There was a time in my life when I was considered “farthest from the labour market.”
At that point, I struggled to look people in the eye. Shame sat heavily in my body. Fear kept me small, quiet, and disconnected from my own potential.
It wasn’t just anxiety.
Whenever I had to stand up in front of people, my body would completely overwhelm me. I fainted repeatedly from the stress of it — vasovagal syncope linked to fear, pressure, and previous experiences of humiliation. My nervous system learned to associate being seen with danger.
So when I say I never imagined myself speaking publicly, delivering presentations, facilitating workshops, or studying at Master’s level — I mean that truthfully.
For those who have never experienced dorsal collapse, it can be difficult to explain what it feels like.
It isn’t simply “feeling low” or having a bad day.
It feels like falling through the cracks in the pavement without warning — one moment you are functioning, the next you are somewhere dark, cold, damp, and terrifying.
A place that feels hollow and bottomless.
A place of isolation, hopelessness, shame, and worthlessness.
Like being trapped in a round room with no doors.
No obvious way out.
No light switch.
No map.
Just silence, fear, exhaustion, and the unbearable weight of existing.
It feels ancient somehow.
Like cobwebs, shadows, damp walls, horror, abandonment, and despair.
Like your nervous system has decided the safest thing to do is disappear.
People can look directly at you and still not truly see you.
They look through you.
Beyond you.
Past you.
You’re physically present, but somehow absent at the same time.
Your voice feels far away, like it can’t quite reach the outside world properly. Words become difficult to find, difficult to hold onto, difficult to explain. Sometimes you stop trying altogether because the exhaustion of translating your inner world feels too great.
You’re trapped inside yourself.
Alone in a darkness other people cannot see.
One of the hardest parts is that from the outside, people may think you’re quiet, withdrawn, lazy, distant, rude, or “not trying” — when inside, your nervous system is fighting desperately for survival.
Dorsal collapse can feel like disappearing while still being alive.
Like becoming invisible to the world — and eventually to yourself.
Over time, I became so familiar with that place that I learned to recognise others who were there too.
We see each other.
Not always through words — but through the eyes, the posture, the exhaustion, the silence, the nervous system itself.
And slowly, I began learning where the exits were for me.
I realised there is no single doorway out of dorsal.
Each person’s escape route is different.
For some, it begins with therapy.
For others, nature, movement, music, connection, creativity, faith, learning, safety, compassion, animals, purpose, or being truly seen for the first time.
Leaving dorsal rarely happens all at once.
It happens through tiny moments.
A safe conversation.
A kind glance.
Someone believing you.
One step outside.
One breath.
One decision to keep going.
Until one day, almost without noticing, you realise:
you are no longer completely trapped in the dark.
Recently, I met with my dissertation supervisor to discuss my MSc research. We talked about ethics approval, timelines, and the next stage of the process.
Afterwards, something quietly hit me.
Not the pressure of the work ahead — but the distance I have already travelled.
I haven’t quite completed my MSc yet — but I’m confident I will, and honestly, that in itself feels like an incredible achievement.
From not being able to stay…
To staying the distance.
Who would have thunk it!
There was a time when surviving the day was enough.
And yet somehow, step by step, my world slowly became bigger.
From surviving trauma…
To understanding trauma.
From fainting at the thought of being seen…
To standing in front of groups and speaking openly.
From hiding…
To helping create spaces where other people feel safe enough to stop hiding too.
I am a survivor.
A survivor of trauma.
A survivor of domestic abuse.
A survivor of shame, fear, self-doubt, and survival responses that once completely controlled my life.
And truthfully, I felt proud.
That’s not a feeling I’ve been overly familiar with. But I’m learning that pride doesn’t have to mean arrogance. Sometimes it simply means acknowledging the courage it took to keep going despite everything your body and mind had been through.
It’s okay to acknowledge your journey.
Your past.
Your mistakes.
Your limitations.
It’s okay to be 56 and still learning, still growing, still progressing.
It’s not over until it’s over.
Keep going.
Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I didn’t get here alone.
I got here because of the people I met along the way.
Some taught me.
Some supported me.
Some challenged me.
Some believed in me before I believed in myself.
For all of it — I’m grateful.
Healing isn’t linear.
Growth isn’t instant.
And nervous systems don’t transform through force or shame.
They heal through safety, compassion, understanding, repetition, and experiences that slowly teach the body:
“You are safe now.”
Slowly, piece by piece, I mapped my own journey homeward.
The journey back to self.
And eventually…
I called it A Positive Start CIC.