Trigger warning – sexual assault and trauma

We were asked to summarize one of our stories into a few words. All I could think was, “I have so many stories…which one?”

It slowly became clear that “it was hard” encapsulated it all.

My therapist used to tell me that she thought things would get easier for me when I finally admitted how hard it was. My childhood was. Even my recent-ish past has been.

She was right.

There seems to be a common trait of at least some trauma survivors – or at least the ones I find. We somehow seem unable or unwilling to admit how hard something was. Or is.

I find that I drop stories lightly and then realize they’re not light. When I tell people that I start my keynote standing on a bridge deciding whether or not to jump. Then I notice the gasp on their face. When I casually throw out that I’ve discovered that the “simple sexual trauma” I experienced as a child was anything but simple. Was a lot. And the people I’ve just told reach for the wall to steady themselves.

Perhaps it’s a form of denial that helps one get through things. Perhaps it’s the “grit your teeth and just do it” that gets us through…and makes the hard seem like it must not be that hard. Perhaps one just gets used to it in some weird way.

All I know is I spent many years asking my therapist if my childhood was hard. Even though people read my memoir and cried or told me how unbelievable it was.

Then one day I began to realize how hard it was.

It started with a sort of healing circle in a church in London, where the leader invited me to feel what was buried deep inside of me…and I ended up screaming at god. Screaming at god in a church. Something inside me cracked open and so much started to pour out.

The next step was a series of different types of bodywork. The reactions I had as my body – which had kept the score – began to release some of its terror and pain and harm and trauma were undeniable. And mildly terrifying. Or at least convincing that some things must have happened to me for my body to react the way it did when invited to release and heal.

I began to realize…if this is what’s in me, then it must have been at least a wee bit hard.

I sat with that. I felt that. I felt more and more and more. Terror. Grief. Rage. Terror. Grief. Rage. My therapist applauded that I was finally crying and sobbing, finally expressing anger. Finally letting it all out. Even all that I didn’t ever know was in me.

I would sit on her couch and say over and over and over, “It was hard. It was hard. It was hard.”

And it began to get easier. Just like she said it would.

I’d love to hear your thoughts, and please share this post with others if it resonates with you. Let’s start a movement of loving ourselves First Most Always™️!

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