Ten minutes into class, as I looked at the dour, unsmiling face of Mrs. Hoyberger, I knew deep inside that I did not belong there. This world felt closed in, dry, and regimented. I quietly slipped into the cloakroom and then out the classroom door. Down the hall I ran, looking for my mom. The outside door was so heavy it took all my strength to open it, but I was determined.
Once outside, I was devastated to discover that my mom had left without me. Just then, Mrs. Hoyberger grabbed me from behind and sternly ushered me back to the classroom, from which there was no further escape.
On that day, I learned to rein in my tears and my sense of being overwhelmed in order to fit in. As I grew, I began to shut down other parts of myself to create an acceptable and pleasing persona for my family and teachers.
My fear of new endeavors became a pattern that stayed with me for decades. In college, I realized that once I started a project, I was fine. But during the weeks prior to starting, I felt an anxiety that could mentally paralyze me.
Another message I internalized was that no one would actually be there to catch me if I fell — so I could truly depend only on myself. This belief made me stronger and more self-reliant, but it became harder to let other people in because I regarded my vulnerability as a liability — something to hold at arm’s length.
I was very observant and smart. I learned that when I placed my needs last and took care of everyone else first, I gained approval and love. I learned to value my intelligent, reasoning mind more than the feelings and sensations of my body.
My mother was the classic good wife of the 1950s, one who was subservient to her husband. My father, a Baptist minister, was a kind man and a deep thinker, an excellent speaker, and much loved by his congregation.
I modeled myself after my father, the parent who held all the power. I did not want to be like my mother. In the process, I didn’t realize I was moving away from my authentic self, bit by bit.
At the age of six, I remember getting the tip of my right pinkie finger crushed by the chain on our backyard swing set. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I ran into the house, blood streaming from what remained of the end of my finger.
My father quickly cleaned and dressed the wound, gently and carefully wrapping it in gauze and taping it. Then he quietly let me know that I needed to stop crying — just like that!
I so aspired to be the person my dad wanted me to be. My finger hurt like hell, but I knew that if I wanted to please him, I needed to put a lid on my pain and stop crying. So I did.
Given all this, I’m not surprised to look back now and see that, by the time I was a teenager, I lived behind invisible walls, firmly shielded from whatever I thought could possibly hurt me.
I rarely cried, only doing so when I was alone. I saw myself as the “Rock of Gibraltar,” a place of safety and strength for everyone who needed me. People loved me for my responsible caregiving, while within I felt numb and confused. The tenderness in my own heart did not get seen, much less touched. I was constantly trying to please everyone.
Mine is not an uncommon story. My traumas were not large, relatively speaking. Some might not consider them traumas at all. I certainly have been witness to friends and clients in my therapeutic practice and classes who have experienced far worse.
Yet trauma is a subjective experience. We should not judge our own traumas as being large or small by comparing them with anyone else’s experience — not even doctors can know the personal impact of an individual’s experiences and how they may be stored in their system.
As I travel and teach internationally, I ask my students if they consider their empathy and sensitivity to life to be an asset. Very few hands go up. Most of us consider our empathic abilities a liability, not an asset. Few realize that this internal capacity to feel life is what makes us fully human and allows us to function to our full potential. What I mean by healthy empathy is the capacity to sense our body, our emotions, and to walk in someone else’s shoes without taking on their issues as our own.
Ironically, despite caring about others and our empathetic responses, when we create excessive protective barriers between the world and ourselves, we unknowingly undermine ourselves. We don’t realize that these barriers may sometimes shield us from life’s pain, but they also cut us off from the juiciness of life, from our creativity and joy, and from the knowing that helps us take care of ourselves.
One hot, humid summer night when I was seventeen, I got a pivotal wake-up call that fundamentally changed the direction of my life. That evening was a typical Virginia summer night. The air felt thick and heavy. I was at a neighborhood pool party. My friend John asked if we could go somewhere and talk. I thought the request was a bit odd, but I figured he needed some sisterly advice.
John was a longtime friend, a sweet teddy bear of a guy. Unbeknownst to me, he was spinning out of control in that moment and coming down from a long stretch on amphetamines. I was clueless about the underground drug culture that was widespread around me.
We sat in the front seat of his car in the parking lot outside the pool and were having a normal teenage conversation, just “hanging out.” As we talked, I began to feel a strange but distinct uneasiness in my gut. This was not in response to the tone of his voice or the topic of conversation, yet the uneasiness continued for well over half an hour.
My thoughts were telling me it was unreasonable to feel uncomfortable with my friend, so I ignored my gut feelings. After all, he was like an older brother to me, and I dismissed my discomfort as foolish and didn’t say anything about it.
Then, I turned away from him for a moment to look out the window, and the next thing I knew his hands were around my throat. He was strangling me. He was so strong I quickly and completely passed out.
When I regained consciousness, I was trembling all over. My head was pressed against the car door. John was plastered to the other side of the front seat, behind the steering wheel, obviously shocked and horrified at what he had done. He was apologizing profusely. I, too, was in serious shock.
Every cell in my body screamed at me to get out of the car now. This time, I listened. My primal survival instinct overruled my sweet seventeen-year-old politeness. As the strength in the lower half of my body surged back, I managed to open the door, and I crawled, shaking like a leaf, across the parking lot to my boyfriend’s car, where help was waiting.
My heart felt shattered. Afterward, I soon learned why my friend had been so violent that night; he had been on drugs and was basically melting down inside. But my mental, left-brained knowing could not fix the damage. It took years of bodywork and emotional healing to melt the internal scars of fear and betrayal from that event.
In the moment, had I recognized and appreciated my gut intelligence and honored the message it was giving me, I could have avoided this life-changing trauma.
By saying this, I am not implying that what happened was my fault! This is a common response among trauma survivors, as I know from my decades of study and work with this population. Survivors may blame themselves, especially when the perpetrator is someone they know. In the immediate aftermath of my encounter, I did the same thing, wondering what it was about me that had caused this to happen.
Yet the blame was not mine, and I want to be clear that victims are not to blame for their traumas. Life happens, and even in the best of situations, we are never fully in control.
On the other hand, I also learned something valuable that forms the core of
