Tag Archives: healing

When Trauma Touches Every Part of Life

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Today, I sat across from people carrying stories too heavy for one heart to hold: war, abuse, abandonment, loss, betrayal. Each one unique, and yet each one echoing a truth we don’t often say out loud: trauma changes us.

It touches the way we see ourselves, the way we trust others, the way we move through the world. Sometimes it shows up as restlessness, sometimes as cynicism or withdrawal, sometimes as shame or self-doubt. Trauma doesn’t stay in the past. It tries to convince us we are still unsafe, still unworthy, still alone.

But trauma is not the end of the story.

Over and over again, I am reminded that the same human heart that absorbs unthinkable pain is also capable of deep healing. With compassion, safety, and God’s presence, the story can shift. What felt like permanent ruin can slowly become a place of new growth. The psalmist’s words ring true: “The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18).

I can’t share the details of the lives I encounter. Those stories are sacred, and privacy is part of the safety each person deserves. But I can tell you this: people are finding courage to face what they’ve endured. They are discovering that their worth was never erased by what happened to them. They are learning that God’s love meets them not in some future perfect version of themselves, but right here, in the middle of the mess and the ache.

For those who feel weary, weighed down by wounds no one else can see: you are not forgotten. You are not alone. Healing is possible. And even on the days when hope feels faint, God has not turned away.

As a community of faith, may we be people who refuse to look away from suffering. May we create spaces of gentleness and belonging, where survivors can breathe, tell the truth, and remember that their story isn’t finished yet.

I’m Tired, Lord — But Mostly I’m Tired of People Being Ugly

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There’s a line from a movie that echoes in my soul lately:
“I’m tired, boss… tired of all the pain I feel and hear in the world every day… there’s too much of it. It’s like pieces of glass in my head all the time.”

Can I confess something to you, friend?
I’m tired too.

Not just the “need-more-sleep” kind of tired. But soul-tired. Tired in my bones.
Tired of watching people speak with venom instead of care.
Tired of injustice wrapped in religious language.
Tired of cruelty masquerading as boldness.
Tired of the ache I see in the eyes of the kind-hearted who keep getting trampled by the sharp edges of other people’s pride.

But mostly? I’m tired of people being ugly.
Not ugly in appearance. Ugly in action.
Ugly in the way they dismiss, demean, and divide.
Ugly in how they scapegoat the vulnerable to feel powerful.

Scripture tells us that Jesus wept over Jerusalem, not because He was weak, but because He saw the hardness of people’s hearts.
He saw religious leaders burden the people with law but withhold mercy (Matthew 23:4).
He saw the temple turned into a market.
He saw the woman at the well judged and discarded.
He saw lepers outcast, children silenced, and foreigners feared.

And He didn’t just weep.
He healed.
He welcomed.
He restored.

He kept showing up with kindness anyway.

Maybe you’re reading this today and you feel it, too. The ache. The exhaustion.
You’re trying to be light in a world that seems to prefer shadows.
You’re offering dignity in spaces that reward domination.
You’re leading with grace and watching others lead with greed.

And you wonder: is it worth it?
Is being kind in a cruel world still powerful?

Beloved, hear me: Yes.
It is holy resistance.

Every act of kindness is a refusal to let darkness win.
Every time you choose empathy over ego, you echo the heart of Christ.
Every gentle word, every patient pause, every bridge you build, it matters.

Galatians 6:9 reminds us:

“Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”

That verse doesn’t ignore our weariness; it acknowledges it.
Doing good will wear on you. It’s costly. But it’s also kingdom-building.

So if today you’re tired, take a breath.
Cry if you need to. Step back. Be held by the One who never wearies.

And then? When you’re ready?

Let’s get back to the holy work of being kind in a world that often isn’t.
Let’s be people of gentleness in a culture of outrage.
Let’s be living, breathing reminders that God’s love is still present, even here. Even now.

Because ugliness may be loud, but kindness is still louder in the Kingdom of God.

And we? We were made for such a time as this.

When Trauma Becomes Testimony: How Childhood Wounds Shape Our Hearts—and How Faith Heals

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Recent insights from Neuroscience News reveal that childhood trauma doesn’t just leave invisible scars—it actually rewires the brain, triggering chronic inflammation that reshapes its structure and function over a lifetime. As believers, these findings don’t just inform our understanding—they invite a prayerful response to suffering, hope, and redemption.


Childhood trauma doesn’t just hurt emotionally—it shapes how the brain and body function at the most foundational levels. According to recent research highlighted in Neuroscience News, early adversity can leave behind more than just painful memories. It can biologically reprogram how the brain’s immune system functions, setting the stage for inflammation that lingers for years—sometimes decades.

Neuroinflammation: When the Brain’s Alarm Won’t Turn Off
Our brains are equipped with microglia—tiny immune cells that serve as the nervous system’s “first responders.” In a healthy system, these cells activate when we’re sick or injured, helping the brain recover. But when a child experiences abuse, neglect, household instability, or chronic fear, those microglia can become chronically activated.

This is sometimes called “neuroimmune priming.” It means the brain becomes stuck in a hyper-alert state, constantly bracing for danger, even long after the threat is gone. Over time, this leads to chronic inflammation in areas of the brain critical for emotional regulation, memory, and relational trust—like the amygdala, hippocampus, and prefrontal cortex.

In biblical terms, it’s like the body becomes a land under siege, with every gate guarded and every door bolted. Safety feels foreign because the internal alarm never truly shuts off.

Genetic and Epigenetic Impact
This kind of early stress also affects gene expression. Even if a child was born with healthy brain wiring, trauma can flip certain switches “on” or “off”—changing how genes responsible for stress regulation and emotional balance behave. This is known as epigenetic change, and it helps explain why some people struggle with emotional dysregulation, depression, or autoimmune conditions even when their environment has improved.

Researchers are now identifying biomarkers—biological signatures of trauma-related inflammation—in the blood and brain imaging of trauma survivors. This holds promise for earlier diagnosis and more targeted treatment in the future.

Long-Term Consequences: Emotional, Physical & Spiritual
Children whose brains were shaped by early adversity may grow up more likely to experience:

Anxiety or hypervigilance

Chronic shame or self-loathing

Depression or emotional numbness

Disrupted sleep and appetite

Increased risk of autoimmune illness, heart disease, and other physical conditions

Difficulty with trust, connection, and a sense of self-worth

But here’s the part that matters most for those of us walking with Christ: none of this is destiny. The brain—though deeply affected by trauma—is also incredibly resilient. Neuroplasticity means healing is possible. The same inflammation that was once destructive can be reversed through safety, connection, and care.

As research continues to affirm what many of us already know in our spirits—that trauma affects every part of a person—it also confirms the deep wisdom of a holistic gospel: that God came to heal not only souls, but bodies, minds, and relationships too.

Faith’s Response: From Woundedness to Wholeness
Naming the Wound with Compassion
Scripture frequently reminds us that God gathers our tears (Psalm 56:8). Acknowledging the biological reality of trauma gives language to the invisible, offering a bridge from suffering to prayer.

  1. Spiritual Practices as Soothing Balm
    • Prayer, lament, and scripture meditation are not only spiritual acts—they’re healing interventions. By activating the parasympathetic nervous system, they can actually lower inflammation and calm the brain’s stress circuits.
      Romans 8:11 reminds us that the Spirit who raised Christ lives in us—bringing not only spiritual revival, but potential neurobiological renewal.
  2. Building Safe Spiritual Communities
    • Trauma distorts relational wiring—making community feel threatening. Yet small groups, trauma‑informed churches, and safe listening partnerships create relational “safe zones” where trust can be rewired through consistent love and grace.
  3. Partnering with Professional Care
    • The discovery of inflammation biomarkers pushes us to incorporate mental‑health care into our pastoral work. Faith and psychotherapy aren’t competitors; they’re collaborators in bringing holistic healing.
  4. Embracing Transformation—not just Coping
    • The most hopeful part of this science? The brain remains plastic (malleable), and inflammation is reversible. Just as Paul speaks of being “transformed by the renewing of your mind” (Rom 12:2), God invites us into permanent renewal—soul, mind, and neurons aligned in healing.

This science shows us that what Jesus called shalom—total flourishing—isn’t sentimental, but rooted in deep biological and spiritual transformation. In that truth, we can move forward with faith: that wounds can heal, hope can flourish, and the renewing Spirit can reshape more than our souls—He can change our very wiring.

Trauma-Informed & Spirit-Led: How Caring for the Wounded Reflects the Heart of God

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In recent years, the term trauma-informed has gained traction in counseling, education, ministry, and leadership. But for those of us rooted in Scripture, being trauma-informed isn’t a trendy philosophy—it’s an invitation to live out the gospel with greater tenderness, discernment, and grace.

What Does It Mean to Be Trauma-Informed?

At its core, being trauma-informed means recognizing that people’s behavior is often shaped by what they’ve lived through. It means understanding that survival responses—like withdrawing, lashing out, people-pleasing, or shutting down—are not character flaws but protective adaptations to pain. Being trauma-informed doesn’t require us to know every story. But it does require us to approach others with humility, curiosity, and compassion.

And isn’t that what Jesus did?

He didn’t shame the woman at the well—He met her in her story (John 4).
He didn’t recoil from the bleeding woman—He called her “daughter” (Mark 5:34).
He didn’t condemn Peter for his betrayal—He cooked him breakfast (John 21).
He didn’t dismiss Thomas’s doubts—He invited him to touch His wounds (John 20:27).

Jesus was, and is, deeply trauma-informed.

Scripture’s Trauma Lens

Throughout the Bible, we see God’s consistent attention to the wounded, the weary, and the overlooked. The Psalms give voice to grief, confusion, and fear in ways that mirror trauma recovery. The prophets rail against injustice. Jesus comes not as a conquering king but as a suffering servant—“a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief” (Isaiah 53:3).

To be trauma-informed is to be slow to assume and quick to listen. It is to become a safe place for those who are carrying stories too heavy to speak aloud. Scripture calls us to this kind of love:

  • “Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.” – Galatians 6:2
  • “Let your gentleness be evident to all.” – Philippians 4:5
  • “Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” – Ephesians 4:32

The Fruit of the Spirit Is Trauma-Informed

When we walk in the Spirit—cultivating love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23)—we naturally create safer spaces for those who carry invisible wounds. A trauma-informed faith community:

  • Makes room for emotion without shame
  • Holds boundaries with kindness
  • Honors the pace of healing
  • Doesn’t rush someone’s “comeback story”
  • Values presence over performance

Healing Is Holy Work

As followers of Christ, we are not called to fix everyone—but we are called to be with them. We are called to reflect the tenderness of Jesus, who never demanded instant healing but instead offered dignity, presence, and peace. Trauma-informed care aligns with the heart of God because it reflects His way of healing—with truth and grace, with timing and trust.

When we become more trauma-informed, we don’t just become better helpers.
We become more like Jesus.

You Can’t Build What You Won’t Own

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There’s a sobering truth that Scripture and life experience agree on: you can’t build something real with someone who refuses to take responsibility. You can extend grace, offer forgiveness, and hold space for growth—but if a person continually hides behind blame, defensiveness, or denial, intimacy will always be out of reach.

And here’s the deeper layer: the same is true within ourselves.

We often think about accountability as something that matters in relationships with others, and it does. Trust cannot thrive where ownership is absent. If someone refuses to acknowledge harm they’ve caused, refuses to say, “I was wrong,” or continually spins excuses instead of showing humility, what can you actually build with them? Not much that’s healthy. Not much that’s whole. As Proverbs 28:13 says, “Whoever conceals their sins does not prosper, but the one who confesses and renounces them finds mercy.”

But what about our own hearts? What about the ways we spin stories to protect our egos? The times we shift blame or minimize our choices because honesty feels too exposing?

The truth is—you can’t build a healthy relationship with yourself if you’re unwilling to take accountability. You can’t grow toward healing or wholeness while clinging to justifications for behavior that dishonors your values or wounds those around you. You can’t fully receive the mercy of God while refusing to face the places where you’ve missed the mark.

In Psalm 51, after the weight of his own failure caught up with him, David prayed: “You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.” (v.6)

That’s the place where real healing begins—not in performance, not in image, not in curated explanations, but in truth. Deep, raw, humbling truth. The kind that doesn’t try to be impressive, just honest. The kind that says, I did that. I hurt someone. I crossed a line. I’ve avoided looking at this—but I’m done running.

There is so much grace available when we come clean. Not shame. Not condemnation. Grace. But that grace doesn’t bypass the process of taking ownership. Jesus said, “The truth will set you free,” (John 8:32) but He never promised that it wouldn’t hurt a little first.

If you’ve been trying to build connection with someone who won’t take responsibility, it’s okay to name that. It’s okay to stop trying to build something that keeps crumbling under the weight of their denial. You are not unloving for requiring accountability. You are not unforgiving for drawing boundaries. Accountability is not punishment—it’s the soil of restoration.

And if you feel the Spirit gently pressing on your heart today—inviting you to look at something you’ve been hiding from—don’t run. There is healing on the other side of that honesty. Not perfection, but peace. Not shame, but freedom.

Because you can’t build what you won’t own.
But the moment you do?
God meets you there—with mercy in His hands and a new foundation beneath your feet.

Safe, But Not Settled: Holding Heartache and Hope Across Borders

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This morning I woke up in a place where my power works, where sirens are rare, and where safety is so constant I forget to notice it. My coffee brewed without interruption. My phone didn’t buzz with emergency alerts. The people I love most are accounted for, safe and sleeping peacefully under a quiet sky. And yet—my heart is not settled.

Just days ago, I stood alongside students, friends, and fellow counselors in Ukraine—people whose lives are marked by bravery, burden, and a fierce commitment to hope. Their resilience humbles me. Their vulnerability invites me. Their suffering unsettles me in the most holy of ways.

And then, I come home. To safety. To abundance. To ease.

It’s a disorienting thing to hold two realities at once. To scroll the news and see missile attacks near where I just stood… while sitting in a quiet living room where my biggest decision is what to make for dinner. There is an ache in this returning. A tension in being safe while others remain in danger.

Sometimes I feel like I’m cheating grief by being far away.

But I am reminded—again and again—that presence is not limited by geography. That prayer is not weakened by miles. That love stretches farther than the reach of war.

Jesus Himself wept over Jerusalem, grieving a people He longed to gather under His wings like a mother hen gathers her chicks (Luke 13:34). He didn’t ignore the pain of a place just because He wasn’t in it. He entered it—with compassion, with truth, and with unwavering nearness.

So today, I choose to stay tender. I choose not to grow numb just because I am safe. I choose to carry the names and faces of my Ukrainian brothers and sisters into my prayers, my advocacy, and my daily decisions. I choose to live with open hands, asking God how I can keep showing up—even from afar.

There is no easy way to carry this tension. But perhaps we aren’t meant to resolve it. Perhaps we are simply meant to feel it—to let it soften us, deepen us, and move us toward love.

“For if one part suffers, every part suffers with it…” (1 Corinthians 12:26). And if one part heals, we all move a step closer to wholeness.

I am safe, but I am not indifferent.

I am home, but I am not done.

And though my feet may be here, part of my heart still beats on Ukrainian soil—and always will.

The Delight of Difference

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“If a man is to survive, he will learn to take delight in the essential differences between cultures. To learn that differences in ideas and attitudes are a delight, part of life’s exciting variety, not something to fear.” — Gene Roddenberry

There’s a quiet bravery in choosing wonder over fear.

In a world that often encourages sameness, where algorithms feed us familiar content and news cycles reinforce our own perspectives, it can be easy to forget that difference is not a threat. It’s a gift. The kind that challenges us, invites us into growth, and expands the landscape of our humanity.

Roddenberry, the mind behind Star Trek, knew this deeply. He imagined worlds where beings from different galaxies didn’t just coexist—they learned from one another. They didn’t simply tolerate difference; they delighted in it.

What if we did the same?

What if we looked at unfamiliar customs not with suspicion, but with sacred curiosity? What if we heard a foreign accent and leaned in with interest, rather than pulling back with discomfort? What if opposing ideas didn’t threaten our identity, but instead deepened it by helping us refine what we truly believe?

To take delight in difference is not to abandon conviction—it’s to understand that our conviction grows stronger when it has been tested, stretched, and refined by perspective. That our identity becomes more whole when it’s informed by stories not our own.

Survival, as Roddenberry puts it, hinges not on domination or isolation, but on connection. A connection that makes space for paradox, for nuance, for the vibrancy of lives lived differently than our own.

As someone who walks alongside trauma survivors, travelers, students, and seekers of all kinds, I’ve seen how healing often begins the moment we are seen and honored—not in spite of our differences, but because of them. There is something deeply sacred about being received in our particularity.

The invitation, then, is not just to tolerate one another, but to celebrate the mosaic of cultures, beliefs, values, and expressions that make up this human experience.

Because when we delight in difference, we aren’t just surviving—we’re becoming more fully alive.

When the World Feels Too Heavy: Wrestling with Pain, Systems, and the God Who Sees

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There are days when the weight of it all presses in too close.

Wars rage—some far away, some just beneath the skin of our own communities. I’ve walked the streets of Ukraine during a time of devastation, sat with students whose eyes carry both fierce resilience and unimaginable grief. I’ve seen the cost of war not just in rubble, but in hearts—young and old—trying to make sense of what has been lost, what has been shattered, and whether healing is possible.

I return home, and the pain doesn’t stay behind.

I sit with clients whose trauma echoes in every part of their being. Abuse survivors, people shaped by addiction, those who’ve endured betrayal, abandonment, and complex generational wounds. And though I am a therapist, I am not immune. I carry my own scars. I’ve known personal trauma, lived through seasons that left my soul scraped raw, wrestled with the echoes of pain that show up uninvited.

And sometimes, it’s not just the individual stories that haunt me—it’s the systems that allow harm to flourish.

I’ve worked in contexts where abuse was covered up instead of confronted. I’ve seen churches, cults, and institutions more committed to protecting their image than protecting the vulnerable. I’ve felt the sting of systemic racism, witnessed the corrosive effects of sexism, and watched how the language of God has been used to justify control rather than cultivate compassion. These aren’t isolated incidents. They’re part of a pattern—deeply embedded, tragically normalized, and too often silenced.

There are days I want to shout, Where is justice? Where is mercy? Where is God in all of this?

And I think… maybe that’s the most honest prayer we can offer sometimes.

Because if we read Scripture closely, we find a God who doesn’t shy away from these questions. The Psalms are full of them. How long, O Lord? Why have You forsaken me? Why do the wicked prosper?

We meet prophets who cry out against corrupt leaders and unjust systems. We follow Jesus, who flipped over tables in the temple—not because He was angry at people’s emotions, but because injustice and exploitation were taking place in God’s name. Jesus, who touched the untouchable, lifted up the marginalized, and told the truth even when it cost Him everything. Jesus, who suffered not just to save our souls, but to enter into the fullness of human suffering. Who bore wounds Himself.

This is not a God who avoids pain.

This is a God who joins us in it.

Still, it doesn’t make it easy. The pain is real. The rage is real. The questions are real.

But so is the invitation.

To stay tender.

To speak truth.

To work for change without losing heart.

To believe that healing is possible—even here. Even now.

There’s a strange kind of holiness in the wrestling. Jacob walked away with a limp, but also a blessing. Maybe we will too. Maybe our questions, our anger, our heartbreak—maybe these are not signs we’ve lost faith, but signs we are contending for a faith that’s worthy of the God we follow.

A faith that sees. That listens. That protects. That restores.

I don’t have all the answers. But I believe in a God who does not look away. And when I’m tempted to despair, I look to the faces of those who keep going—the clients who show up, the students who still hope, the survivors who speak their truth.

Their courage reminds me that love is still here. And so is God.

Even in the heartbreak. Especially there.

Creating Light in the Midst of Weight

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A reflection on heaviness, hope, and the quiet power of small things

The day began with the kind of sky that takes your breath for just a moment—endlessly blue, impossibly crisp. A perfect 70-degree Friday in Middle Tennessee, the kind that carries spring on its back and lets you believe, even briefly, that winter might finally be loosening its grip.

The breeze was gentle, the sunshine warm and golden. The air had shifted, and with it came a subtle lifting—like the world itself was exhaling. And for a while, I wanted to believe the world was matching the weather.

But it didn’t.

Fridays are usually lighter in my schedule, fewer clients, a slower rhythm. But not today.
Six sessions. Six sacred stories.
Each one heavy.

There are days when I can hold pain with open hands—attuned, present, but not overtaken.
Today wasn’t one of those days.

Some stories sat deep in my bones after the calls ended. I tried to release them, to shake off the residue, but the ache stayed with me, humming just beneath the surface.

I needed motion. I needed life.
So I ran errands—mundane things, just moving through the world like everyone else. I cracked the windows as I drove, let the breeze wrap around my arms, played music that made me feel a little more alive. It wasn’t a cure, but it helped. Sometimes joy isn’t loud—it’s a cracked window and sunlight on your skin. It’s the sacredness of simplicity.

But then came the news.

Political negotiations between the U.S. and Zelensky had gone poorly. And with a trip to Ukraine just a week away, the news landed like a stone in my chest.
Frustration.
Grief.
The slow kind of despair that doesn’t lead to action—just scrolling. Absorbing. Feeling helpless.

I sat with it for a while.
And then, I did what I could.

I went outside and strung lights across the back patio.
Threaded them carefully. Adjusted. Tweaked.
Stood back. Breathed. Reached again.

It was a simple thing.
But when the sun dipped low and those soft lights began to glow, it felt like something sacred.
A small act of intention in a world that often feels too chaotic to hold.
A reminder that even when everything feels dark and uncertain, we can still create beauty. We can still choose light.

Dinner with Macon helped too.
The kind of evening that lets you step out of your own head for a while. Good food. Easy conversation. Laughter. Presence. Nothing profound—just peace. And after a day like this one, that was profound enough.

Later, I began preparing for tomorrow’s dinner party—setting things in order, making space for connection and warmth. The thought of a full table, of laughter and shared stories, feels like something steady to hold onto.

Tonight, I find myself carrying a strange mix of things:

  • The deep trauma my clients entrusted to me.
  • The heaviness of international conflict and a personal stake in what happens next.
  • The contentment of simple rituals—errands, porch lights, a good meal.
  • The anticipation of a shared table tomorrow.

And all of it matters.

The hard things don’t cancel out the good, and the good doesn’t erase the hard. They sit together.
And somehow, both are part of what it means to be human.

Outside my window, the lights on the patio glow gently.
They’re not loud. They’re not spectacular.
But they are steady.

And tonight, that is enough.

If the world feels heavy today, maybe don’t try to fix it all.
Maybe string some lights.
Step outside.
Let someone else make you laugh.
Let the sun warm your skin.
Prepare for a gathering.
Make room for beauty.

Even the smallest lights matter in the dark.

The Weight and Wonder of Being an Online Trauma Therapist

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Being an online therapist specializing in trauma is both deeply rewarding and uniquely exhausting. It’s a profession that requires me to hold space for some of the most painful human experiences—grief, betrayal, loss, abuse—while also believing, fiercely, in the capacity for healing.

The Space Between the Screens

There’s something intimate about meeting clients online. They are in their own space—sometimes curled up on a couch, sometimes taking a call from a parked car, sometimes in a quiet corner of an office between meetings. The screen creates a buffer, but not a barrier. In some ways, it allows for a kind of rawness that traditional in-person therapy doesn’t always invite. There’s no office door to step through, no waiting room to navigate. Just me, them, and the work.

And yet, there’s a heaviness to it. The stories don’t dissipate when the session ends; they linger in the quiet hum of my computer screen, in the way my body holds tension after logging off. Unlike in an office, where I might have a moment to reset before my next client, in the online space, I sometimes find myself staring at my own reflection between sessions, taking deep breaths, shaking off the energy that clings.

The Unseen Challenges

Online therapy comes with its own set of challenges. There’s the heartbreak of frozen screens and lagging audio when a client is sharing something profoundly vulnerable. There’s the frustration of technological glitches when the work demands presence and attunement. And there’s the reality that sometimes, I have to sit with my own helplessness—when a client is in crisis and I’m not physically there to hand them a tissue, offer a grounding touch, or ensure their immediate safety beyond the words I can speak.

There’s also the paradox of being so deeply connected to clients yet physically alone. In a traditional therapy office, colleagues might be down the hall, a quiet reminder that I’m not holding all of this by myself. In online work, the space between sessions can feel isolating, the echoes of difficult stories left bouncing around in my own home.

The Beauty in the Breakthroughs

And yet, there’s profound beauty in this work. I get to witness resilience unfold in real-time. I see people take tentative steps toward healing, set boundaries for the first time, reclaim their voices. I hear the shift in their tone when they start to believe they deserve more. I see the tears of relief when they realize that their pain is not too much, that they are not broken, that healing is possible.

Being an online trauma therapist means trusting in the power of presence, even through a screen. It means learning how to transmit safety and warmth with only my voice, my eyes, and the small ways I adjust my posture. It means bearing witness to both the worst and the best of humanity—the way trauma wounds, but also the way people rise.

Holding the Work and Holding Myself

To do this work well, I have to care for myself with the same compassion I offer my clients. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way. I have to step away from screens, let silence fill the spaces where words once poured out. I have to remind myself that I am not responsible for fixing, only for walking alongside. I have to remember that healing is a process, and that I am simply one stop along the way.

Some days, I carry this work lightly. Other days, I feel its full weight. But always, I hold it with reverence. Because to sit with someone in their pain, to witness their return to themselves—that is sacred work. And I am honored to do it, one session at a time.