“Trauma doesn’t make you weak. It makes you a witness to your own survival.”
-This Puzzled Life
Light the charcoal. Sprinkle the sage. Let the smoke rise like it’s clocking in for a shift. And let the air shift like it’s bracing itself for whatever truth you’re about to drag into the daylight. Today isn’t about pretending everything’s fine or slapping a smile on top of a wound. It’s not about the vibes, snacks, or cats doing interpretive dance in the sunbeam. It’s about trauma awareness. It is about naming the things we survived. The things we carried alone. The things we laughed through so we wouldn’t crumble. It’s a Southern‑fried, emotionally honest, and funny enough to keep you from dissolving into a puddle on the kitchen floor.
Trauma Awareness is the kind that hides in your shoulders, jaw, breath, memories, and your jokes. And if we’re going to talk about it, we’re going to do it the only way I know how. Complete with honesty, humor, and the kind of emotional courage that feels like taking your bra off after a long day. It’s painful, relieving, and absolutely necessary.
There’s a moment right before you talk about trauma where your whole spirit goes, “Are we sure we want to do this?” It’s the same tone you use when someone says, “Let’s just run into Walmart real quick.” You know it’s not going to be quick. You know you’re going to see something you can’t unsee. You know you’re going to come out changed. Talking about trauma is like that. Except instead of a man in pajama pants buying raw chicken and fireworks, it’s your nervous system holding up a sign that says, “We’ve been through some things, ma’am.”
Trauma doesn’t just show up when you’re ready. Trauma is that one cousin who arrives early. Eats all the good snacks. And then says, “Why you look stressed?” It pops up at the worst times especially when you’re trying to relax. When you’re trying to sleep. When you’re trying to enjoy a sandwich. When you’re trying to mind your business. And when you’re trying to be a functioning adult for five minutes. Trauma will tap you on the shoulder like, “Hey bestie, remember that thing from 1998? No? Well, I do.” And suddenly you’re staring at the wall like it owes you money.
Your body remembers everything. Even the stuff you tried to bury under humor, iced coffee, and pretending you’re fine. You’ll be walking through Wal-Mart. Touching a throw pillow. And your body will whisper, “Hey, remember that time?” And you’re like, “No I do not. I am touching a pillow. Let me live.” But trauma doesn’t care. Trauma is like a Southern grandmother with a memory like a steel trap. And no sense of timing.
People talk about healing like it’s a spa day. Let me tell you something. Healing is not cucumber water and a robe. Healing is crying in the shower because your shampoo smells like 2007. Healing is realizing you’ve been clenching your jaw since the Bush administration. Healing is sitting in your car after therapy like you just got hit by an emotional freight train. Healing is messy. Healing is loud. Healing is quiet. Healing is confusing. Healing is holy. Healing is exhausting. Healing is worth it. But cute? Absolutely not.
So, buckle up. Because the cats have decided it’s Trauma Awareness Hour. And apparently they’ve all been waiting their whole lives to trauma dump with the enthusiasm of a group therapy circle run by toddlers. And today is the day they ask deeply personal questions with the emotional sensitivity of a toddler holding a chainsaw. They have formed a circle. They have snacks. They have opinions. And apparently, they have questions about my trauma.
Me: “Okay, girls. Today we’re talking about trauma. Share whatever you feel comfortable with.”
She raises paw like she’s in kindergarten
Piper: “I’ll go first because my story is the most dramatic. Obviously.”
Coco: “Oh lord.”
Tinkerbell: “Let the child speak. She needs this.”
Piper: “So picture this. Me and my siblings. In a metal box. In the Mississippi heat, basically sautéing like tiny furry cornbread muffins.”
Me: “Baby, that’s awful.”
Piper: “I know. I was basically a rotisserie chicken with trauma.”
Coco: “You were a sweaty raisin with opinions.”
Piper: “Anyway, I survived because I’m dramatic and stubborn. And now every time the sunbeam hits me wrong, I flop over like a Victorian woman fainting at a garden party.”
Tinkerbell: “You faint because you forget to breathe when you get excited.”
Piper: “Trauma. Tinkerbell. Let me have this.”
Coco clears throat like she’s about to deliver a TED Talk
Coco: “My siblings and I were found under a house. A house. Do you know what lives under houses? Darkness. Ghosts. Tax evasion. I was basically a feral raccoon with trust issues.”
Me: “You’ve come so far.”
Coco: “Yes. And now I cope by judging everyone. It’s called growth.”
Piper: “You judge me the most.”
Coco: “You give me the most material.”
Tinkerbell: “I don’t remember my trauma.”
Me: “At all?”
Tinkerbell: “No. I simply chose not to be present. I was spiritually unavailable.”
Coco: “You had worms.”
Tinkerbell: “Yes, apparently my intestines were hosting a music festival.”
Piper: “You pooped like you were trying to summon something.”
Tinkerbell: “I was summoning peace. And a vet. Preferably both.”
Me: “You really don’t remember anything?”
Tinkerbell: “I remember diarrhea. And then I remember you. Everything else is optional.”
Me: “Well, we’ve all been through some things.”
Piper: “Yeah, but now we’re together! A family! With two crazy brothers who scream at dust!”
Coco: “We are a support group. A dysfunctional one, but still.”
Tinkerbell: “We heal one memory at a time. Preferably with snacks.”
Piper: “And naps!”
Coco: “And boundaries. Mostly for Piper.”
Piper: “I don’t believe in boundaries.”
Tinkerbell: “We know.”
Piper: “Sometimes I get scared when it’s hot outside. So, I cope by yelling at the sun.”
Coco: “I cope by staring at people until they feel bad.”
Tinkerbell: “I cope by leaving my body spiritually whenever something stressful happens. Like when the vacuum turns on. Or when Piper breathes too loud.”
Piper: “I have big emotions.”
Coco: “You have no volume control.”
Tinkerbell: “You have the energy of a toddler who drank a Red Bull.”
Piper: “Momma, what is your trauma about?”
Me: “Oh absolutely not. We are not opening that can of worms. We’ll be here until this time next year. And I don’t have enough snacks or emotional stamina.”
Coco: “Is that why you have panic attacks in Walmart?”
Me: “Yes.”
Tinkerbell: “But what’s scary about going to the pharmacy?”
Me: “Everything.”
Piper: “Everything?? Like the shelves? The people? The lighting?”
Me: “Yes.”
Coco: “The lighting is aggressive.”
Tinkerbell: “The vibes are hostile.”
Piper: “The blood pressure machine is a demon.”
Me: “Exactly.”
Coco: “So what did our therapist tell you?”
Me: “She said, ‘I’ll see you in another couple of days.’”
Tinkerbell: “Translation: ‘You’re a lot. But I believe in you.’”
Piper: “Translation: ‘You have so many issues we need a punch card.’”
Coco: “Translation: ‘You’re keeping the lights on in that office.’”
Me: “But look at us now. We’re safe. We’re loved. We’re healing together.”
Piper: “And we have snacks!”
Coco: “And stability.”
Tinkerbell: “And indoor plumbing.”
Me: “We survived things we never should’ve had to survive. And now we get to build something soft and silly and sacred together.”
All Three Cats: “Group hug!”
Coco: “But don’t touch me too long.”
Piper: “I’m crying!”
Tinkerbell: “I’m dissociating!”
Me: “Perfect. Exactly the emotional range I expected.”
In small Southern towns, admitting trauma is treated like a social crime. The moment you name what happened, you’re not just telling your story. You’re “disgracing the family,” “embarrassing the community,” and threatening the carefully polished illusion of stability that everyone works so hard to maintain. The culture teaches people to swallow their pain. Protect the reputation of the town at all costs. And never, under any circumstances, call out the people who caused the harm. And because the “good ole boy” network is alive and well. And sitting in every position of authority from the courthouse to the church pews, the truth gets buried right alongside the accountability. Even when the perpetrators are known. Especially when they’re known. Nothing is done. The silence is enforced. The victims are shamed. And the town keeps smiling for the church directory photo like nothing ever happened. But the truth doesn’t disappear just because the town refuses to look at it. It lingers in the air, the families, the generations, waiting for someone brave enough to break the cycle and say, “This happened. And it mattered.” And I am that one in my family who refuses to stay quiet about the trauma that happened in the small city of Petal, MS.
Trauma will have you doing things that make absolutely no sense. Things like apologizing to furniture when you bump into it. Jumping at sounds that aren’t even loud. Overthinking texts like you’re decoding ancient scripture. Saying “I’m fine” in a tone that suggests you are, in fact, not fine. And crying because someone said, “I’m proud of you.” And your body wasn’t prepared for that level of kindness. Trauma will also make you emotionally attached to random objects. A mug. A blanket. A rock you found on a walk. A pen that writes really smooth. Your brain will be like, “This is my emotional support spoon. Touch it and perish.”
Trauma awareness isn’t about reliving the pain. It’s about naming it, so it stops owning you. It’s about understanding why you react the way you do. It’s about giving yourself grace for surviving things you never should’ve had to survive. It’s about learning that your triggers aren’t flaws. They’re evidence that you lived through something real. And it’s about knowing you’re not broken.
You’re healing. You’re growing. You’re learning how to breathe again. You’re learning how to trust softness again. You’re learning how to exist without bracing for impact. That’s not weakness. That’s strength with stretch marks.
May your healing be gentle. May your memories lose their sharp edges. May your nervous system unclench one muscle at a time. May your heart learn safety. May your voice return to you. May your laughter come back louder. May your story be yours again. And not something that happened to you. But something you rose from.
So, if no one told you today. You’re not dramatic. You’re not broken. And you’re not “too much.” You’re a whole human who lived through storms that would’ve snapped lesser souls in half. And you’re still here healing. Laughing. Unlearning, Softening. Reclaiming. That’s not survival. That’s resurrection. And baby, if that isn’t holy, I don’t know what is. Drop the sage. Keep the truth. And walk away knowing this. Your story didn’t end in the dark. You did.
Affirmation: I honor the parts of me that survived. I honor the parts of me that are still healing. I am allowed to grow, to rest, to feel, and to reclaim my peace. And I can do it one breath at a time.
***Don’t forget to watch the video!***
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This Puzzled Life 