Trauma Informed Communication in Healthcare: Why It’s Not Optional
Why Trauma-Informed Communication in Healthcare Isn’t Optional
As a trauma-informed counsellor, I’ve seen firsthand the devastating impact of poorly delivered medical news. I once worked with a client who had a profound fear of dying. Every time they visited their oncologist, they would call me in floods of tears, barely able to breathe, let alone speak.
I remember arriving at their home one day to find them on the floor, struggling to catch their breath, their face streaked with fresh tears. A nosebleed had started from the sheer intensity of their distress. It took hours of grounding, breathing exercises, and gentle reassurance to calm their nervous system – to bring them back to a place where they felt safe enough to simply exist in their own body.
This wasn’t a one-off reaction. It happened every time they received difficult news, or even just a routine letter from the NHS. The stress of each appointment, each unopened envelope, felt like another small death – a repeated trauma that chipped away at their sense of hope and stability.
For the healthcare professional, it might be the hundredth time they’ve delivered a particular diagnosis, but for the patient, it’s often the first time they’re hearing life-altering news. That initial conversation sets the tone for their entire journey through treatment and recovery.
Poorly delivered news can:
• Trigger a fight, flight, freeze, or fawn response, making it difficult for patients to absorb critical information.
• Create a sense of hopelessness that can directly impact their immune system and overall health.
• Isolate them emotionally, making them less likely to reach out for support.
• Lead to physical symptoms of distress, like panic attacks, nosebleeds, or even heart palpitations.
Trauma-Informed Communication is Essential -
All professionals should be trauma-informed, regardless of how long they’ve been delivering difficult news. This isn’t just a ‘nice to have’ – it’s essential for the well-being of patients and their families. Words matter. Tone matters. The way we frame a conversation matters.
What Could This Look Like in Practice?
Imagine if, instead of a cold, clinical approach, the conversation began with:
“I have some challenging news to share, and I want you to know that we’re here to support you every step of the way. This might feel overwhelming, and that’s okay. We’ll work through this together.”
It’s not just face-to-face conversations that matter. I’ve had clients tell me they can’t even bear to open their NHS letters, knowing they might contain words like “cancer,” “terminal,” or “palliative care” – words that have the power to trigger a cascade of fear and despair.
Small Changes, Big Impact:
• Reframing “We regret to inform you…” as “We’d like to talk through some findings with you…”
• Choosing words that invite a sense of collaboration and hope, rather than delivering a blunt, one-way verdict.
• Including a simple, supportive line like “Please reach out if you’d like to discuss this further – we’re here to help.”
We can’t change the reality of a difficult diagnosis, but we can change how that reality is delivered. By choosing our words with care, we can reduce unnecessary suffering, empower patients, and support their capacity to cope and heal.
A Final Thought – The Human Side of Healing -
In the end, we are all more than our diagnoses. We are humans with rich histories, fears, hopes, and dreams. The way we talk to each other – especially in the hardest moments – should reflect that.
#RIPAlison
The Power of Words: How Language Shapes Safety and Connection
While working as a counsellor in a school, I came across a fire drill memo that left a lasting impression. It included strict, bolded instructions:
“You MUST remain SILENT at All TIMES”.
The forcefulness of this language struck me immediately. It felt more about control than safety, and I wondered how this might land for children, particularly those who had experienced trauma.
When we think about fire drills, the goal is clear – to ensure everyone can move quickly and safely to a secure area. But the way this memo was worded, with its emphasis on “MUST” and “SILENCE”, seemed more likely to provoke anxiety than calm.
This Language Can Be Triggering because:
• “MUST” feels rigid and controlling. For someone who has experienced coercion or a lack of autonomy, this word can trigger deep, instinctive resistance or fear.
• “SILENCE” under pressure can feel impossible, especially for children. In a moment of stress, they might whisper to a friend for reassurance, cry, or call out in fear – all perfectly human responses. Demanding silence in these moments can amplify feelings of shame or failure.
• It creates a power imbalance, focusing on compliance over cooperation, which can be particularly distressing for those who have felt powerless or unheard in the past.
A Trauma-Informed alternative chooses connection Over control
Instead of demanding silence, we might say:
“Please move quietly and calmly to the designated safe area. Your safety is our priority.”
Why This Approach Works:
• It encourages calm, rather than compliance through fear.
• It respects the natural, instinctive responses of children, reducing unnecessary pressure.
• It frames the drill as a shared effort toward safety, reinforcing trust and cooperation.
In the STAND: Parents as Protectors program, we talk about the power of language and its ability to shape how children perceive themselves and the world around them. Trauma-informed communication is about more than just choosing the right words – it’s about creating a culture of respect, safety, and connection.
Why it Matters:
• Safety and Belonging – Children who feel safe and respected are more likely to communicate openly and trust the adults around them.
• Empowerment, Not Compliance – When we choose language that respects autonomy, we teach children that their voices matter. This is a powerful protective factor against coercion and manipulation.
• Resilience and Self-Worth – Words that uplift and empower build resilience, helping children recover from adversity and grow into confident, self-assured adults.
This small but significant difference in tone is about more than just fire drills. It’s about how we choose to communicate in all aspects of life – as parents, teachers, and caregivers. Trauma-informed language builds trust, reduces anxiety, and fosters a sense of belonging. It respects autonomy, values choice, and prioritises connection over control.
If we want children to feel safe, valued, and heard, our words must reflect that intention.
When we use trauma-informed language, we empower children to respond with confidence, rather than fear. We invite them to act with intention, knowing they are respected and valued, even in moments of stress.
Join our STAND: Parents As Protectors program starting soon
Passion and Purpose
There’s a profound difference between simply doing a job and pouring yourself into something that truly speaks to your heart. When your work is driven by purpose, the hours pass unnoticed. You find yourself lost in the flow of creation – writing, thinking, building – crafting something you believe will make a difference.
For me, this is the heartbeat of A Positive Start CIC. It’s not just a project or a career – it’s a calling born from my own journey of survival and recovery. At one point, I was considered ‘furthest from the labour market’ – exhausted, overwhelmed, and unsure of my future. But from that place of darkness, I found my ‘why.’
I began to research trauma to make sense of my own experiences, to understand how deeply it shapes us, and to break the cycle for my own children. What started as a personal quest for understanding became a mission to help others – to reach the parents who, like me, wanted to do better for their children but didn’t know where to start.
Today, my work is deeply personal. It’s about helping parents protect their children, help adults heal from trauma, and find their voices. It’s about creating resources that empower others, driven by the belief that even one person finding safety or support makes all the effort worthwhile.
Purpose-driven work has its own energy. It pulls you forward, ignites your imagination, and fills you with a deep sense of accomplishment. It’s like breathing fresh air after feeling stifled for too long – a relief, a release, a return to what truly matters.
In contrast, the grind of a job that feels disconnected from your heart is a very different experience. Your body feels tense, your mind dulls, and every small task can feel like a mountain to climb. Motivation drains quickly, and you begin to distance yourself just to cope. You disconnect, not just from the work, but from yourself, until you feel like a shadow of who you once were.
The difference is in the connection – the feeling that what you’re doing matters, that it has purpose, that it aligns with who you truly are. One path leaves you enriched, inspired, and ready to keep going, even without immediate rewards. The other can leave you depleted, struggling to find meaning in the effort you expend.
As Viktor Frankl once said, “Those who have a ‘why’ to live can bear almost any ‘how’.” Finding your ‘why’ changes everything. It transforms work into something deeply fulfilling – a legacy you’re proud to leave behind.
So, if you ever find yourself struggling to find the energy to keep going, perhaps it’s not your work ethic that’s the problem, but the work itself. Real purpose breathes life into every hour you invest, reminding you that what you do matters.
#PassionAndPurpose
#HealingJourney
#HeartWork
#TraumaRecovery
#CommunityInterest
#protection #prevention
#breakingthecycle
Choosing Connection
Choosing Connection in a World of Criticism
“The true measure of leadership is not in how much authority we hold, but in how much safety we create.”
“The energy we bring to the world is a reflection of what we worship – possessions or people, appearances or authenticity, fear or love.”
“Cancel culture trades complexity for condemnation — but healing demands we hold space for the full, messy, beautiful reality of being human.”
In the way of our Reconnect & Regulate classes, a Reflection Invitation
Say What You Mean and Mean What You Say
Why Language Matters in Healing
Words don’t just land in our minds, they land in our bodies. For those of us who’ve lived through trauma, language can be a trigger or a balm. Words hold weight, tone, and intention, and when they’re used carelessly, they can feel like little paper cuts to the nervous system.
I’ve learned to listen not just to what’s being said, but how it feels.
Take the word ‘rules’, for example. I recently heard it in a group setting: “We have some rules.” I felt it instantly. Harsh. Authoritarian. Controlling. Not wrong, necessarily, but rigid. Unyielding. Like a door slammed shut. Now, compare it to ‘guidelines.’ It feels different, doesn’t it? More flexible. More human. More open to context and care.
This is the kind of subtle shift that matters.
As someone who works with people in recovery, I notice these things constantly. Words like not allowed which is rife in schools, don’t just instruct—they restrict. They carry the same energy as punishment or exile. They can feel like rejection or shame, especially when the context is unnecessary, like in a fast-food store: “You are not allowed to change the items on the set menu.” Why not? I’m paying. I’m a person. I matter. Choice matters.
Or the signs in schools: “You are not allowed to run.” “Do not step on the grass.” These aren't simply boundaries. They’re commands that often come without compassion.
It’s not that boundaries are bad—it’s how we phrase them that makes all the difference. Try:
- “Please walk here, as it can get busy.”
- “Let’s give the grass time to grow.”
See how those feel? The message is still clear—but it invites cooperation instead of compliance. It recognises the person behind the behaviour.
This sensitivity to language isn’t a luxury—it’s essential in trauma-informed spaces. That’s why I’m now offering talks, training, and consultation as a Trauma-Informed Language Advisor. I help organisations, schools, and services examine the feeling behind the words—so their communication can regulate rather than dysregulate.
Because what we say matters. And how we say it matters even more.
For people who have experienced complex trauma, saying what they really feel isn't just difficult - it can feel dangerous. Many have learned to survive by pleasing others, avoiding conflict, or responding out of obligation and guilt. The patterns are protective, not pathological - but they can lead to chronic stress, emotional suppression and even physical illness.
When we create environments of safety and awareness - where expression is gently encouraged and differences are welcomed - something shifts. People begin to feel seen. They begin to speak. And with that, their health improves - not just emotionally, but physically too.
This matters not just for individuals, but for all of us. Because when people feel safe enough to be honest, we build communities rooted in compassion, not fear.
There is something deeply respectful about being direct and kind. Straight lines feel safe. After trauma, many people lose their ability to ask for what they need clearly. They test the water, hint, or tiptoe around the truth - not because they're being manipulative, but because they've learned that speaking directly can lead to rejection, punishment or harm.
But when we're on the receiving end of that kind of communication, it can feel confusing or even incongruent - like somethings being hidden. And if we don't understand the roots, it's easy to misread it as dishonest or controlling. That's why in trauma informed spaces, we value both what's said and how it's said. We encourage directness - but with care. Kindness doesn't mean avoidance. Clarity doesn't require cruelty. When we model this balance, we show others it's possible to speak truthfully without losing connection. That's what safety looks like in action.
Truth, Congruence, and the Impact of Language
This work isn’t about walking on eggshells. It’s not about denying reality or sugar-coating truth. It’s about congruence—aligning what we say with how we want to relate to others.
Take the phrase “You’re not allowed.” Technically, yes, we ‘can’ step on the grass. We ‘can’ change an item on a menu. We ‘can’ speak loudly if we choose to. So when we hear “not allowed,” what we’re often bumping up against isn’t reality—it’s a demand for compliance.
And that’s where the discomfort lives—not in the boundary, but in the way it’s imposed.
This work is not about sanitising language until it’s bland. It’s about recognising that words have tone, energy, and consequence. In trauma-informed spaces, language either builds bridges—or builds walls.
Some might say, “Get over yourself with your hurty-words—I’ll say whatever I want.” And that’s their right. But isn’t it ironic? That some who dismiss others' discomfort with words feel deeply uncomfortable being asked to consider their own impact?
Congruence is about truth—but it’s also about compassion. It’s about saying what’s real 'and' holding space for how it lands. You can tell the truth 'and' do it kindly. You can hold a boundary 'without' a verbal slap.
Because ultimately, trauma-informed language isn’t about censorship.
It’s about connection.
Let’s shift the conversation. One word at a time.
If you’d like support in creating trauma-informed materials or want me to speak with your team, please get in touch.
Straight lines feel safe. Directness doesn't have to be harsh - and kindness doesn't mean avoiding the truth.
When we speak clearly and with care, we build trust. That's what safety sounds like". - Deborah J Crozier
Healing Belongs To Everyone
“There is no greater expert on your healing than you.”
So when did healing become a product?
I’ve been reflecting lately on the amount of gatekeeping that happens in the world of healing.
Take tapping, for example — a simple, natural tool. No one owns it. No one invented the act of tapping on their body or calming themselves with rhythm. It’s free. It’s intuitive. It belongs to everyone.
And yet, I see fear-based messaging creeping in — warnings that it’s “unsafe” to use without certain certificates or affiliations. That it’s somehow dangerous to support people unless you’re signed up to the right organisation. That survivors of trauma need protecting from tools they themselves choose to use.
As a survivor of complex trauma — including a life-threatening domestic violence attack — I can tell you this:
The hurt is already in us.
What heals is compassion.
What helps is presence.
What’s harmful? Being tiptoed around. Being silenced. Being told that our lived experience isn’t valid unless it’s been “approved.”
That’s not trauma-informed.
That’s control. That’s ego-driven elitism.
Being trauma-informed isn’t just about what you say — it’s how you show up. It’s about recognising when you are dysregulated, and not passing that onto others. Trying to control people, or deciding what’s right for them without consent, is a sign of dysregulation — not professionalism.
A trauma-informed approach is grounded in safety, choice, and collaboration. Not fear. Not superiority. Not control.
When I collaborate with others, it has to be for the right reasons. I’m not interested in labels, status, or hierarchy — I care about ideas, and the purpose behind them. I support and uplift people who, like I once did, haven’t felt heard, haven’t felt worthy, haven’t been valued. Alignment matters. Integrity runs through us like a thread. Is it heart-led? Is it purposeful, fair, kind? Does it help people? If so — let’s do it for those reasons. That’s why our organisation exists. And for those who look down on us, or who don’t speak well of us in rooms we’re not in because who we are or are not affiliated with — that’s their journey to understand, not ours.
I’ve had organisations reject my work — including my book When I’m Gone, which charts my survival, collapse, and healing — simply because it wasn’t “approved” by the right authority. As if surviving something isn’t enough. As if I have to pay someone who wasn’t there, who knows nothing about me, for it to be of value.
We need to stop pretending people’s wellbeing depends on subscriptions and affiliations.
We need to stop treating healing like a product.
We need to stop assuming people can’t be trusted to know what’s right for themselves.
Because here’s the truth:
All humans are made up of energy.
So healing energy — like breath, like love, like water — belongs to everyone and no one.
Let’s start acting like it.
And just to be clear — this doesn’t mean I believe all support should be free. Healing itself is innate, but the space-holding, the time, the guidance, the listening — that’s a sacred offering. I charge for my time as a counsellor and consultant when appropriate, because like many others, I need to sustain the work I do. But I will never gatekeep healing tools or lived experience. I will always believe that people are the experts of their own journey.
“We don’t heal in sanitised silence. We heal in truth, in presence, in connection.”
So, When Did Healing Become a Product?
It’s a question that sits heavy with me lately. When did compassion and care become things we had to buy? When did healing become a branded product—certified, monetised, and locked behind paywalls?
The truth is, this shift has been happening for over a century. In the UK, healthcare was once offered freely through voluntary hospitals, funded by charitable donations and delivered by doctors who gave their time without charge. In 1921, hospitals in cities like Bristol began charging patients for beds and treatment—a direct response to financial pressures, not a measure of value. Then in 1948, the NHS was born, offering hope: health care, free at the point of need. But within just a few years, even that model began to crack under financial strain, reintroducing prescription charges and fees for certain services.
So the idea of healing as a transaction isn’t new. But that doesn’t make it right.
Especially when it comes to lived experience and emotional support. Healing from trauma is not a product. Energy belongs to all of us. Tools like tapping, breathing, grounding—they are part of our birthright as human beings. Kindness, presence, empathy—none of these require a subscription.
All this disapproving, measuring, and gatekeeping only reinforces the very core wounds many of us carry—that we’re not good enough. But here’s the truth: you are good enough, exactly as you are.
When someone tells you your healing doesn’t count unless it’s approved or accredited by them, what they’re really saying is: your lived experience isn’t enough. As if surviving trauma wasn’t hard enough, now we must also purchase permission to speak about it?
No.
Remembering Edna
Edna -
Who sang through her sorrow and loved through her pain.
You taught me more about strength, softness, and spirit than words could ever capture.
Thank you for trusting me with your truth. This is for you.
I met Edna in an unusual way—though for her, it was everyday life. I’d just become neighbours with her son, who asked me to accompany him to visit his mum in the psychiatric ward of the local hospital. We met in the canteen. Edna had been an inpatient for 13 weeks by then. She was pale, frail, and withdrawn, though I was told she’d come a long way from where she’d been.
It was an odd first meeting, some might say, but for me, it felt honest. This was her life—and in that honesty, something in me recognised her. She was kind and gentle. Timid, I’d say. A little spaced out. And yet we hit it off immediately. That day marked the beginning of a friendship I will treasure for the rest of my life.
I think I recognised Edna’s pain because I’d been battling the devil myself, long before I ever met her. Not the horned figure from fairy tales, but the slow, creeping shadow that steals your voice, your joy, your worth. That kind of pain knows how to find itself in others. And maybe that’s why we clicked instantly—two souls who didn’t need words to understand each other’s wounds. There was a quiet truth between us from the beginning, and that truth became the thread that wove our friendship together.
Edna had struggled with her nerves for as long as she could remember. Much of her childhood had been spent in hospital beds. She spoke of horrific treatments—being tied down so she wouldn’t scratch her weeping skin. Her body had carried the weight of both physical and emotional pain from early on.
She was in her early 60s when I met her. Bright blue eyes, like summer skies, that somehow still smiled even when she was sad.
In later years she was diagnosed with manic depression, and then bipolar. There were highs—bursts of energy after each stay in hospital. She’d redecorate the house, book long holidays to her beloved Majorca, and sing karaoke like a queen. Tammy Wynette had nothing on her. She was a force of nature in those moments—alive and buzzing with a zest that lit up a room.
One memory that still brings tears to my eyes is the day I visited Edna after she’d come out of hospital following our first meeting, this time with my young children in tow. She’d asked if I would bring them to meet her, and the moment we stepped through the door, she beamed with joy.
“I’m your Grandma Edna,” she said without hesitation, kneeling down with open arms. “Would you like a boiled egg with soldiers and a glass of cold milk?” ‘Grandmas fixed-ed eggs’ - my young children called it’
It was such a simple gesture, but one of profound warmth. The children adored her instantly. What she didn’t know then was what we had been through—the darkness of domestic violence, the fear, the isolation. But somehow, in her presence, there was no judgment, no suspicion, no barriers. Just love.
Her kindness cut through me like a ray of sunlight through heavy clouds. Genuine kindness like that is felt in the heart—but its echo rings on in the soul. I will love her forever for the love and compassion I felt in that moment. The acceptance she gave us, without a single word of explanation, was a balm to wounds I hadn’t even known how to name. Acceptance is such a powerful emotion, and in her warmth, we found a space where we could simply be.
But as summer turned to autumn, so too would Edna begin to fall.
She’d stop singing. Smoke more. Eat less. Her sparkle would fade. And as winter approached—and with it, the anniversary of her daughter’s death—Edna would collapse under the weight of grief and darkness. She saw it coming every year. She’d paint white crucifixes on the walls, as if to ward off what she knew was inevitable. And then she’d disappear beneath the covers, trembling, curled up like a child, too afraid to speak, to eat, to move. She told me she was hiding from the devil.
I was young then, almost 30, full of hope but powerless to stop the descent. I visited daily, desperate to help. But the black cloud came each year without fail.
I’d observed just four years of this cycle, but her Son told me it had been happening since he was just a young boy - every year for as long as he could remember. The doctors recommended a lobotomy. It was the late ’90s. I was horrified. I begged them not to go through with it. But my opinion didn’t matter. It was her families decision and they didn’t know what to do other than take the advice of her doctor.
The lobotomy took away the lows. But it also took away the highs.
And it took away the sparkle from her eyes. They turned a dull grey. She never sang again.
Less than a year later, she was diagnosed with terminal cancer and given two months to live.
I moved in to care for her. I slept on the sofa opposite her bed. She was too weak to do much, so we made a list together—of all the little things she’d never done but still wanted to try:
1. Visit the Coronation Street studios—I pushed her wheelchair as she marvelled at the sights.
2. Drink a bottle of Budweiser—what a night that was.
3. Watch Titanic—we cried through an entire box of tissues.
4. Reconnect with her sister—thankfully, they made peace.
5. Own a brand-new TV—she’d only ever had secondhand things, thanks to a husband who drank and gambled away their money.
On the day she died, I held her hand.
She spoke softly, narrating her journey, saying she was walking through the valley of death. “He’s here,” she said, her grip tightening, “the devil’s eyes are red.” I knew she’d been haunted by him all her life. But this time, she told him no. She wasn’t going with him.
She wept as she described seeing her daughter, holding a beautiful baby girl. She could see her parents. And as sunlight streamed through the window, we whispered our goodbyes.
I felt her spirit leave her body—it circled me gently before the room stilled. And then the grief hit like a train.
My friend was gone.
And I had never felt so alone.
Some spirits never leave us. Edna’s light still flickers, in memory and in love.
A Tribute to a Gentle Soul Written with Love by a Friend
The Junction Between Arrogance and Confidence: A Reflection on Inclusion, Integrity, and Lived Experience
I’ve been sitting with something lately.
There’s a subtle but important space—a junction—between confidence and arrogance. Between staying true to a vision and being open to feedback. Between being inclusive and being assumed to be wrong because your approach doesn’t match the mainstream narrative.
I created A Positive Start to do things differently.
Not to rebel.
Not to prove anything.
But because I needed a place where lived experience could lead the way.
Where trauma-informed didn’t mean textbook—but truth.
Where safety wasn’t policy—but practice.
Where those who have always been “too much” or “too sensitive” or “too emotional” finally had a place to belong.
So when someone comes in—often with mainstream training, often well-meaning—and tells me how they would do things differently, it can be a challenge. Not because I’m closed off. But because their assumption is often that I’m wrong. That I haven’t thought it through. That their way is somehow more correct.
And this is where the tension lies.
Am I being protective? Probably.
Do I need to self-reflect? Always.
But am I arrogant? I don’t think so.
I think I’m confident in my why.
And when something is born from lived pain, careful listening, and deep intention—confidence isn’t arrogance.
It’s anchor.
That’s why I want to talk about the word inclusive.
Because sometimes people use it like a badge—without recognising what it truly means.
You can’t say you’re inclusive if you only include voices that sound like yours.
You can’t say you’re trauma-informed if you override someone’s way of working based on lived experience just because it doesn’t fit your framework.
True inclusion means making space for discomfort.
It means challenging the belief that formal training always trumps lived truth.
It means holding the paradox: “I might not understand this approach, but I trust there’s wisdom in it.”
So yes, I’ll keep reflecting.
But I’ll also keep protecting the heart of this work.
Because for people like me—and those I serve—this isn’t a concept. This is survival. This is reclamation. This is a lifeline.
The Rules Keep Changing - Part Two: The Coat
Lena had a coat. A soft, dove-grey one with a silky lining and pockets deep enough for her whole world. It had been a birthday gift—one of the few things that felt like it belonged to her. But even gifts came with invisible rules.
She was only allowed to wear it when her mum said so. Not when Lena wanted to, not when the weather asked for it, not even when the occasion felt special. Only when the timing, mood, and atmosphere aligned in the mysterious, unspoken code of her household.
One Saturday, a friend invited her to the cinema - it was her friends birthday treat. Lena asked her mum—tentatively, gently— could she please go to the cinema and if she could wear her special coat. Her mum said yes. Just don't damage it, she added, without looking up.
And so Lena wore the coat. She sat in the cinema seat, clutching popcorn and trying not to spill a single kernel on the soft grey sleeves. She was careful. Extra careful.
But when she got home, the air had changed.
The door opened like thunder.
"Where have you been, I told you not to touch that coat."
Before Lena could speak—before she could say But you said yes—she felt her mother's hand strike the back of her head. The words thief, disrespectful, disobedient swirled in the kitchen air like smoke.
Lena stood frozen. She wasn't sure anymore. Had she imagined the yes? Did she steal her own coat?
There were no straight lines. No anchor to truth. No mirror in the house reflected her reality back to her.
Just the ever-shifting ground beneath her feet.
And in adulthood...
That coat never left her.
Not really.
It became the tightness in her chest when someone smiled and said, Of course you can—because yes didn't always mean yes.
It became the hesitation in her voice at work, the polite smile, the overthinking after meetings.
It became the invisible rulebook she could never quite learn, the quiet scanning of faces, always wondering: Am I safe here?
In Lena's adult life, she lived gently. Carefully. Don't speak too much. Don't take up too much space. Don't expect too much. Always check for signs, proof, consistency. Without truth, there could be no trust. And without trust—no safety.
But she also began to learn something new.
That straight lines do exist in people. Invisible threads running through some like golden veins—truth, integrity, compassion, empathy. She felt them in conversations that didn't twist. In eyes that stayed kind. In silences that weren't punishments.
Lena felt these things viscerally. Her body knew when someone meant what they said. That kind of truth became her anchor. In the wild ocean of the world, she started to find places where she could land.
What the World Sees
To the outside world, Lena could seem... difficult to read.
Sometimes she was warm and open, full of empathy and insight. Other times she was withdrawn, cautious, or distant. She second-guessed herself often. Declined invitations without clear reason. Took ages to reply to messages. Changed her mind at the last minute.
People sometimes labelled her:
Insecure.
Moody.
Excessively Shy.
Overly sensitive.
Guarded.
Non-committal.
Deceitful.
Unsettled.
Awkward.
Attention Seeking.
But none of that was the truth.
What the world saw were the ripples, not the storm.
They didn't see the child who had learned that "yes" could turn into "no" with no warning.
That connection could be followed by criticism. They didn't understand she was connection seeking as opposed to attention seeking - trying to anchor, trying to find safe ground.
That asking for clarity could result in silence—or punishment.
So Lena tiptoed through adult relationships. Not because she didn't care. But because she cared deeply, and it had never felt safe to show it.
She struggled to make decisions without fear of getting it wrong.
Struggled to believe she was ever enough.
Struggled to trust that kindness didn't come with a cost.
It wasn't that Lena didn't want to commit, speak up, or connect.
It was that her nervous system had been wired for danger, not safety. For mixed signals, not honesty. For guessing games, not open-hearted truth.
And so she moved quietly. Watched everything. Checked and rechecked.
Not because she was weak.
Because once upon a time, she had to.
A Nervous System Lens
When someone grows up in emotional uncertainty—where love feels conditional and truth is unpredictable—their body learns to protect, not relax.
Lena's behaviours weren't signs of weakness, brokenness, or drama. They were signs of a nervous system shaped by dorsal vagal shutdown—what the body does when fight or flight no longer work. A kind of quiet collapse. A going still to stay safe.
Through a dorsal vagal lens, the world looks unsafe. Relationships feel risky. The self feels small, wrong, or invisible. The body may feel heavy, numb, or ashamed. It can seem to others like "moodiness," detachment, or inconsistency—but it's actually a state of freeze.
The body is trying to protect itself from expected harm.
But through a ventral vagal lens—when the nervous system feels safe, connected, and attuned—everything changes.
Through this lens, Lena feels grounded.
She can speak her truth without fear.
She can trust a yes to stay a yes.
She feels connected to herself, others, and the world around her.
She can anchor in empathy, curiosity, and choice.
This is where healing happens.
Not by forcing change—but by restoring a sense of felt safety.
By recognising when her body is speaking from fear, and gently offering it a new experience.
TRUST Framework – A Trauma-Informed Anchor
When someone like Lena has grown up with uncertainty, contradiction, and emotional betrayal, the world can feel unpredictable—even dangerous. The nervous system becomes wired for mistrust. Truth feels slippery. And safety is something you search for, not something you feel.
That's why the TRUST Framework is so powerful. It's not just a model—it's a map for connection and co-regulation. A guide for how to hold space with compassion and clarity when someone's nervous system is stuck in survival.
Each part of the framework speaks directly to what Lena never had—and now deeply needs.
T – Trigger Recognition
"I notice what activates you, and I don't shame you for it."
Learning to recognise when Lena's body is reacting to old danger helps break the cycle of re-enactment and blame.
R – Reassurance
"I'm not going to turn on you. I'll stay steady."
Gentle, consistent words and actions help build a sense of predictability—so Lena can start to trust calm as real.
U – Understanding
"I see beyond the behaviour."
Seeing Lena's hesitation or shutdown not as "moodiness," but as a protective response from long ago.
S – Safety
"I will not use your vulnerability against you."
Safety is both physical and emotional. For Lena, it's about trusting that today's 'yes' won't become tomorrow's 'punishment'.
T – Truth
"You deserve honesty, and your experience matters."
For someone who grew up doubting her own reality, truth is the most powerful gift. It anchors her. It heals her.
The Rules Keep Changing
Imagine you’re nine years old.
You’ve packed your school bag carefully today—not just with books, but with hope. Your friend Lily invited you to her house after school, and this morning—miraculously—your mum said yes.
Not just “we’ll see” or “maybe”—but a real, actual yes. It felt like sunshine. You even smiled.
At school, you tell Lily the good news, and you both make after-school plans like kids do. Easy. Light. No edge to it.
But as the final bell rings, something shifts in your belly. You ignore it. You’ve learned not to trust those feelings. They ruin things. You go to Lily’s house anyway, holding onto the yes like it’s something solid.
The phone rings twenty minutes after you arrive.
You freeze.
You know it’s her. You don’t know how you know—but you do. Something in your chest tightens before the words are even spoken.
Lily’s mum walks in, phone in hand, eyebrows raised.
“Lena, sweetheart… your mum says you need to go home. Right now.”
And just like that, the ground drops out.
You gather your things in silence, cheeks burning. Lily is confused, watching you like you’ve done something wrong. You try to smile. You try to stay small. You try to disappear without disappearing.
The car ride home is silent—until it isn’t.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“How dare you go off without telling me properly.”
“You didn’t even think, did you?”
You want to scream, You said I could! But your voice gets lost somewhere deep inside your ribs.
That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling. You decide something important:
Next time, don’t trust the yes.
Now pause.
How do you think Lena feels?
Not just in her head—but in her body?
Would she tense around kindness? Hold her breath waiting for the turn? Would she double-check every word she hears, every message she receives, searching for what might be hidden underneath?
Would she start to believe the problem is her?
Maybe you’ve been Lena once. Maybe you still are.
This story is for her.
The Early Lessons
Lena stopped asking for things after that.
She learned to say, “It’s okay, I didn’t really want to go anyway.” She stopped bringing permission slips home. Stopped getting excited. Excitement was dangerous. It made the fall worse.
Instead, she became the quiet child. The helpful one. The one who always knew when to vanish from a room just before an argument began. She had a sixth sense for the temperature of the house. A masterful interpreter of sighs, slamming drawers, and the sudden, unnatural calm before the storm.
No one ever told Lena what the rules really were. But she still blamed herself when she broke them.
Adulthood Echoes
Years later, Lena was the kind of person people called “reliable” and “sensitive.” She was the one who noticed when someone in the group was being left out. The one who offered help before it was asked for. The one who always replied with “No worries!” even when she was hurting.
She told herself she liked it that way.
Then she met Elise. The kind of friend who meant it when she said, “Come over any time.” The kind who texted just to check in. Who hugged like she meant it.
Lena wanted to trust it.
And for a while, she did. Until the text came. A short reply to a long message. Something about the tone was… off. No emoji. No warmth. Lena’s heart dropped. She read it five times, then scanned their recent messages. Did she say too much? Was she too much?
That night she didn’t sleep.
The next day, Elise called—cheerful, kind, as if nothing had happened. But Lena had already curled into the old story. You thought it was safe again. You thought wrong.
She began pulling back. Polite, but distant. Elise noticed, but Lena deflected.
“Just busy, that’s all.”
But inside, she was nine years old again. Standing in Lily’s hallway, coat in hand, shame creeping up her spine like cold water.
A Letter Never Sent
One rainy afternoon, Lena sat at her desk, heart heavy. She opened her notebook and, without planning to, began writing a letter.
Not to Elise.
But to the girl in the hallway.
Dear little me,
You didn’t do anything wrong.
You were told it was okay to go. You believed them. You trusted. That is not a failure. That is innocence. That is hope.
You were not wrong to feel excited. You were not wrong to feel safe.
The shame that followed was not yours to carry.
And I am so sorry no one came to tell you that sooner.
She read the letter aloud. Something inside softened. She didn’t magically feel better. But she felt real. Grounded. As if, just maybe, her feelings made sense after all.
The Explanation
If you saw yourself in Lena, you’re not alone.
When love and punishment are tangled in childhood, the nervous system adapts. It learns to mistrust safety. It learns that permission can turn to punishment. That joy must be dulled to avoid disappointment. That trust is risky.
Over time, this creates a survival strategy: stay small, stay careful, stay invisible.
But these strategies—though once protective—can become prisons.
Lena’s story is about more than a girl and a phone call. It’s about how emotional inconsistency quietly rewrites our understanding of the world. And how, years later, we can still live by rules we never agreed to—rules that keep changing.
But here’s the hopeful part:
What was learned in confusion can be unlearned in compassion.
When we begin to notice the pattern, name it, and offer kindness to the part of us still flinching from the past—we begin to rewrite the story. Slowly. Gently. Powerfully.
And maybe, like Lena, we begin to trust again—not the people who harmed us, but ourselves.
I wrote The Rules Keep Changing for anyone who grew up unsure where they stood—whose childhood felt like walking on eggshells. For those who know what it’s like to try to make sense of inconsistent love, to internalise blame, and to carry confusion long into adulthood.
This story is a gentle offering. A way of saying, You were never the problem. Your responses made sense in the world you were raised in. I hope Lena’s journey gives you space to reflect, to soften toward yourself, and to realise—you’re not alone, and your story matters.