Trauma doesn’t fade with time.
It doesn’t dissolve just because we’ve stopped talking about it.
It doesn’t disappear because we’re busy.
It doesn’t loosen its grip because the world tells us to “move on.”
It lives in the body
deep in the nervous system,
in the tightness of your shoulders,
in the knots in your stomach,
in the tension that never fully goes away.
It hides in the muscles that brace for a threat that’s no longer there,
in the jaw that clenches when someone raises their voice,
in the breath that shortens without warning.
It nests in memory — not always in words,
but in flashes, feelings, and fragments.
In the sudden panic you can’t explain.
In the numbness that creeps in when you’re touched too gently or asked to trust too soon.
Trauma resurfaces
again and again
not to haunt you,
but because it hasn’t been seen,
felt, or released.
You are not broken because you still feel it.
You are not weak because it still lingers.
You are human and your body is speaking.
It’s asking for safety.
It’s asking for presence.
It’s asking for permission to finally let go.
Healing doesn’t happen by force.
It begins when we stop running,
when we pause to listen
to the ache, the silence, the storm.
Because what the mind buries,
the body remembers
until it is loved back into peace.