For years, birthdays felt like a spotlight I didn’t want to stand under. I felt discomfort at the thought of someone wishing me a happy birthday, gifting me a present, or trying to make the day ‘about me.’

The idea of celebrating myself felt uncomfortable, and, upon reflection, even undeserved. My inner critic would say things like:

• “I’m nothing special.”

• “What is no one else celebrates me.”

• “I don’t want the attention.”

I used to roll my eyes at gratitude practices

Not because I didn’t believe in them, but because they felt forced. Like one more thing I was supposed to do. So, I’d sit with my journal, staring at prompts that asked me to list three things I was grateful for. And I’d think, Really? This again?

But I kept showing up. Not perfectly. Not enthusiastically. Just consistently enough to notice something: even when I wasn’t writing, I was practicing gratitude. Quietly. Internally. In the way I softened toward myself. In the way I noticed beauty in the mundane. In the way I allowed discomfort to sit beside me without needing to fix it. I never expected to say it, but one day I did…

Your nervous system is a beautifully complex thing—broken down into two main branches, then more branches within those branches, and so on. But when we talk about nervous system healing, we are focusing in on a “sub-branch” called the autonomic nervous system (ANS).

Its job? To constantly scan your environment for cues of safety or danger (remember that smoke detector I talked about last week)? And depending on what it detects, it activates one of two modes. Cue…your sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems.

Imagine a smoke alarm in a cozy little house. When the house was first built, the alarm was perfectly calibrated. It knew the difference between danger and safety. It only went off if there was real smoke or fire—an actual threat. It was designed to protect, not panic.

But over time, things began to happen in that house. A candle left burning too long. Times when someone forgot to turn off the stove, or the wiring sparked in the walls. One day, a real fire broke out—it was terrifying, and it left a deep mark.

After that, the alarm changed. It became hypersensitive.

Toast too brown? Alarm activated.

A hot shower with steam? Alarm activated.

Lighting birthday candles? Alarm activated.

Even when there was no real danger, the alarm screamed. It wasn’t broken. It had simply learned. Learned that danger can come from the small, ordinary things. Learned that safety is unpredictable. And now, it was trying to protect at all costs.

Last week I shared some thoughts on a word that gets thrown around often—healing. But let’s pause for a moment and ask: healing from what? To really understand what healing means, we have to look at the root of the pain. And for many of us, that root is trauma.

Over the next several weeks, I’ll be reflecting on trauma—specifically the how and why of its imprint on the body. Because trauma doesn’t just live in our stories or our minds. It lives in our bodies.

We’re often told that healing is something we arrive at. A place we reach once we’ve “done the work,” moved through the pain, and left the hard stuff behind.

But I don’t believe we can be healed—not in the clean, final way that word suggests.

I’m not exactly sure what this post will become, but I am trusting that this is the right place to start. So—welcome. It means a lot that you’re reading this.

I’m a Licensed Independent Social Worker and Clinical Psychotherapist, but those words only scratch the surface of who I am and what I do. I work with clients who are ready to go deep—not just into the roots of their anxiety or depression, but into their soul. Into a blueprint they can feel but haven’t yet fully accessed—or perhaps lost touch with along the way.

My work is body-based, trauma-informed, and soul-centered.