling a mental health crisis is just a kinship crisis.

We’ve forgotten that we belong to each other.

So, will I graduate with a master’s degree and become a licensed clinical social worker?

Yeah, probably.

I’ve come this far. I’ll get the stupid fucking piece of paper that our society has placed soooo much importance on.

Will I become a therapist? Build a private practice? Follow the path I imagined for myself three years ago?

Probably not. It's not the work I feel most pulled toward right now. The more I learn about trauma, the more I actually sit with people in pain, and the more I understand kinship — the more I wonder if what the world actually needs most is more people who know how to “treat” suffering.

The words in this piece came directly from the thoughts I was sorting through on a morning walk.

I had plans to go to a used bookstore that weekend and decided I wanted to look for another Gregory Boyle book to read. I did not make it there. Not one minute after I set that intention, I walked past one of those little free public libraries and there it was, basically jumping off the tiny shelf at me:

Could my answer be any more blatant?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what “healing” has turned into.

It seems like every time I open social media, someone is telling me about another nervous system response I should decode, another attachment pattern I should work through, another childhood memory I should revisit, another wound I should uncover. I should be taking magnesium. Actually, no, I should be taking creatine. I should start cold plunging. Wait... no. Cold plunges are terrible for traumatized nervous systems. I should only do sauna. Actually contrast therapy.

I should drink less coffee. No caffeine at all, apparently. I should heal my gut because trauma lives in the gut. No, trauma lives in the body. Actually, trauma lives in the nervous system. I must do EMDR therapy. No, somatic experiencing. Actually internal family systems because all my parts need attention. No, psychedelic therapy because that's the future of trauma treatment.

I need to meditate for twenty minutes every morning. Wait, meditation can dysregulate trauma survivors. Maybe I should just go for a mindful walk instead. I should journal every day. Actually maybe I should stop overthinking and throw my journal away. I should wake up at 5am because successful people do. No... I should stop glorifying productivity and sleep until 9am because rest is productive.

I should regulate before I respond. I should stop scrolling. Delete Instagram. But also build community because healing happens in relationship. I should spend more time alone. No, I'm isolating because of trauma. I should heal my inner child. Reparent myself. Date myself. Romanticize my life. Manifest abundance. Set firmer boundaries. But be softer. Be more embodied. Stay in my feminine energy. Get morning sunlight within thirty minutes of waking. Ground barefoot in the grass. Hum to stimulate my vagus nerve. Gargle. Tap. Shake. Breathe into my diaphragm.

Buy the workbook. Buy the course. Listen to the podcast. Read the book. Hire the coach. Find the therapist. Find a better therapist. And finally become the version of myself that has it all figured out.

Anyone else fucking exhausted?

Healing has become a full-time job that nobody has time for. And then we beat ourselves up for not doing enough.

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Beyond the constant overwhelm, it’s also like healing has become synonymous with endless self-analysis.

And don’t get me wrong, I love understanding why we are the way we are. I am out here turning it into a career. And I, too, spend a ridiculous amount of my free time reading books about trauma, the nervous system, and healing because I enjoy it and I am fascinated by it. (Okay… and maybe also obsessed with it).

Yes, understanding ourselves matters.

Insight matters.

Therapy matters.

But I think we’ve unintentionally created a version of healing that is constantly asking us to look for what’s wrong with ourselves. Like…

If we're anxious, there must be another trigger we haven't identified yet.

If we’re struggling in relationships, there must be another pattern to unpack.

If we’re overwhelmed, there must be another nervous system regulation technique we haven’t tried yet.

If we’re still hurting, there must be another podcast to listen to, another book to read, another breakthrough waiting just around the corner.

Healing has stopped feeling like something we experience and started feeling like another problem we’re responsible for solving.

I forget where I first came across this quote, but I wrote it down immediately because it stopped me in my tracks:

The purpose of healing isn’t to find things to fix and change about yourself. The purpose of healing is to experience more of what you didn’t get.

I hope that feels like an exhale.

Because it certainly did for me.

Trauma isn’t only made up of the painful things that happened to us. It’s also made up of the experiences we were deprived of.

Maybe nobody taught you that your feelings made sense. And that they were okay.

Maybe nobody apologized after hurting you.

Maybe nobody celebrated you without expecting something in return.

Maybe nobody made you feel like you could take up space without becoming a burden.

Maybe nobody protected you.

Maybe nobody listened.

Maybe nobody understood. Or even tried to understand.

Maybe nobody stayed.

Those absences shape us just as much as the painful moments shape us.

And while understanding those experiences can be incredibly healing, understanding them isn’t the same thing as replacing them.

Let me give you some examples of what I mean by that:

(you might see yourself in some of these)

If you grew up hearing, “stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about,” healing might begin with recognizing that emotional invalidation did, indeed, affect you.

But healing also means beginning to have new experiences where your emotions are welcomed instead of shut down. Like maybe having a friend who lets you cry without trying to find solutions. Or having a therapist who doesn’t rush you through your emotions and sits with you in the depths of it.

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If you spent years in an abusive relationship where everything somehow became your fault, healing isn’t just about learning what the term “gaslighting” means.

It’s experiencing relationships where someone says,

“You’re right.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That wasn’t your responsibility.”

It’s allowing your nervous system to experience ruptures that are then followed by repair instead of blame.

If you learned that love had to be earned by being useful, successful, agreeable, or easy to be around, healing isn’t just identifying your people-pleasing tendencies.

It’s having experiences where people enjoy your company when you’re messy, tired, imperfect, or simply doing nothing at all.

If your childhood taught you that asking for help was dangerous because no one came anyway, healing isn’t about becoming even more independent.

It’s letting someone show up.

It’s texting a friend instead of trying to figure it all out by yourself.

It’s asking for a ride.

It’s letting someone hold the door open without immediately insisting, “I’ve got it.”

Those moments might seem painfully ordinary (and maybe even boring), but they’re exactly the kinds of experiences that teach a nervous system something new.

Because truthfully, your nervous system does not give a fuck about insight. Your nervous system is never going to heal through insight alone.

Your nervous system will heal through experience.

Through repetition.

Through relationships that gradually begin to contradict the stories we’ve been dragging around with us for years and years and years.

One of Dr. Bruce Perry’s central ideas is that the brain changes through patterned, repeated experiences. His work constantly emphasizes that relationships and repeated experiences (no, not just insight) are what reorganize the brain.

We don’t heal because someone explains us to ourselves.

We heal because, over time, we begin living inside of experiences that tell a different story than the one our trauma taught us.

We’ve become so good at talking about healing that sometimes we forget to actually feel it.

I also think it’s okay to name that this whole “healing era” that we’re so hyper-fixated on has created some unhealthy and toxic narratives.

Sometimes it’s consumerism. We convince ourselves that the next course, the next supplement, the next retreat, the next workbook, or the next certification will finally be the thing that heals us.

Sometimes it’s hyper-independence disguised as empowerment. We say that we need to “work on ourself” and heal alone before we’re worthy of relationships, when in reality so much of our healing depends on safe relationships in the first place.

And sometimes it’s become another form of perfectionism, where we monitor every thought, analyze every reaction, and question every trigger as if we're under constant inspection.

We have become fluent in the language of trauma while reinforcing the belief that there is always another broken part of ourselves waiting to be fixed.

I don’t think that’s what healing is supposed to feel like.

And know that I say all of this as someone who is literally becoming a therapist.

Therapy has changed my life.

It has changed the way I understand myself, my life, and the world around me.

But I also think there are seasons when the most healing thing you can do is stop trying to excavate your past for a little while and go experience your life.

Go laugh until your stomach hurts. Go talk to someone new. Go dance terribly. Go swim in a body of water. Go fall in love. Go pet a dog. Go wander through a bookstore. Go on a road trip. Go call someone you miss. Go sit around a dinner table where you feel like you belong. Let someone make you coffee. Let someone help you. Let someone apologize. Let someone compliment you. Let someone show up. Let yourself be cared for.

Go become the kind of person who has enough beautiful, ordinary experiences that your nervous system starts believing that the world is bigger than what happened to you.

That the wound is not actually the size of your life.

We do not need more insight. We need more corrective experiences.

We do not need to spend our lives searching for new flaws to correct and change.

We need to slowly, patiently, and courageously create (and allow ourselves to receive) more of what we should have experienced in the first place.

Together, we’ll practice slowly coming back into your body through gentle, choice-based movement, regulating breathwork, and plenty of opportunities to reintroduce and notice body sensation.

This is a titrated, supportive practice for helping your nervous system reconnect with the present moment and rebuild a sense of safety, trust, and connection with your body there.

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Upgrade your subscription to unlock this entire class and other exclusive resources within the Feel Something ꩜ content library.

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“The battle you’re fighting is one in the past.”

Bill Wilson said that, one of the co-founders of Alcoholics Anonymous.

And when it comes to trauma, there are many ways we can rearrange different words to communicate the same truth: that trauma straight up robs us of the present moment. Constantly. Incessantly.

It’s like when we go through these painful, horrific, stressful, traumatic experiences, time just… stops.

Sure, the hands might continue to move on the clock but my body still thinks it’s 2022. I am in disbelief when I look at the date on the calendar and sometimes I quite literally have to pause and do the math to confirm that I actually am 24, not 21.

Where the fuck have the years gone?

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Sure, it’s Monday and I am physically, emotionally, mentally, fine. I am in bed and I am safe. But the flashbacks as I try to fall asleep make my heart rate pick up speed ever so slightly and convince me otherwise.

Sure, it’s 2026 and I’m arguing with my mom about a ski trip yet my body takes the wheel and I regress. Next thing I know I’m screaming up the stairs (fight), trying to escape out the house at 6:00am with nowhere to go (flight), and when I’m stopped I feel myself collapse into tears (freeze).

I am partly (and most definitely disproportionately) reacting to my mom and the circumstances around the argument. But really, I’m moving through the deeply uncomfortable yet painfully familiar emotional rollercoaster that I spent years riding on. And it’s triggering the fuck out of me.

Trauma imprints. It leaves its mark. And of course we can heal from it and learn from it and continue on to live beautiful lives, I know this for a fact. I have witnessed it and experienced it. But I’m not sure if the wound ever fully goes away. Still, I look down at my body and see the faint scars all over.

The wounds may have closed up but sometimes when they get touched and reopened or pried open, we don’t react as we are now, we react as we did back then. And then we bleed everywhere. On ourselves and on those that we love.

It’s one of the really shitty parts of experiencing trauma and then trying to heal from it. Dr. Peter Levine calls it “the tyranny of the past.”

It takes over and, my God, it can be all-consuming. It transports me. I spiral back into the self-loathing that I worked so hard to get away from. I might be able to get through the day, but it takes me a while to recover and re-convince myself I’m worthy of… anything.

Other times the tyranny is subtle. Like when I make myself small. Neglect to stand up for myself out of fear. Withdraw when I could really use some support. Dissociate instead of feel.

But, I recognize that that’s much easier said than done. Because if I really recover, I lose the version of me that is in so much pain.

If I recover, then everything that happened to me (everything that destroyed me) didn’t matter enough to keep me broken. And some part of me is not ready to accept that. Some part of me needs to stay in it as proof that it was real. That it was as bad as it was. That I am not being dramatic. That it genuinely killed me.

When you become a living, breathing memorial to your trauma, recovery can feel like demolition. Like tearing the monument you erected to the ground. And once it’s gone (once you’re okay, once you’ve recovered) everyone is going to forget. Including you. And then, what was all that suffering for?

Ross Ellenhorn writes that “change means bad things were a little less bad than they seemed when you weren’t changing. If you can recover from the bad things, then the bad things didn’t completely ruin you.”

And he names what a devastating thing that is to reckon with. To live as if what happened wasn’t powerful enough to destroy you (even when it almost did) can feel like a betrayal toward yourself and toward everything you had to survive.

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But it just won’t work! We can’t get better if we remain a living, breathing, memorial to what we went through. We can’t move on if we constantly need to prove to ourselves and others how bad it was and how fucked up it made us.

We remain at war but the battles we are so desperately fighting only exist in the past. And that’s where our trauma wants us to remain!

But I’m writing these words right now so I know that I’m not there. I’m here. And if you’re reading these words right now that means you’re breathing and you’re here. You’re right here too.

You might only be one step or one year removed from what you went through but still, you are here. And whether our bodies have caught up to this fact or not, it is over now.

Take a breath. It is over now.

Maybe we can measure our recovery by our capacity to be present.

Maybe we can measure our recovery by our capacity to return to the present over and over again.

Maybe we can measure our recovery by not falling apart in the same ways we did five years ago. And by the ways we're able to put ourselves back together. And by letting other people help us do it, too.

I don’t know if the ball and chain of trauma ever disappears, or if just gets lighter, or maybe we just wake up one day and forget all about it, but I do know that it’s possible to not let it entirely rule our lives. Or continue to ruin our lives.

And I also know that the most courageous thing we could ever do is try again and again and again when that ball and chain starts to pull us back into the past.

Maybe healing is just the constant refusal to give up on ourselves.

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Over a million views. Over 100,000 likes (yes, I like my own content, duh). Hundreds of comments from people saying some version of the same thing: wait, other people do this too?

Yes. A lot of people do this. And if you are one of them, I will explain why.

Not a scary reason. Not an overwhelming reason. Not the actual reason (like the thing that is too big or too complicated or too close to look at directly).

Just a safe, contained, socially acceptable reason to open the valve a little and let some of it out. Or sometimes, all of it.

It’s basically like your brain is looking for a loophole to feel something. Whether it’s a nature documentary, or a sad movie, or a video of a dog reuniting with its owner, or that penguin everyone was so obsessed with.

Something that gave you permission to feel without requiring you to crack yourself all the way open and face everything at once.

Honestly, it’s a very intelligent mechanism to feel some sadness without feeling the intensity of all the sadness that you’re actually holding within.

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I think it’s important information to note that if crying about the actual thing felt safe, you would do it! The fact that you need a loophole tells you something else: some part of you has decided that the real feeling is just too much right now.

And for a lot of us, expressing emotion was not safe growing up. Maybe it was met with dismissal: “you are being too sensitive,” “stop crying,” “you are fine.” Maybe it was met with anger, or with someone else’s bigger emotions that immediately took over the room. Maybe nothing bad happened exactly, but no one ever modeled what it looked like to feel something fully and move through it.

Somehow and someway and at some point, your nervous system learned: feelings are dangerous. Feelings are inconvenient. Feelings need to be managed, minimized, or avoided.

And so you manage them. You intellectualize, you stay busy, you scroll, you ignore, you suppress, you push through. And yet… the feelings do not go anywhere. They just build. They accumulate. Until your body finds a little openeing (a sad video, a song, a completely unrelated moment) and it takes advantage of it. The tears start rolling.

Other times, the problem isn't a lack of emotional regulation skills. Maybe the feeling really is too much to move through all at once. Sometimes the full weight of what you are carrying would genuinely be overwhelming to feel in one sitting. Flooding the system with more than it can process is not healing, and it can actually be retraumatizing. You are not being “dramatic” when you have to deal with something heavy in small doses. This is protective and it is keeping you inside your window of tolerance — the range in which you can feel without either shutting down completely or being completely overwhelmed.

So, how to actually sit with it without drowning in it? I offer you three tools to start building a more direct relationship with your own feelings. (None of these require a therapist, though a good one can help!).

Titration = small doses. We are never going to dive headfirst into the trauma, the pain, or even into feeling anything again. Instead, we approach it the way you would approach something very hot: carefully, incrementally, and always with full permission and plenty of space to pull back. A little at a time. Then a little more.

We do not want to overwhelm the system, because again, overwhelming the system is only ever going to be retraumatizing. Your nervous system needs to learn that it can touch the edge of the pain without being consumed by it. When we are not drowning in the pain, we do not have to dissociate from it.

Pendulation = a gentle shifting of attention between distressing sensations and safe sensations to build nervous system flexibility. In practice, this looks like noticing a sensation in the body that does not feel that great. And noticing a sensation in the body that feels neutral or okay. Then we slowly go back and forth between the two.

This helps show your body and your nervous system that discomfort and pain can be present and it will pass. And other sensations exist too. We can focus on something else. We can regulate and find resources amidst hard things.

(If you can’t find a sensation in your body that feels neutral or okay, utilize an external resource like a soft pillow, a warm cup of tea, or even a pet).

Co-regulation = maybe the most important and the least talked about. We are not meant to feel our feelings entirely alone!!!! Our nervous systems regulate in relationship. They always have and they always will. Some of the most profound emotional releases happen not in solitude but in the presence of someone safe. Someone who can just sit there and not flinch. If you have someone in your life who can do that (a friend, a loved one, a significant other, a therapist) let them be there while you feel. You do not have to perform it or explain it. Just let someone be present while you go there.

And if none of those tools feels accessible right now (if the penguin is still the safest option to have some sort of emotional release) that is okay too. Cry at the penguin. Cry at the depressing movie. Cry at whatever opens the door, even a little. Your body knows what it is doing.

And just know that the door can open wider over time. Slowly, safely, with support.

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About the Author

Francesca is a clinical social work student and trauma-informed yoga facilitator who writes about trauma recovery, nervous system healing, and the messy reality of being human through personal essays, cultural reflections, and accessible resources. Her work blends clinical learning with lived experience, all grounded in a deep belief in somatic and relational healing. If you want more writing that helps you feel seen and less alone, subscribe for free here. You can also explore her trauma-informed yoga classes, interactive workbook, instagram, and upcoming retreats.

But I would not be the first one to tell you about the overwhelming statistics on the overwhelming amount of information we have at our fingertips and the overwhelming amount of time we spend accessing it and what that does to our brains that were never wired for any of this.

You already know. (And honestly, the numbers make me panic so we are skipping them).

What I will say is this: even with all of that knowledge, even knowing what we know about dopamine and screen time and information overload, there is still this undeniable, constant pull to “just look it up.” “Just google it.” “Just ask AI.” Just find the answer right now instead of sitting in the discomfort of not knowing!!

And I get it. Uncertainty is uncomfortable. Not knowing feels awful. The mind wants resolution and it wants it NOW.

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As a clinical intern pursuing my master’s in social work, I see this in the therapy room often. A lot of people come to therapy because they want answers. They want someone to tell them (or help them finally figure out) why they are the way they are, what is wrong with them, and how to fix it. And when this happens, I have to deliver the frustrating news, over and over again, that I do not know. That is not what I am here for. That is not actually how this works.

But a couple of weeks ago, while trying to meet a moment with a client, I heard these words leave my mouth: “I think sometimes, we just have to learn through experience.” (They were not happy with this response lol).

And it’s like... yeah, no shit. That sounds like something you would say to a four year old.

But we do not do it!

We do not want to learn through experience. We want to learn through knowing (ahead of time, in advance, with full information) so that we can make the right choice and never make a mistake and never be a bad person and never feel sad ever again. We want the map before we take the first step. We want the guarantee before we take the risk. We want understanding so that we can avoid any uncomfortable feeling.

And honestly, that makes sense. Feeling is scary and unpredictable and it does not come with a timeline or clear endpoint. Whereas knowing, on the other hand, feels like progress and control and it feels like doing something.

Please know that I say all of this as someone who has been searching for the answers to her own suffering ever since her frontal lobe really started to come online.

I have sat in talk therapy and somatic therapy to figure myself out. I have sat with plant medicine, ecstatic danced, up and left the country to solo travel for four months, read approximately one hundred self-help books, microdosed mushrooms, moved through thousands of hours of yoga, became a certified yoga teacher, meditated, journaled, listened to all the podcasts, on and on and on.

And because apparently I refuse to give myself a fucking break, I am now also becoming a therapist.

But I have entered the field at a truly unique time. Therapy is more accepted and normalized than it has ever been, which is wonderful. And at this point, some people have been in therapy for five, ten, twenty years.

Yet a lot of us are not feeling any better.

(There are some daunting mental health statistics here too that I refrain from dropping).

I am becoming a therapist in a world that is, in many ways, overtherapized. A world where therapy might not actually be what a lot of us need right now. Where the next hot modality is always right around the corner: somatic therapy, IFS and parts work, EMDR, somatic experiencing, brainspotting, neurofeedback, ketamine assisted therapy, reparenting, healing abandonment wounds, resolving attachment injuries. The list is long and it is always going to keep growing.

Right now I intern at a small somatic therapy private practice, so I see a lot of people who have exited the world of talk therapy and entered the world of somatic therapy in order to resolve the trauma stored in their bodies so that they do not develop chronic illness. (Thanks a lot, Bessel, for instilling a tremendous amount of fear in anyone who has ever experienced anything traumatic).

Sometimes I sit across from clients and I am genuinely in awe of the language they have access to. I feel like I am talking to another clinician… that is how therapized we are. People walk in knowing their attachment style, their nervous system state, their parts, their triggers, their patterns, their core wounds. The literacy is remarkable.

And somehow (even with all the therapy, all the self-help books, TikTok self-diagnosing, podcasts, and even with the relentless pursuit of understanding our suffering) we have completely forgotten how to just feel it.

We have more diagnostic labels, clinical frameworks, assessments, and therapeutic modalities available to us than at any other point in human history. And we are mentally sicker than ever.

Someone please make that make sense!!!

Here is what I hear constantly, even in my limited time in the field:

“I know logically why I am so angry at my mother. I understand her childhood, I understand the patterns, I understand why she was the way she was. But I am still so angry and I don’t know what to do with it.”

“I know the relationship was bad for me. I know all the reasons it was wrong. I can list them. But I still miss him every single day and I cannot make it stop.”

“I know I am safe now. Rationally, I know that. But my body does not believe it and I don’t know how to make it.”

Of course you cannot make it. Of course knowing is not enough. Because you will never be able to intellectualize your way into feeling something, my dearest love.

The mind and the body are not the same territory. You can understand something completely and still be miles away from it emotionally. Understanding is not the same as processing. Knowing is not the same as healing.

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I also want to honor the brilliance of intellectualization. It is a fantastic way to feel productive when feeling helpless. It is a fantastic way to get some real (if superficial) relief. It is a fantastic way to run away from the present moment and feel like you are doing something when the alternative is sitting with something that just really fucking hurts.

It is an effective way to stay stuck.

Because here is what trauma does: it keeps us in the past. It robs us of the present. It pulls us out of our bodies and forces us into our minds, where we can analyze and theorize and understand and explain. And intellectualizing meets us right there with open arms.

It gives us something to do in a place where this painful trauma already lives: in the mind, the narrative, the story about what happened and why and what it means.

And yes, there is movement there (and some valuable processing happening there). But ultimately we hit a point where we are moving in circles. We are cycling through the same understanding, the same explanations, the same frameworks, without ever actually landing somewhere new. Because landing somewhere new requires feeling. And feeling requires getting out of your head and into your body. And that is the part we keep consciously (or unconsciously) avoiding at all costs.

So what am I actually advocating for here?

Feeling! I am advocating for feeling!

I am literally becoming a therapist so of course I believe in the utility of therapy. Of course I think it matters. And also, do we actually need more of it right now?

Sometimes, yes.

Sometimes, absolutely and unequivocally yes. Sometimes therapy is necessary and important and life-changing and nothing else will do.

And sometimes, the answer is… no.

(Or fuck no!).

Sometimes what we need is something else entirely.

Sometimes what we need is connection. Community. A felt sense of belonging. A real conversation with someone who actually knows us. External and internal safety. Sometimes what we need purpose. Something that gets us out of bed in the morning that has nothing to do with our healing journey. Sometimes what we need is more joy and more lightness (we are calling it “whimsy” nowadays).

Sometimes what we need is to move our bodies for an hour instead of sitting and overanalyzing for an hour. Sometimes what we need is to eat something nourishing and drink enough water and go to sleep at a reasonable time.

Sometimes what we need is to cry and not talk about why we need to cry, not understand the developmental origins of the sadness, but just cry.

Sometimes what we need is to slowly relearn the capacity to feel (this is what I am helping my clients do in the therapy room). And I am pretty certain that relearning this capacity is not something that we can do through more insight. I think the only way to relearn it is through experience. Lived experience. Felt experience. The kind that happens in the body and imprints itself there, not in the mind.

So here is the question I keep sitting with, and I am going to leave it with you too:

If you already know why you are the way you are, what are you actually doing with that knowledge?

Is it moving you forward? Or is it just somewhere comfortable to live?

I was 19 years old when I taught my first “real” yoga class.

I remember that girl so vividly. I remember my first audition to teach and the nerves and excitement that came with it (I rehearsed about a hundred times). I remember all of her learning and studying and planning and prepping. I swear it's like I can remember what my brain was like during this stage of rapid growth and development. I had found something that lit me up with passion and I dove head first into it. It was a rush.

Fast forward and now I'm 24 years old writing down these reflections while sitting on my parents’ back deck. Still living at my parents’ house was not part of my five year plan back when I was dreaming at 19.

I'm also over two years deep into a master's degree program in social work. I'll graduate in six months. Returning back to formalized institutionalized education was most definitely not part of my five year plan.

But I have always been a planner. I get a genuine thrill when I attempt to map out the next five years or even ten years of my life. But not once has it ever unfolded as I planned it to...

It was my passion for yoga that subtly drove me towards a master's degree program. I did try to resist and bypass it at first but, here we are. It was unavoidable. At the start my intentions were crystal clear:

Step 1: Go back to school

Step 2: Become a trauma therapist

Step 3: Integrate yoga and somatics into therapeutic settings

Simple, right? I had reflected and mapped it out in my journal in far more intricate detail. And at that time I was incredibly confident that I had finally landed on what I wanted to do with my life.

But the longer I've been in school, the longer I've actually been interning out in the field, the more that I sit with people in their pain, the more confused I get.

Do I even want to do 1:1 work?

Fuck, I hate this insurance bullshit.

Does somatic healing even matter or is it really all about relational healing?

Does therapy work?

This is exhausting.

This is moving really slow.

I don't know if I want to be a therapist.

Why are we trying to medicalize suffering?

Am I the only one who thinks this is so dumb?

Fuck the DSM I am not using this shit.

These are all thoughts that have and continue to circulate around my mind. Relentlessly. I haven't made a five year plan in a long time and I'm not going to.

I've been taking it one step at a time down my path and I refuse to try to predict the outcomes of my life (even though I really really want to).

I will figure it out. I have spent my entire life figuring it out. I always find a way to figure it out. I just can't figure this out right now.

And in the middle of all of this unending noise and confusion and discomfort, I somehow found my way full circle back to the same place that set me off on this crazy journey.

Yoga.

I randomly decided to pick up and re-read this book that I got at a used book store years ago.

The words are now filtered through the therapeutic lens that I have been cultivating and honing. And this book isn’t entirely trauma-informed but it’s lighting me back up. I am reminded of the passion for yoga that has always lived in my heart. I realize how much it has taken a backseat while I have been navigating the immersion of a master’s degree program and 900 unpaid internship hours and just the therapy world in general. I got so deep into the clinical, the theoretical, the intellectual and somewhere along the way I forgot…

But now I am reminded of that 19 year old version of me. I know so much more than her now, but she knows so much more of what I have forgotten.

Yoga. I’m full circle back to yoga.

Yoga = union. With self and with something greater than self and with each other. Yoga is feeling, in a world where we will do absolutely anything and everything to avoid feeling. I do not entirely know what I want to do with my life and I am not entirely sure I want to do more therapy but I do know that I want to feel. I want to stop studying and intellectualizing and problem-solving everything. I just want to feel. I just want to live. I just want to experience.

I want to be an embodiment of that and I want to help others do the same.

This roller coaster that I have been on since I was 18 has brought me many highs and many lows. I have spiraled up and back down and yet I am brought right back to yoga and right back to myself.

As I start to get back on my mat more often, I can’t help but sit back and wonder: what would happen if I actually lived by the two yogic principles tattooed on my wrists?

On my left wrist is ahimsa, the Sanskrit word for nonviolence. It is one of the yamas (the ethical guidelines in yogic philosophy that govern how we move through the world and relate to ourselves and others). Most people hear nonviolence and think of it only outwardly. “Do no harm” and “be kind,” you know? And yes, of course.

But ahimsa also means nonviolence towards yourself. And that is the harder practice by a landslide.

I used to tolerate a significant amount of internal violence. A genuine self-loathing and a streak of self-hatred that ran so deep. Most of it self-inflicted. Some of it not.

That familiar voice in my head that would never shut the fuck up when things were hard. The “you are never going to be enough” and the “you are never actually going to be happy” and the “you should be much further along by now.” On and on and on.

Then there were the impossibly high standards I held myself to because falling short gave me something to punish myself for. And I was good at the punishment. I was good at self-isolation and starving myself of the things I needed most. Because you can only have what you need when you deserve it, right?

All of it, was violence.

I am miles and years away from the worst of that. But of course I still catch myself.

I catch myself in the comparison a lot. Like when I am scrolling and start to feel the familiar weight of being behind, or just wishing I was somewhere else, or someone else already. I also still catch myself in the planning a lot, like trying to control outcomes that are not mine to control, and then feeling like a failure when life does not comply. Yes, I still metaphorically wave my firsts at the sky like “come on, God, I had a plan! I had a whole plan!”

(Life does not care about my five year plan. God does not care about my five year plan. I have learned this the hard way too many times to count, but so it goes).

What would it actually look like to practice ahimsa with myself? Not as a concept or as something I mention in yoga classes and encourage other people to do. But as a lived, daily, moment-to-moment practice.

I am not 100% sure but I think a good place to start would be talking to myself the way I talk to my clients: with the assumption that I am trying my best, that there is always a reason for the way I am, and that I deserve the same patience and love and compassion I would offer anyone else.

Yes, it is a practice. I am practicing.

On my right wrist is santosha, the Sanskrit word for contentment. It is one of the niyamas (the personal observances in yogic philosophy, the internal practices that govern how we relate to ourselves and our own lives). It is not happiness. Contentment is very different from happiness. Happiness is an emotion, it comes and goes. It will wait for you but it never promises to stay. Contentment is more like a stance. A choice to be okay with what is, right now, without needing it to be different in order to feel more at peace.

It’s like, can I actually be okay with this chapter? This day? This moment? Can I remove the violent pressure on myself to be further along by now, to be somewhere else by now, to have it more figured out by now? Can I just be here?

The gap between where I am and where I thought I would be by 24 is wide. Still living at my parents’ house. Still in school. Still not sure what I want to do with my life. The version of me at 19 with the five year plan would be pissed the fuck off right now.

But I saw this on Instagram and I can’t stop thinking about it: the compass was invented before the clock. Which means that direction has always been more important than the time it takes to get there.

I have direction. I know what I care about. I know what lights me up and what doesn’t. I know that I want to help people feel more okay in their bodies and in their lives. I know that yoga has always been a beautiful expression of that. The how and the when and the exact shape it will take… I do not know. And santosha asks me to be okay with that. To trust that moving with intention in a direction that feels true is enough. That I do not need to have the whole map in order to take the next step.

The expectations, the five year plans, the gap between the life I imagined and the life I am actually living, these are their own kind of violence. They pull me out of what is actually here and drop me into a future I cannot control and a past I cannot change. Santosha is the practice of coming back. Again and again. To right now. To this moment. To this version of me who is actually doing okay (if I can just slow down and acknowledge it).

I recognize that I have built up a community of 5,000 people on here and 100,000 people on Instagram but from the start I have always made it clear that I do not have anything figured out. Even the clients I sit across from in therapy rooms will pause and look up and expect me to have an answer, to which I have to deliver the frustrating news that I do not know. I will always be honest about that. And I am trying to stay honest with myself. I do not know what the next five years are going to look like and I am not going to pretend otherwise.

What I do know is that I always end up in awe when I look back at how far I have come. And I think that counts for something.

One step at a time. That is enough for right now. And probably for always.

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About the Author

Francesca is a clinical social work student and trauma-informed yoga facilitator who writes about trauma recovery, nervous system healing, and the messy reality of being human through personal essays, cultural reflections, and accessible resources. Her work blends clinical learning with lived experience, all grounded in a deep belief in somatic and relational healing. If you want more writing that helps you feel seen and less alone, subscribe for free here. You can also explore her trauma-informed yoga classes, interactive workbook, instagram, and upcoming retreats.

I read it a few years ago and at the time I found it to be pretty fucking awesome. It felt so validating and so hopeful to finally have language for something I had felt in my own healing journey and witnessed in others — that trauma lives in the body, that talk therapy alone is often not enough, that the nervous system holds onto more than the mind can even begin to articulate. I understand why it became the trauma book. It opened up so many conversations, shifted so many perspectives, and helped change [some] things in the mental health field. I do not want to minimize that.

And.

Bessel van der Kolk is a controversial figure. There are meaningful critiques of his conduct (and even his research) that have come out over the years. Beyond that, the book itself can slide into a kind of symptom-blaming that I do not subscribe to — the implication being that if you have chronic health issues or persistent symptoms, it is because you have not done enough to resolve the trauma stored in your body. I do not think healing works that way. I do not think suffering is indicative of a moral failing. So I wanted to offer some other resources that reflect that.

Every single book on this list I have personally read and personally loved. Some are clinical. Some are not. Let’s get into it.

The Boy Who Was Raised As A Dog

If you have been reading my most recent essays, you have seen me reference this book. And I will keep referencing it over and over again.

Dr. Bruce Perry is a child psychiatrist who writes about some of the most extreme cases of childhood trauma and neglect he has worked with over his career. The case studies taught me so much, but it is the framework underneath all of them that stays with me. Perry works from a place of deep compassion for the children he worked with and for the adults those children became. He never blames. He does not immediately jump to medication (which feels surprising from a psychiatrist). He always gets curious and asks what happened. And above all, he consistently brings it back to relationships as the primary vehicle for healing.

This book is part of many social work, psychology, and mental health curriculums. It was not part of mine, which is honestly a shame, because the insight within these pages feels absolutely vital for anyone sitting with anyone who is suffering on any level. Reading Dr. Perry’s work felt so validating and honestly… gave me a lot of hope. Which in this field is not always easy to come by!

Trauma and Recovery

Okay this is more of a clinical one, but I still find it to be super accessible (my mom actually read this before me when her therapist recommended it to her).

If The Body Keeps the Score is the popular book, Trauma and Recovery is the book that this field was literally built on. Published in 1992, it is where the initial clinical framework for complex-PTSD came from.

Herman writes about the three stages of trauma recovery — safety (stage 1), remembrance and mourning (stage 2), and reconnection (stage 3) — with such clarity and respect for the person who has survived. She was also the one who helped me understand that the goal of trauma work is not exorcism. It is integration. The trauma does not disappear. It becomes something you can carry differently. Something you can live beyond.

This is not a light read and it may be triggering at times. But it is easily one of the most important books I have read in my entire clinical training — surpassing The Body Keeps the Score by a landslide and sitting right up there next to The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog. So underrated.

It Didn’t Start With You

This one is about inherited trauma and the idea that the wounds of our parents and grandparents can live in our bodies and our nervous systems even when we have no conscious memory of or direct experience with the original event. This is now an entire field called epigenetics, and the research is wild. There is a famous mouse study in which mice were conditioned to fear the smell of cherry blossoms, and their offspring (who had never been exposed to the conditioning) were born already afraid of it. The fear was literally passed down in their DNA. And we are not so different.

Wolynn uses family history work and language patterns to help people trace the origins of their suffering, and the approach is very illuminating. If you have ever felt like you are carrying something you cannot fully explain, this book might help you find the words for it with some actionable tools and insightful explanations.

Food Therapy

This is a newer one that I came across and I am so glad I did. It filled a gap I have felt for a long time in the mental health conversation. Like… how are we supposed to talk about healing our nervous systems without talking about what we are putting into our bodies every day? Nutrition is such an important piece of mental health and yet so many clinicians feel like they are not allowed to speak to it.

This book also validated something I experienced personally on my own healing journey — that one of the most regulating things I ever did for myself was change the way I ate, in a way that was nourishing to my gut and nervous system.

Mojica is a somatic therapist and nutritionist who writes about the relationship between food, the body, and trauma. But this book is about so much more than food. It is about the ways we use eating (and not eating) to regulate our nervous systems, to cope with pain, to feel safe or to punish ourselves. It approaches disordered eating not as a behavioral problem to be corrected but as an intelligent adaptation to an overwhelming experience. Which, if you have been reading my essays, you will recognize as the framework I come back to again and again. The behavior is not the problem. The behavior is information.

Tattoos on the Heart

Father Gregory Boyle is a Jesuit priest who has spent decades working with gang members in Los Angeles, and this book is a collection of stories from that work. It is devastating and beautiful.

This is not a clinical trauma book but I include it here because I think it is one of the most trauma-informed books I have ever encountered, even though it never once uses that language. Boyle sees every single person he writes about with complete, unwavering love. He never writes anyone off. He holds the full complexity of people who have done terrible things and people who have had terrible things done to them (often the same person) without flinching and without conditions and without an agenda.

If you get the audiobook, Father Gregory Boyle reads it himself, which makes it pretty special.

What Happened To You?

This book is structured as a conversation between Dr. Bruce Perry (author of The Boy Who Was Raised As A Dog) and Oprah, which makes it the most accessible entry point into his work. Oprah brings her own story and her own vulnerability to the dialogue, and the result feels less like a clinical text and more like a very honest, very warm conversation about how our earliest experiences shape everything that comes after. It is also really educational as Dr. Perry weaves in the science and the framework throughout.

If you are newer to trauma literature or want something you can pass along to a friend or family member who would not pick up a clinical book, this is the one to give them. And I highly recommend the audiobook because it is actually Oprah and Dr. Perry who read it.

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga in Therapy

Embodied Healing

I am recommending these two books together because they belong together.

David Emerson’s approach to yoga for survivors of trauma centers around choice, agency, consent, and embodiment in a way that shifts yoga away from a fitness practice into something incredibly therapeutic. These books have changed how I teach yoga everywhere.

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga in Therapy is written primarily for therapists and clinicians who want to bring gentle, body-based practices into their sessions.

Embodied Healing offers real voices and stories from both survivors of trauma and facilitators of trauma-sensitive yoga.

However, you do not need to be a therapist, clinician, or yoga teacher to read these. I recommend these for anyone curious about a different approach to yoga and/or healing from trauma.

In the Realm of Hungry Ghosts

Gabor Maté writes about addiction through a trauma lens, and he is one of the first to do it. This book follows people living in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside (one of the most concentrated areas of addiction and poverty in North America) and it never once loses sight of their humanity.

The central argument is one I come back to constantly in my own work: we do not ask why the addiction. We ask why the pain.

I also want to give a special mention to his other (newer) book, The Myth of Normal, which is broader in scope, very lengthly, but equally worth your time.

My Grandmother’s Hands

This book is about racialized trauma: the trauma that lives in Black bodies, white bodies, and police bodies in America, passed down through generations of violence, survival, and loss.

Menakem writes from a somatic perspective, which means this is not just an intellectual argument you read and then set down. It is full of body-based practices, exercises, and invitations to actually feel what he is describing in your own body. It is one of the most original books I have read. It will make you think differently about your own nervous system and about the bodies around you. This is often referenced as an alternative to The Body Keeps the Score and I can definitely see why.

What My Bones Know

Stephanie Foo is a journalist who was diagnosed with complex PTSD in her thirties, and this book is the memoir of her years-long process of trying to understand and heal from a childhood of severe abuse and neglect. It is honest and funny and enraging and tender and researched. She interviews clinicians, digs into the science, tries every modality, and writes about all of it.

The book also features the work of Dr. Jacob Ham, a trauma therapist whose approach to working with complex trauma I find incredibly moving and very aligned with how I think about this work.

What I love most is that it does not wrap up neatly. Spoiler: It does not end with her “healed.” It ends with her in the middle of it, still doing the work, still showing up for herself and her life.

A note before you read: this memoir contains graphic retellings of childhood trauma and abuse.

The audiobook is read by Stephanie herself!

How We Change

I have referenced this book in my essays before and will keep coming back to it because it completely reframed something I had been struggling to articulate.

Ellenhorn writes about resistance to change as an intelligent, protective response that makes complete sense given what the person has been through. He actually lays out ten reasons not to change, which I found so refreshing and so normalizing. Of course we do not want to change! Look at everything the behavior is doing for us! Look at how long it has kept us safe!

This one is for anyone who has ever wondered why they keep getting in their own way. You are probably going to find out that it actually makes a lot of sense.

Women Living Deliciously

Okay so this is another one that is not a clinical trauma book in the traditional sense. Florence Given writes about pleasure, desire, identity, and the radical act of living your life on your own terms.

I include it here because I believe that learning to inhabit your body with joy and desire and pleasure is part of healing. So much of what trauma takes from us is exactly that: our sense of safety in our own bodies, our sense of self, our capacity to feel good without waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That is the list! (For now).

You do not have to read all of these. Please do not pressure yourself to read all of these. Whatever one caught your attention, whatever one made you feel curious or excited, start there.

And if there is a book that changed things for you that is not on this list, please drop it in the comments!!

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About the Author

Francesca is a clinical social work student, trauma-informed yoga facilitator, and fellow human being trying to make sense of this human experience we are all moving through together. Her writing lives at the intersection of clinical training and lived experience — reflecting on trauma recovery, the nervous system, and what it actually means to heal in a world that does not always make it easy to.

She believes deeply in somatic healing, relational healing, and the idea that new corrective experiences (with ourselves and with each other) is some of the best therapy there is.

She writes so you feel seen. To dive deeper into her work, you can read new essays for free by subscribing here, join her trauma-informed yoga classes on zoom here, get her interactive nervous system healing workbook here, and follow along on instagram for relatable content here and future group retreats here.

~8 minute read

Maybe you have heard about reparenting your inner child.

(You can click here for an example of it)

It shows up on my Instagram feed every now and then. I have seen it inside and outside of therapy rooms that I have sat in as both client and therapist. Maybe the concept resonates with you. Maybe it doesn’t. But I do think there is one undeniable piece in there, which is the inner child itself.

Because we were all children once.

And we carry those past versions of ourselves within us. They shaped who we are today, in this moment. The same nervous system that was shaped back then is the same nervous system we have been carrying through the years. Sure, there has been a lot of rewiring along the way, but many of those original neural pathways remain.

Research suggests that the vast majority of adult brain development happens before age five. The literal architecture of who we are was largely built before we even had the words to describe our experience…

Yeah, wild.

So of course I can see the utility in reparenting ourselves. In offering the love, presence, attunement, and compassion to ourselves that we never received but were always so worthy of.

But also… we would never expect that from a child.

We would never look at a baby and say, “Okay, go ahead and rock yourself to sleep. Regulate yourself. Meet your own needs.” No.

And the whole reason we are out here reparenting ourselves to begin with is because of wounds that were left behind by other people. In relationship. Which makes me wonder whether the healing can really happen entirely alone?

I have written about this before and will keep talking about it with anyone who will listen: if our trauma happened in the context of a relationship, our healing must also [eventually] happen in the context of a relationship.

There is a cultural narrative that has been circulating for a long time now, I am sure that you have heard it. The whole “You need to heal before you get into a relationship. You have to love yourself first before anyone else can love you.”

I understand where this comes from. And there is something true in it, like yeah you cannot pour from an empty cup, yeah boundaries do matter, yeah self-awareness is indeed necessary. But taken too far, this narrative gives us permission to stay in isolation indefinitely. To keep the door closed until we are “ready.” To make healing a prerequisite for connection rather than understanding that connection is part of how healing happens.

Dr. Bruce Perry writes in The Boy Who Was Raised as a Dog that for years, mental health professionals actually taught people that they could be psychologically healthy without social support. That they also subscribed to the idea that “unless you love yourself, no one else will love you.” That people without any relationships were just as healthy as those who had many.

And he is clear that these ideas contradict the fundamental biology of our species. We are social mammals! We could never have survived without deeply interconnected and interdependent human contact.

And yet the dominant healing narrative of our generation remains: go inward, do the solo work, fix yourself first, and then maybe you will be ready for other people.

So when I see reparenting yourself trending as a framework for healing, I sit back and wonder, is reparenting ourselves just a very sophisticated, very well-intentioned form of hyperindependence?

I want to be clear. I am not saying we shouldn’t do the inner work. I am not saying self-compassion doesn’t matter or that reparenting yourself is without value. It absolutely has value!

What I am asking is: what is it in service of?

Is reparenting yourself a way to deepen your connection to yourself so you can show up in relationships from a more grounded, authentic place? That is beautiful. Keep going.

Or is it becoming a way to avoid relational healing altogether? To stay safe inside the work you can do alone, because relationship is where you got hurt and relationship is terrifying?

I think that is worth sitting with.

Because here is what Dr. Bruce Perry found in decades of working with traumatized children. What healed them was not primarily the clinical interventions. It was the people around them. Their families. Their friends. The coach who let one boy keep team statistics because it made him feel included. The first graders who took a scared kid under their wing. The adoptive parents who just kept showing up, patiently, repeatedly, with love.

He writes that what maltreated and traumatized children most need is a healthy community to buffer the pain and loss caused by their earlier trauma. What works to heal them is anything that increases the number and quality of their relationships. What helps is consistent, patient, repetitive loving care.

Consistent. Patient. Repetitive. Loving. Care.

Not a perfect therapist. Not the right framework. Not journaling alone in your room. Not enough self-help books. Relationships!!!

Attachment theory is pretty clear on this too: healing happens in safe, corrective relationships. Not before them. Which means every time you show up for someone, you are offering them something genuinely therapeutic. And no, you do not need a license for that.

So what might it actually look like to reparent each other?

Let’s start small. Because I think we massively underestimate the impact of the ordinary, everyday interactions we have with people we barely know.

It looks like the guy at the grocery store who actually makes eye contact when he asks how you are doing. It looks like the coworker who notices you seem off today and says something instead of ignoring it it. It looks like the stranger on the street who holds the door, or smiles, or just subtly acknowledges that you are both here. That they actually see you. That you are both real humans with real lives and real problems and still, so deserving of connection, love, and that short moment of being seen.

It looks like not flinching when someone shares something hard. Not rushing to silver linings. Not deflecting with humor. Just staying in it with them for a moment, even when it is uncomfortable, even when you do not know what to say. Presence is enough (sometimes presence is everything).

These things may sound small but they are not small. We are so starved for basic human acknowledgment and connection that the bar is genuinely that low.

And then there are the people you actually go home to. Your best friend. Your partner. Your close family. The ones who see you on your worst days and your most ordinary ones. This is where reparenting each other goes deeper, and where it also asks more of us.

Here it looks like actually listening — not waiting for your turn to talk, not problem-solving before they are finished, not half-listening while your phone is in your hand. Just being there, fully, while they say whatever they need to say.

It looks like remembering what someone told you last week and checking back in about it. How did that conversation go? How are you feeling about it now? The act of being remembered is more healing than most people realize. It says: you matter to me when you are not in front of me.

It looks like moving toward someone when they shut down instead of away from them. It looks like saying “I notice you’ve gotten really quiet, are you okay?” instead of deciding to give them space because it is easier. Sometimes people need space. And sometimes what reads as “needing space” is actually a nervous system that learned a long time ago that no one was coming. So they stopped asking.

It looks like repair. Coming back after a fight and saying, “I handled that badly and I am sorry.” Not waiting for the other person to bring it up. Not pretending it didn’t happen. Rupture and repair is one of the most powerful relational experiences there is — it teaches the nervous system that conflict does not mean abandonment. That relationships can survive hard things. That it is safe enough to stay.

It looks like being the kind of person someone can actually fall apart in front of. Not the person who panics when someone cries or rushes to fix it. But the person who can sit with someone in their mess and not make it weird.

We all have that inner child, remember? We have all been stretched and shaped by our own histories of pain. We are all tired. We are all carrying something. And underneath all of it, there is a person who just wants to be seen.

You would never look at a baby and think, “Yeah… I am not sure you are worthy of love and care.” No! That thought would never cross your mind!

So why do we look at the adults around us (and at ourselves) and decide otherwise?

I am not here to tell you to stop reparenting yourself. I am here to ask you to also look up from your own work long enough to reach for the person next to you.

To show up for each other when you have the capacity. And sometimes, to stretch your capacity a little.

Because we were never meant to do this alone! The research says so. Our biology says so. And honestly, somewhere underneath all of it, I think we already know this.

So do we need to reparent ourselves or reparent each other?

Maybe the answer is that we cannot fully do one without the other.

Let me know your thoughts on this. Hit reply or leave a comment. I read everything.

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About the Author

Francesca is a clinical social work student, trauma-informed yoga facilitator, and fellow human being trying to make sense of this human experience we are all moving through together. Her writing lives at the intersection of clinical training and lived experience — reflecting on trauma recovery, the nervous system, and what it actually means to heal in a world that does not always make it easy to.

She believes deeply in somatic healing, relational healing, and the idea that new corrective experiences (with ourselves and with each other) is some of the best therapy there is.

She writes so you feel seen. To dive deeper into her work, you can read new essays for free by subscribing here, join her trauma-informed yoga classes on zoom here, get her interactive nervous system healing workbook here, and follow along on instagram for relatable content here and future group retreats here.

Because I have personally spent way too many hours scrolling myself into a dissociated, comparison-fueled spiral and I am sick of it.

We did not evolve for this! We evolved for each other. For movement, for conversation, for sitting around fires and making things with our hands and feeling the sun on our faces. We evolved for eye contact and long meals and boredom. Our nervous systems were quite literally built for connection, presence, and the physical world around us.

And instead we are lying in bed at midnight comparing our bodies to strangers, watching other people live their lives instead of living our own, and handing our dopamine systems over to an algorithm that was designed by some of the most well-resourced teams in the world to keep us exactly where we are. Scrolling. Consuming. Feeling pretty terrible.

I made this list because sometimes I know I need to put the phone down and I cannot think of a single thing to do instead. And because the replacement activity has to actually sound good — or the phone wins every time.

If you are struggling with your relationship with your phone I also made this resource for you:

100 healing ways to reconnect with yourself and others for $0 - $10

Move your body:

1. Go on a walk without your phone (or if you have to take it with you, put it on do not disturb)

2. Stretch for 10 minutes

3. Dance alone in your room to music you love

4. Do yoga with a free youtube video

5. Go for a run/jog with no destination

6. Find a hill or grassy field and sit there

7. Do a body scan lying down on your floor

8. Get up and shake your body out for 60 seconds (yes, literally just shake)

9. Walk barefoot outside on grass or dirt

10. Find and swim in any body of water near you (if it’s cold, do a plunge!)

Be creative

11. Write in a journal (stream of consciousness, no editing)

12. Draw or doodle something, anything

13. Write a letter to someone you love and actually send it

14. Write a letter to someone you hate and then burn it

15. Write a letter to your younger self

16. Write a letter to your future self

17. Write down ten things you are grateful for

18. Rearrange furniture or a corner of your space

19. Come up with a recipe using only what you already have

Connect with people

20. Call someone you have been meaning to call

21. Text someone a genuine compliment out of nowhere

22. Make plans with a friend and actually show up

23. Sit with a family member and ask them something you have never asked before

24. Write down the names of five people who have changed your life and why (and then tell them!)

25. Show up at a friend’s house unannounced with snacks

26. Have a conversation with a stranger (like a real one)

27. Compliment a stranger

28. Tell someone something you appreciate about them out loud

29. Ask someone how they are really doing and mean it

30. Write a thank you note to someone who will not expect it

Connect with your senses

31. Take a long hot shower and actually be present for it

32. Make a cup of tea or coffee and taste every sip

33. Sit outside and do nothing for 10 minutes (you can set a timer so you don’t have to check your phone for how long it has been)

34. Watch the sunrise or sunset

35. Lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling

36. Light a candle or incense and sit with it

37. Open every window in your home

38. Notice five things you can see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, one you can taste

39. Put your feet in water — a creek, a lake, a bathtub, a bucket

40. Eat a meal slowly with no screens

Learn and reflect

41. Read a book

42. Reread a book that you loved as a kid

43. Visit a library and wander the shelves with no agenda

44. Go to a park and watch people or birds or both

45. Find a new walking route in your neighborhood

46. Listen to a podcast (while walking, doing something with your hands, etc)

47. Go through old photos or scrapbooks

48. Listen to an album start to finish (lying down or dancing)

49. Watch the clouds

50. Sit in a church or quiet public space and just be

51. Memorize a poem or passage that moves you

52. Write down everything on your mind until there is nothing left

Around the house

50. Deep clean one small area — a drawer, a shelf, a corner

51. Cook something from scratch that takes time

52. Do the thing on your to-do list you have been avoiding

53. Tend to a plant — water it, repot it, talk to it

54. Organize your bookshelf by color or mood

55. Make your bed like you are making it for someone you love

56. Do a full declutter of one category — clothes, books, etc

57. Bake something and give most of it away (or don’t lol)

58. Fix something in your home that has been broken

59. Sit in a different room than you normally do and notice how it feels

For $10 or less

60. Get a new journal and actually use it

61. Buy yourself flowers

62. Sit at a coffee shop without your laptop or phone (maybe without a journal or book either ?!)

63. Grab a new tea or herbal blend you have never tried

64. Buy a coloring book and colored pencils

65. Get a new candle that smells like somewhere you want to be

66. Pick up a new flavor of sparkling water and drink it outside

67. Get a pack of postcards and send them to people for no reason

68. Go to a thrift store with $10 and see what you find

69. Visit a farmers market and buy one thing you have never tried

70. Go to a dollar store and get something purely for fun

71. Take public transit somewhere with no plan and see where you end up

72. Find a local museum with free or cheap admission

73. Go to a matinee movie alone

74. Find a local hiking trail and just go

75. Visit a botanical garden if there is one near you

76. Find a free or cheap community event in your city

77. Get watercolors and try them out

78. Get a new book from a used bookstore

79. Pick up an activity book — crosswords, word searches, sudoku, etc

80. Buy cheap clay and make something with your hands

81. Get a cheap embroidery kit

82. Buy seeds and start something small on a windowsill

83. Buy someone’s coffee in line behind you

84. Pick up a small something for a friend — a snack they love, a flower, a card

85. Buy a board game from a thrift store and invite people over

86. Get matching cheap journals with a friend and write letters back and forth

87. Buy epsom salts and take a bath

88. Pick up a new herbal supplement you have been curious about

89. Buy an essential oil and diffuse it while you stretch

90. Get a new water bottle that makes you want to actually drink water

91. Buy a cheap sketchbook and draw something every day for a week

92. Get a small whiteboard for your wall and write something on it every morning

93. Get a cheap resistance band and look up a 20 minute workout

94. Buy a cheap disposable camera and finish the whole roll

95. Buy bubbles and go outside with them

96. Get a cheap pair of binoculars and go birdwatching

97. Buy a cheap cookbook from a thrift store and pick one recipe

98. Get chalk and draw on your driveway or sidewalk

99. Buy a cheap hammock and find a place to hang it

100. Get a cheap map and mark everywhere you have been

101. Bonus: This last one might not be doable for everyone, but if you can, hang out with a kid who is still too young to know what a phone is. Try to see the world through their eyes. I nanny for a baby girl every week, and keeping my phone tucked away in my jacket pocket allows me to just fully be there with her. And she is fully there with me. There is pure magic in being present with another human who is also fully present. If you don't have a kid or baby in your orbit, find a friend or a pet to go phone-free with.

Save this list. Share it. Come back to it often. Make your own list.

I hope this helps!

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About the Author

Francesca is a clinical social work student, trauma-informed yoga facilitator, and fellow human being trying to make sense of this human experience we are all moving through together. Her writing lives at the intersection of clinical training and lived experience — reflecting on trauma recovery, the nervous system, and what it actually means to heal in a world that does not always make it easy to.

She believes deeply in somatic healing, relational healing, and the idea that new corrective experiences (with ourselves and with each other) is some of the best therapy there is.

She writes so you feel seen. To dive deeper into her work, you can read new essays for free by subscribing here, join her trauma-informed yoga classes on zoom here, get her interactive nervous system healing workbook here, and follow along on instagram for relatable content here and future group retreats here.