Happy Traumaversary? – What My Body Taught Me When It Finally Said “No More”

A personal story of survival, somatic wisdom, and healing.

Note: This story contains references to medical crisis, psychological stress, and trauma. Please read gently.

This reflection is based on my personal experience and interpretation of events. It is not intended to reflect the views of any individual or group, nor to assign blame. I share this story as part of my healing process—and in hopes that it resonates with others navigating similar journeys.

From barely holding it together… to finally holding space for myself. This is what healing actually looks like for me.

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There was a day I’ll never forget.
I was carried out of my house by paramedics.

Not because of an accident.
Not because of a virus.
But because my nervous system collapsed after significant chronic stress, uncertainty, and eroded trust.

I had been vomiting for hours. I couldn’t keep meds down. Couldn’t eat. Shivering nonstop.
Everything was blurry—except the parts I’ll never forget:
The firemen in the doorway.
The paramedics crouched beside me, asking how I spent most of my time.

They began attaching electrodes to my chest, those sticky pads connected to a machine.
I flinched instinctively, trying to cover myself. Even in that moment, I felt exposed.
My hands trembled. My breath shallow.
Even in collapse, I felt shame.
Even in crisis, I was still trying to be “appropriate.”

When I answered their question, one of them said:
“All of that? That would give me anxiety, too.”

That was the first time I felt truly seen.
Not by the people around me.
But by a stranger who could sense what I couldn’t even say.

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It didn’t start with the hospital. It started long before.

Before the stretcher. (I told them I wanted to walk. They gently urged me to let the wheels carry me.)
Before the ambulance ride—when fear and panic flooded my body and the tears came fast.

Before the IV.
Before the collapse.
Before the ER intake bracelet.

Before I was vomiting so loudly in the hospital that the doctor entered the room and asked, “Was that you throwing up?”

My chest was tight. My heart was racing.

I felt so defeated. Confused. Overwhelmed. Broken.

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A Flashback, and a Fracture

Over time, the tone of feedback shifted—from unclear to increasingly difficult to interpret or absorb constructively.
I was accused of being difficult, of overstepping, of being someone people didn’t want to partner with.
At one point, my deliverable was torn apart so aggressively that I questioned whether I belonged doing this at all.
I was told I needed to soften. That I was too much.
The tone was sometimes cutting, sometimes condescending. I was even shouted at.

I was stretched impossibly thin.
I raised my hand more than once—first verbally, then in writing—about the unsustainable pace and pressure.

But when I spoke up, the tone shifted.
The warmth turned cold.
The praise turned vague.
Suddenly, I wasn’t a strong contributor—I was a concern.

Nothing changed—except how I was treated.

I found myself pulled into conversations—some with context, some without.
People I once trusted avoided eye contact.
Support felt surface-level.
The feedback I received? So vague it could’ve been about anyone.

And the focus shifted.
Not on how things were being managed.
But on me.

I remember hearing that someone asked if I wound them up.
Not “Why was the process ignored?”
Not “Why was communication unclear?”

It’s the oldest move in the book: question the person who spots the issue—
not the issue itself.

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Here’s what else I have learned: people rarely act alone when discomfort arises.
Systems often send in what psychology refers to as 'flying monkeys'¹—a term used in narcissistic abuse recovery literature to describe those who, knowingly or not, carry out harm on someone else’s behalf.

Here’s what that can look like:

The Info Miner

Appears curious, friendly, maybe even on “your side.” Asks how you’re doing, what you’re working on, and what you’ve noticed. Then passes your words along—often without context.

The Concerned “Friend”

Approaches with worry or a soft tone. Disguises manipulation as care. Says things like “some people are saying…” or “I just don’t want this to get worse for you.”

The Incompetent “Coach”

Woefully untrained or lacking context, but still assigned to “guide” you. Delivers vague, subjective feedback. Already believes the story they were told before the conversation even starts.

The Messenger

Delivers feedback or talking points that originate from someone else. Uses phrases like “so and so has decided…” while distancing themselves from any accountability.

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And then there were strange tests—bizarre moments that felt designed to provoke or trap. As a gifted neurodivergent person, my pattern recognition skills had me piecing things together around the clock.

And what hurt the most? The silence.

People I had trusted drifted away.
Some out of fear. Some out of self-preservation.

When someone can’t control your voice, they will often try to reshape the narrative about you. And when others don’t want to be next in line—they probably stay quiet.

Raise your hand, and sometimes, instead of protection, you get a target on your back.

But guess what? I survived.

The photo from that season is hard to look at.
Pale. Hollow-eyed. Barely upright.

Now? There’s light in my face again.
Strength in my spine.
And softness, I fought to reclaim.

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Healing hasn’t been linear or cute.

Lately, I’ve been waking up at 3 a.m.
Same dream: someone driving drunk with me trapped in the passenger seat—then crashing into a wall.
I wake up gasping, covered in sweat.

The body keeps score. It remembers.
Even when the conversations end.
Even when the threads are archived.
Even when you think you’re “out.”

So, whenever that time of year rolls around, I have named it something new:
My traumaversary.

If your story sounds anything like mine—please know:

You are not too much.
You are not making it up.
You are not the problem.

You are likely just the first one to name it.

And if your nervous system is screaming, it’s not betraying you—
It’s trying to save you.

Mine did.

And this time, I listened.

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If this story spoke to you, you’re not alone—and you’re not imagining it.
If someone in your life needs this reminder, too, feel free to share it.
To the 2,500+ already walking alongside me: thank you for reading, resonating, and reminding me that truth has company.

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This is a personal narrative written for reflective and educational purposes. It is not intended to serve as medical, legal, or psychological advice.

1. Based on insights from Dr. Ramani Durvasula, Dr. Lauren Kerwin, and Dr. Claire Jack, the term “flying monkeys” refers to individuals who serve a manipulator’s agenda—often unknowingly—by isolating, gaslighting, or undermining the target on behalf of an abuser.