Crow and Flame

Trauma doesn’t always arrive as a memory.

Sometimes it comes as a sound, a smell, a tone of voice.

Sometimes it’s a moment so small it feels almost unfair that it can knock the air from my lungs.

That’s what triggers do.

They don’t ask permission.

They don’t explain themselves.

They just arrive—and suddenly I am back in my body in a way that feels unsafe.

When I’m triggered, everything tightens.

My thoughts spiral fast and loud.

Panic presses in, my chest feels too small for my breath, and the urge to escape myself rises like a wave I didn’t see coming.

This is where the hopelessness creeps in.

A quiet, dangerous voice that says:

You’ll never feel better.

You’re too much.

You know what would make this stop.

I don’t want that voice.

But trauma has a way of teaching the nervous system shortcuts—old coping mechanisms that once felt like survival, even when they hurt.

The urges don’t mean I want to die.

They mean I want the pain to stop.

They mean I am overwhelmed, desperate for relief, desperate for control, desperate for quiet.

And that distinction matters.

There are moments when managing the urge feels like holding my breath underwater, counting seconds, hoping I’ll surface soon.

I bargain with myself.

Just get through the next five minutes.

Just don’t act on it right now.

Just stay.

Sometimes coping looks strong.

Other times it looks messy and unimpressive:

Sitting on the floor, shaking Crying without knowing why Distracting myself with noise or movement Reaching for grounding, even when it barely works

Sometimes coping is simply not giving in, even though every nerve in my body is screaming.

I wish healing were linear.

I wish progress meant never coming back here.

But trauma recovery isn’t about never struggling again.

It’s about learning how to sit with the struggle without letting it consume you.

And on the hardest days, hope doesn’t look like optimism.

It looks like stubbornness.

It looks like choosing to stay, even when I don’t feel strong, even when I don’t feel safe inside my own skin.

If you’re here too—panicking, desperate, fighting urges you don’t want—I want you to know this:

You are not broken for feeling this way.

You are not weak for needing coping skills.

You are not failing because you’re struggling.

You are surviving something that once hurt you deeply, and your body is still learning that it’s allowed to be safe.

And even when hope feels distant, even when the urge is loud, the fact that you’re trying to manage it matters more than you know.

Stay.

Breathe.

One moment at a time is enough.

You are not alone in this.