If, like me, you sometimes struggle with anxiety for no apparent reason, or can be triggered into feeling vulnerable and frightened, you may be continuing to experience the ongoing impact of the trauma associated with the sudden loss of your loved one.
This is the second in a series of articles following my recent post about Trauma-Related Fear, looking at the ways in which we can reduce the physical and emotional symptoms that result in us living in tension and distress. I first explored the way that regulating our breath can calm our nervous system and improve our soothing system. In this post I discuss how trauma can prevent us from fully inhabiting our bodies, and how reclaiming this capacity can help us find strength through that reconnection: inhabiting our bodies to calm our threat system.
Before I lost Anton I thought I understood trauma, but my experience of traumatic loss has exposed me to a whole new level of agonising awareness. The debilitating nature of this searingly painful journey has led me to further explore my understanding of the impact of trauma on our minds and bodies, to try to comprehend what has happened to me, to find some form of language to describe and explain it, and maybe some answers as to what I can do to help myself heal. Through extensive research and my own burgeoning self-awareness, I've come to realise that fully inhabiting my body is a crucial part of that healing process. Rather than thinking of it as somehow separate from my mind, something to drag around, ignoring until it tells me I'm hungry, or hurts because I've mis-used it, I have finally, belatedly, begun to care for my body. To care for me.
When Anton died, almost 5 years ago now, my mind and body entered a shock response. Despite a terrible, horrifying grief, I felt numb for much of the time. My mind, the same mind that had loved and thought about Anton for 32 years, could not make the conceptual jump from living, breathing Anton, to his death. To his gone-foreverness, his never-again-aliveness.
My body, the same body that conceived, protected and nurtured my son for 9 months, the body that gave him life; the body that held him, fed him and cared for him for 32 years, could not make that leap either. When we saw Anton at the funeral directors I immediately touched him, stroked his face, his hair, kissed him. He was still my boy. My mind and body simply refused to believe that he was gone. I was experiencing what trauma expert Peter Levine describes as "psychic implosion ...when the enormity, intensity, suddenness or duration of what happened cannot be defended against, coped with or digested"(1)
People often say, "its the wrong way around" when you lose a child. Its against nature; against the natural law of things. Perhaps that is part of the reason that I could not take in the knowledge, and why I have sometimes battled with a most dreadful fear of losing my sanity, particularly during (but not limited to) the first two years of loss. Freud described trauma as "a breach in the protective barrier against stimulation, leading to feelings of overwhelming helplessness"(2). For many, many months, I was not only utterly overwhelmed but also terrified about what might happen if I allowed myself to really KNOW Anton was gone; what it might do to me. At the beginning I believed it would literally break me, that my mind would not be able tolerate the knowledge; that it would indeed implode.
Constantly pushing away the horror and trying not to feel, was the only way I could survive in those early years. The horror crept in anyway, of course. I couldn't keep it away for ever. In stronger moments I would force myself to try to face it head on, as though I could somehow defy its devastating impact; in weaker moments I couldn't prevent it engulfing me. I don't know if there's another way to grieve such a loss; I don't know if there's ever any element of choice involved. I only know that this is how it has been for me.
What I failed to realise for a long time was that all the horror and terror in my mind was also being held in my body, since that horrific evening of 21st December 2019, when we received the news that Anton had died. Whilst rationally I recognised and understood the loss, I was at the same time fighting against knowing it, in a visceral sense. When I think about my Mum, who died 13 years ago, I know she is dead, and I feel it in my body. I miss her, and the knowledge that she's gone is sad, but it is knowable. It doesn't threaten to overwhelm my very sense of self, my whole understanding of reality, as the knowing of Anton's death did, and occasionally still does.
All that fighting against knowing has an enormous impact on our bodies. It drastically reduces our window of tolerance by creating tautness, tension, and a physical guardedness (hence one of the key symptoms of PTSD is being "jumpy and easily startled"), as we brace ourselves physically and psychologically against the pain of accepting what feels impossible to accept. So I kept driving myself, keeping my mind busy so it wouldn't have time to think, to know. And my body, as Bessel Van der Kolk so aptly puts it, my body kept the score (2). It held all the horror and the pain and the grief and the fear. It did a brilliant job. But our bodies can't continue doing that, at least not without some repercussions. Sleepless nights; headaches; migraines; back pain; fatigue; fibromyalgia; digestion problems; increased heart rate; all these and more have been linked to trauma.
Levine shows how part of what keeps us stuck in the terror of trauma is our inability to physically escape what is happening to us. If we are in a road traffic accident, for example, and are able to get out of the car, or if we are assaulted and yet able to run away, we are far less likely to be traumatised after the event. If we cannot escape, or perceive that we cannot escape, what is happening to us, our chances of becoming traumatised are far greater.
And of course, for those of us experiencing the pain of traumatic loss, there is no escaping.
Also, and this is very important, whilst we are continually focused on the threat (the horror and fear associated with what has happened) everything else in our minds recedes; it is only when we have ceased to concentrate all our attention on the threat, that we are able to take in other relevant information, which "enhances the capacity for self-regulation"(3). In other words, if we can emotionally and physically unfurl, allowing our minds to consciously and more fully inhabit our bodies, we then become more capable of absorbing other evidence about the world around us. This broader awareness gives us knowledge we are not capable of sensing when solely focused on the trauma, and this newly found consciousness, in turn, enables us to calm ourselves and reduce our activated threat system.
To feel safe in our minds, we need to learn to feel safe in our bodies.
But how do we do this? Recent trauma literature (see Further Reading, below) has come to recognise that mindful movement can be absolutely key in aiding recovery from trauma, because it encourages our capacity to be fully present in our physical selves. Van der Kolk (3) notes the responses of the people in New York who experienced the World Trade Centre bombings, when asked what was most helpful to them in coming to terms with their trauma. Their top 3 responses were:
Acupuncture
Massage
Yoga
Which as van der Kolk observes was very different from what the experts said was required; perhaps because none of these treatments were eligible to receive funding from US health insurance companies! What all the above do offer are different holistic approaches to helping us find ways of reconnecting our minds with our bodies. The perceived separation we (and often medical professionals) imagine exists between mental and physical health is a false dichotomy; we now know that the vagal nerve connects the brain anatomically, physiologically and biochemically to the body. Somatic Psychotherapy and Sensorimotor Psychotherapy were developed specifically in order to work with this connection (4). And the important thing to remember is that it goes both ways. Just as our brain's perception of a threat sends our body into panic; calming our physical senses can send the message back to our brain that we are safe. Think of the smile you give yourself in the mirror to improve your confidence, or your mood - it creates a little shift by telling the brain things are ok, or at least, not as bad as expected.
Ways of fixing the perceived disconnect between brain and body include yoga, massage (including self-massage), Tai Chi and Qi Gong; movements that tune into both our physical and emotional senses. UK readers will be familiar with the late, sadly missed Dr Michael Mosley who featured both yoga and Tai Chi in his excellent BBC Podcast Series Just One Thing. If you're unsure about trying either of these, its easy to find classes online that you can sample at home. I recently took the step of joining a Tai Chi class at my local community centre. Not expecting to enjoy it, I nevertheless thought it would be good embodiment practice; but to my surprise I absolutely love it. The slow pace, with a focus on controlled, graceful movement also manages to feel like a kind of dance, at the same time both humbling and inspiring (in my very first session I was unexpectedly moved to tears). It also helps me notice different areas of my body, and even gives me a sense of my own physical power, poise and strength.
I have attended and enjoyed yoga classes on and off for many years. Aside from my regular sessions, and since my teacher switched to teaching online, I have tried a few different classes with mixed, but mainly unhappy results. The worst experience was a fast and furious, competitive, and unfriendly group (I never went back; why would I?) but some were ok, and even enjoyable in moments. In lockdown I joined thousands of others online with Adriene Mishler in Texas. The sessions were somehow devoid of connection for me, probably because I was still in shock at that stage, but Adriene did a great job of keeping us going. And I felt then that I really needed above all else to keep going, not stopping long enough to feel anything.
These days the physical and emotional changes I continue to experience have meant that my needs are very different; or perhaps I am just better at recognising them. One thing that has considerably altered since Anton died is that I often feel fragile and vulnerable, both emotionally and physically. The thought of pushing my body into yoga poses that feel as though they may cause strain or discomfort can feel punishing and even frightening. Instead of continuing regardless of this, I have finally begun to listen to the needs of my body, and to treat myself with more compassion and consideration, tuning into physical and emotional feelings, asking myself what my body needs at this moment in time.
If yoga sounds like something you would never do, I urge you to consider Mindful and Somatic Yoga. I stumbled on it by accident, when a friend and I booked to go on a yoga retreat in Turkey, and my gruelling recent experiences trying out local classes meant I was keen to make sure that the yoga on the retreat would be pleasurable, rather than punishing. We booked a two hour session one Sunday afternoon, and I found it gently relaxing, calming, and exactly what I needed. Since then, I have been practicing this kind of yoga, which means that I can take time to explore my options, consider what my needs are and how best they might be met at this particular time.
For anyone new to somatic yoga, or perhaps if you haven't considered yoga at all, one of my current teachers, Leonie Taylor has generously agreed to explain how it works:
As Ligia has already mentioned, there is plenty of yoga out there which may not be ideal for those experiencing the ongoing effects of trauma. As with many things, yoga has been commoditized in the West and is often seen as another form of exercise synonymous with acrobatics, even breathing is often presented as another thing to ‘do’ in a fierce way. These performance-based forms clearly don’t serve an already heightened and dysregulated nervous system. It is worth spending time researching and finding teacher who teaches in a trauma-informed, gentle and responsive way, whether on or offline.Somatic yoga (soma being the Greek word for body; yoga pointing towards the union of body and mind) invites exploring through more subtle, breath-centred movements how the body can store and express our state of mind. For instance, by gently undulating the spine or swaying the hips side to side, paying attention to each micro movement, we might notice that we habitually hold the shoulders tightly, that we are breathing shallowly, that there is tension in the belly or that we feel a lack of connection to our bodies entirely.The emphasis is on slowly exploring with a curious and open mind. We practice non-judgemental awareness, so that we can more easily avoid the duality of ‘this is good/bad’ in our responses to what we meet. Because it is quiet and reflective as a practice, there is the space for physical and emotional holding to unravel over time gently. There is no force, so when emotions inevitably release through the body – it is very common to sigh, yawn, cry, sometimes shake or tremor (not to be confused with muscle shakes from over exertion). This is why it is important that you are expertly guided and held within a space where this is possible to happen in a way that feels safe for you*. In this short video you can experience a short taste of gentle, somatic yoga. For further classes, workshops and retreats, as well as therapeutic Thai massage, see Centred Space for all details. Leo’s book, Yoga Teacher in a Box is also a great at-home resource for starting a gentle home practise, with physical practises, breath and meditations,*Yoga should not be mistaken, however, for psychology or therapy, and where there are complex issues, professional, 1-2-1 help should be sought. Yoga can, however, offer powerful tools to support day-to-day life, compassion and self acceptance.MINDFUL & SOMATIC YOGA: Leonie Taylor https://centredspace.net/ Charlotte Watts https://www.charlottewattshealth.com/
Other Sources & Further Reading Bessel van der Kolk (2014), The Body Keeps the Score: Mind, Brain and Body in the Transformation of Trauma, Penguin (2014) Bessel van der Kolk & Licia Sky (2023) , 2-Day Trauma Conference: The Body Keeps the Score-Trauma Healing Through the Senses (Online Course, June 2024: PESI UK)
Deborah Lee & Sophie James (2011), The Compassionate-Mind Guide to Recovering from Trauma and PTSD, New Harbinger
Deborah Lee (2012), Recovering from Trauma using Compassion Focused Therapy, Constable & Robinson
Peter A. Levine (2010) In an Unspoken Voice: How the Body Releases Trauma and Restores Goodness, North Atlantic Books
Pat Ogden (2015) Trauma and the Body: A Sensorimotor Approach to Psychotherapy, Norton Pat Ogden (2015) Sensorimotor Psychotherapy: Interventions for Trauma and Attachment, Norton
Stephen W. Porges (2011), The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-Regulation, Norton
Babette Rothschild (2021), Revolutionizing Trauma Treatment: Stabilization, Safety & Nervous System Balance, Norton
Babette Rothschild (2000), The Body Remembers, Norton
Schwartz, Arielle (2022), Working with trauma: Somatic-based interventions to move clients from surviving to thriving (Online course May, 2022: PESI UK)
Siegel, Daniel J.(1999), The Developing Mind : toward a Neurobiology of Interpersonal Experience. New York: Guilford Press
Michael Mosley: Just One Thing series is available on BBC Sounds for those in the UK www.bbc.co.uk
References
(1) Peter A. Levine (2010) In an Unspoken Voice: How the Body Releases Trauma and Restores Goodness, North Atlantic Books, chapter 7, p.136
(2) Bessel van der Kolk (2014), The Body Keeps the Score: Mind, Brain and Body in the Transformation of Trauma, Penguin (2014)
(3) Bessel van der Kolk & Licia Sky (2023) , 2-Day Trauma Conference: The Body Keeps the Score-Trauma Healing Through the Senses (Online Course, June 2024: PESI UK)
(4) Pat Ogden (2015) Trauma and the Body: A Sensorimotor Approach to Psychotherapy and Sensorimotor Psychotherapy: Interventions for Trauma and Attachment, Norton
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