This morning, I wrote about a moment from childhood—the moment I made an unconscious vow: I will never become a wife.
It was a memory I hadn’t thought about in years, yet it still stirred something within me.
I still have nightmares where doors slam. I catch a glimpse of my eleven-year-old self crying. I reach to console her, and she snatches her hands back.
As I wrote, my heart raced. I exhaled deeply, trying to contain the tears. My body remembered what my mind refused to admit. The pain is still there. Trauma is a squatter.
It made me wonder how much of our past remains buried within us, shaping the way we show up in our everyday lives.
How many illnesses form?
How many relationships fracture before they fully begin?
How many patterns hum quietly in the background, on repeat?
Maybe we don’t need another self-help book or more prescriptions.
Maybe what we need is awareness of the pain our bodies have been carrying—and the courage to release it.
Words create space for healing.
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