"We Are Energy First"
Humans are often taught to see themselves as solid, physical beings - but at our core, we are made of energy. Every cell in our body carries an electrical charge. Our hearts generate an electromagnetic field. Our brains communicate through electrical impulses. This isn't just spiritual language - it's biology and physics.
Now, where this becomes especially important is in our nervous system.
Our nervous system is like our body's electrical wiring. It doesn't just respond to the world - it constantly reads the environment for safety or threat. That's energy - it's vibration, its sensation, its the subtle shifts we can't always name, but we can definitely feel.
Have you ever walked into a room and sensed the something was off, even though no one said a word?
That's your nervous system picking up on the energy - on tone, posture, expression, tension. We feel each other energetically before anything logical happens.
This isn't just a feeling - it's Neuroception.
Neuroception is the nervous systems way of scanning for cues of safety or danger, without us even realising it. It's how we "just know" when something feels off. Its how children sense tension in a room before anyone speaks. It's why someone's words can say "I'm fine" but their energy says otherwise - and we feel the truth, not the script. You may have heard me say many times before - when we are connected, we Feel the truth viscerally. - that's Neuroception.
This is why healing after trauma can't happen through words alone. The nervous system doesn't speak in language - it speaks in energy, tone, expression and felt safety.
To truly reconnect and regulate, we have to work with our energy system - by becoming more aware of our won nervous system state - the work our attendees have been doing in our reconnect and regulate sessions - getting into the daily habit of measuring SUD levels, recognising when we're in survival modem and by gently returning to a sense of safety.
Because real connection doesn't come from what we say, it comes from the energy we hold.
The Lens that Shapes our Nervous Systems
“We can only see through the lens of our experience.”
– And that lens is shaped by the nervous system.
When someone has predominantly lived in a ventral vagal state — a state of nervous system regulation characterised by safety, connection, and a sense of ease in the world — their worldview is shaped by consistent access to internal and external resources. From this state, logic, reason, and relational clarity come naturally. However, this baseline of safety can make it difficult to truly grasp the inner landscape of someone who has spent significant time in a dorsal vagal state — where the nervous system has shifted into shutdown, disconnection, and a sense of helplessness as a protective response to overwhelm or threat.
Those who have not experienced this dorsal collapse often unconsciously assume that everyone has access to the same cognitive and emotional capacities they do, even during distress. This leads to a kind of perspective bias, where the belief in their own “rational” view becomes fixed, because they have never known the felt reality of trauma shutting down those very faculties. In contrast, individuals who have experienced dorsal states often doubt themselves — not because they are irrational, but because survival responses inhibit full access to logic, confidence, and voice. This internal struggle can make it difficult to assert or even clarify their perspective in the presence of someone firmly rooted in ventral.
What’s often overlooked is that many people in positions of authority — in services, leadership, and systems — have been able to access those roles because their nervous system allowed them to engage in education, employment, and relationships. That access is a privilege of ventral regulation.
This is precisely why curiosity is essential. Without curiosity, what happens instead is dismissal: the person in ventral may confidently reject the views of someone in dorsal, not out of malice, but out of an inability to feel into what the other is navigating. Dismissal then deepens the shutdown response for the person already struggling, reinforcing their self-doubt and widening the disconnect.
True understanding comes from recognising that lived nervous system states shape how we process, perceive, and respond to the world. If we want to build bridges between different experiences, especially in trauma-informed spaces, we must prioritise openness over certainty, and curiosity over correctness.
Instead of disagreeing or correcting, we can ask: “What shaped your view?”
Because until we’ve lived in another’s nervous system, we are only ever seeing through our own lens.
You’re Not The Problem
“You’re not broken.
You’re not failing.
Your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do to keep you safe.”
When trauma happens and escape isn’t possible, the body doesn’t just move on—it adapts for survival. This is the dorsal vagal response, a deep shutdown state that can leave you feeling numb, disconnected, exhausted, or stuck.
For years, I didn’t understand what was happening to me. Every few months, my body would crash. I’d struggle to get out of bed, completely drained—physically, emotionally, mentally. Everything felt heavy, like wading through treacle just to motivate myself.
A black cloud would loom overhead, a constant presence that coloured everything in misery. My thoughts would spiral: What’s the point? Nobody cares. I don’t know why I bother. I felt weak, pathetic, like I was failing. But I wasn’t failing—my body was in survival mode.
When you’ve lived in that state often enough, you start to recognise it in others. I can spot it instantly—the exhaustion in their body language, the posture that slumps in defeat, the words that speak of despair. It’s in the deadness of their eyes—a sign of being completely disconnected from the present moment. They are stuck in the purgatory of dorsal shutdown, where everything feels like it’s just too much to move forward or escape from. Dorsal is the place where life ends. It’s the point where we’ve been so overwhelmed that the system is frozen, unable to go on.
This shutdown response isn’t just personal—it plays out in so many forms of trauma. When a child can’t escape an abusive home, they disconnect to survive. When someone is trapped in poverty, addiction, or domestic violence, the nervous system collapses under the weight of survival.
It happens in:
• Childhood abuse – when a child can’t leave an unsafe home, they disconnect to survive.
• Cycles of poverty – when no matter how hard someone tries, the weight of survival becomes too much.
• Addiction – often a response to numb the pain of unresolved trauma.
• Crime & incarceration – when the nervous system has adapted to survival in an unsafe world - these are just a few examples..
And when mothers are separated from their children, the grief, helplessness, and loss of control can send them into deep dorsal shutdown—numbness, despair, and self-destruction.
It’s difficult to understand the dorsal vagal perspective when you’re in a ventral vagus state, where things feel more connected and regulated. From the outside, what might look like attention-seeking behaviour is often connection-seeking—a desperate attempt to feel safe again. The challenge is, we often don’t have the words to articulate this need. For a long time, I didn’t either.
This is why I became a person-centred therapist—because the core conditions of empathy, unconditional positive regard, and congruence deeply aligned with my own experience of needing a space that felt safe and understanding. It’s these conditions that allow people to heal and reconnect with themselves—something I’ve experienced firsthand.
I’m also sensitive to energy—especially where someone is in their nervous system. When the energy changes, I can feel it. This sensitivity helps me understand where a person is in their journey and meet them exactly where they are, offering support that feels safe and validating.
Understanding dorsal changes everything. It means that what looks like laziness, lack of motivation, or emotional detachment isn’t a character flaw—it’s your body’s way of protecting you. You are not the problem. Your nervous system has been in survival mode.
#TraumaInformed #ReconnectAndRegulate #MentalHealth #SelfCompassion
PTSR
For years, I was trapped in a cycle I couldn’t escape. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my nervous system had locked me in survival mode.
Why? Because an abuser tried to end my life & almost succeeded.
I couldn’t get away. My body did what it was designed to do—it tried to fight, then to flee, but when neither was possible, it shut down. I lost consciousness. My body played possum.
When I came to—thanks to my attacker being disturbed—everything felt numb. I was frozen in shock, unable to move or process what had happened. My nervous system had activated its final survival strategy: dorsal collapse. I was heavy, tearful, but emotionless. Just existing.
Then, after a couple of weeks, something shifted. My body began to thaw, and the last thing I had been doing before the attack returned with force—I was running.
Only now, I wasn’t waiting for an attack to begin. My hypervigilant brain had locked onto the external world, scanning for danger in everything. Every disagreement, every frown, every sign of disapproval became a threat.
My brain filled in the blanks:
“Don’t wait to be killed, Deborah. That person looks angry—RUN.”
Different faces. Different places. But the same response. I ran. And I kept running.
This is what trauma does when the body doesn’t get to complete its natural cycle of fight or flight. When survival energy gets trapped, it doesn’t just disappear—it waits. It adapts. It finds new ways to keep you ‘safe,’ even when the threat is no longer there.
I can assure you that on my journey from then and for years, I had symptoms consistent with what many label as disorders. But with understanding trauma and doing the work, I have no ‘disorders,’ no symptoms I can’t manage. I wasn’t disordered—I was stuck in survival mode.
But living in a constant state of hypervigilance isn’t living at all.
I consider the behaviour of the perpetrator to be disordered and the systems that let him away with it - not the victim. That individual was willing to end the life of a young mother due to his own trauma. People who behave in this way, projecting their rage onto others, need support to heal. These are outer expressions of inner turmoil.
trauma. People who behave in this way, projecting their rage onto others, need support to heal. These are outer expressions of inner turmoil.
Recovery isn’t just about understanding trauma—it’s about rewiring the nervous system, teaching the body that it is safe to stay. And that’s the hardest, most important work of all.
#Trauma #PTSR #Hypervigilance #SurvivalResponse #HealingJourney
We Need to Stop ...
We Need to Stop Tiptoeing Around This Conversation…
I have delivered the STAND Grooming Prevention workshop to countless child protection charities and safeguarding teams over the years. Every time, the feedback is the same:
- Can you see how STAND contributes to grooming prevention? – YES
- Can you see how STAND contributes to the prevention of child abuse? – YES
- Can you see how STAND protects children and families? – YES
- Will you recommend this workshop to others? – Don’t know. Unsure.
Why?
“It might upset people.”
“It could cause distress.”
But when I ask how?, there’s no real answer.
STAND doesn’t even mention child abuse directly. There’s nothing emotionally manipulative or graphic about it. It’s simply the truth—and that is what makes people uncomfortable
The Hard Truth is – Children Are Already Distressed
In my experience, the conversation around child protection is still wrapped in layers of hesitation—concerned about upsetting people, maintaining balance, and not causing distress.
But here’s what so many fail to see:
Children are already distressed and they are already dealing with the consequences of adult discomfort.
They are already carrying the weight of silence, dismissal, and unspoken fears.
The fear of making people uncomfortable cannot come at the cost of children’s safety.
If we keep softening the message, avoiding the raw reality of what happens when abuse is ignored, minimized, or mishandled, then we are failing the very people we claim to protect.
It is not alarmist to tell the truth. It is necessary.
And if we are too afraid to have these conversations, how can we expect children to speak up when something is wrong?
One of the biggest challenges parents face—without even realising it—is emotional disconnection.
When we haven’t processed our own pain, when we’ve been taught to suppress difficult emotions, we struggle to hold space for others—especially our children.
A child who senses that their emotions overwhelm a parent will stop bringing them.
A child who feels their distress is too much will learn to silence themselves.
A child who isn’t met with presence will find someone else to listen—and that someone isn’t always safe.
If we want to protect our children, we must first learn to recognise and hold our own emotions.
Because when we understand our own emotional responses, we can:
• Recognise when something doesn’t feel right.
• Trust our instincts instead of dismissing them.
• Respond to our children’s emotions instead of reacting from our own fear.
This is how we break the cycle of silence.
It’s Time to Take a Stand!
And this is exactly why STAND: Parents as Protectors exists—to give parents the tools they need to reconnect and regulate, to recognise the invisible tactics used by perpetrators, to slow down and trust their instincts, and to create a culture where children feel safe to speak.
If we truly care about child safety, we have to stop prioritising adult discomfort over children’s protection.
The question isn’t whether this conversation is difficult. It is.
The question is: Are we willing to have it anyway?
Join us for the Free STAND: Parents as Protectors online workshop.
Secure Your Place -by Signing up now. Because waiting until it’s too late isn’t an option. Starts May 2025
Flow: The Joy of Being in Alignment
Years ago, while waiting in a dentist’s office, I read an article that stayed with me. It told the story of a high-profile marketing executive who, burned out and exhausted, retreated to New Zealand in search of work-life balance. When one of the indigenous staff members picked him up, he asked what had brought him there.
“I need to find some work-life balance,” the executive admitted.
The retreat worker smiled knowingly. “There is no such thing as work-life balance,” he said. “Only flow.”
At the time, I was struggling with the same idea—trying to balance the demands of being a single-parent family and a full time employee while feeling like I was playing a role at work, zipping up a clown suit each day and acting the part. I could sustain it for 10 -12 weeks tops - at a time - before exhaustion hit. I felt like a ridiculous failure, a problem- and I was treated as such.
Tearful, drained, and barely holding it together, I was once pulled into a manager’s office and told to “pull myself together,” “give my head a shake,” and “stop wearing my heart on my sleeve.” In other words—suppress, pretend, and push through.
To me, work-life balance felt like holding two magnets together—the closer I got to one, the more the other repelled me. Work demanded performance, resilience, and detachment, while life longed for presence, emotion, and authenticity. No matter how hard I tried, they wouldn’t click together.
Mornings were the hardest. Dragging myself out of bed felt like wading through treacle, every step heavy with resistance. I’d push myself through the motions, exhausted before the day even began. Love Inc.’s ‘You’re a Superstar’ would be blasting from my CD player on the way to work, a desperate attempt to drag my nervous system out of collapse—forcing myself into some kind of functioning state.
But what if balance isn’t something we achieve—what if it’s something we become when we’re in flow?
“You don’t have to push the river; it flows by itself.” – Unknown
Flow isn’t about measuring time or effort to create a perfect balance. It’s about alignment—where what we do, how we feel, and who we are move together effortlessly, like a river finding its course.
We don’t find balance by splitting time between work and life like a mathematical equation. We find balance through purpose—doing what we love, what excites us, what makes us want to get up in the morning. The kind of work (paid or unpaid) that makes us feel alive, rather than drained.
Psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi describes flow as a state of deep immersion—where time disappears, effort feels effortless, and we’re energized rather than exhausted. It’s the feeling of being fully alive in the present moment.
Flow isn’t something we force. It happens when we stop resisting ourselves—when we stop doing what we think we should do and start following what truly lights us up.
- Instead of forcing ourselves to perform, we align with what feels true.
- Instead of separating “work” and “life” like opposing forces, we integrate them naturally.
- Instead of suppressing emotions, we acknowledge them and move with them rather than against them.
- Instead of chasing balance, we follow purpose—and balance finds us.
When we stop fighting ourselves, life flows more easily. Energy returns. Joy sneaks back in. And we realise that balance was never the goal—harmony was.
“Balance is not something you find, it’s something you create.” — Jana Kingsford
Why Disorder?
Why Disorder?
Why Not Response?
Why Not Adaptation?
For so many who have experienced complex trauma, the word disorder can feel like a label they’ve carried since childhood. “There’s something wrong with you,” the world tells us, and after hearing it long enough, it becomes easier to accept.
But what if that’s not the truth? What if your brain isn’t broken or malfunctioning but brilliantly adapted to ensure your survival in a world that felt unsafe?
The RAS (reticular activating system) is the part of your brain that fuels hypervigilance—constantly scanning for danger to protect you. But did you know that this same part of the brain is also responsible for seeking opportunity? Yes, the very system that alerts you to potential threats is also wired to seek out possibility, potential, and growth.
Through processing and healing, you can begin to choose how you want to use this incredible brain. What if the skills you’ve developed through survival—skills like awareness, adaptability, and strength—are the building blocks for evolving into someone with an evolved, skilled set of tools for life?
You’ve adapted to survive; now you can adapt to thrive. The power is in your hands. Healing isn’t about “fixing” something broken, but about unlearning old narratives and embracing the wisdom you’ve gained along the way.
Your brain isn’t the problem. It’s been your ally. And with healing, you get to reclaim your power, tap into your potential, and rewrite your story.
Blame
The Futility of Blame
I was chatting with someone recently about how each generation believes they’ll do better than the one before. Many parents strive to provide a better life for their children—more comfort, more opportunity, more protection from hardship. But in doing so, they sometimes shield their children from the realities of life, creating a different set of struggles.
It made me think of The Living Years by Mike & The Mechanics—a powerful reminder of how short time is, how much goes unsaid, and how we often don’t understand the weight of generational patterns until it’s too late.
Blame is everywhere. It runs through generations, through cultures, through our conversations. We blame parents for our struggles, governments for our hardships, and past generations for the state of the world. We blame partners, colleagues, strangers. And in doing so, we unknowingly pass down the habit—teaching the next generation to point fingers rather than seek solutions.
But what does blame really do?
It might feel justified. It might even feel like control. But in reality, blame stifles progress, poisons relationships, and keeps us trapped in cycles of resentment. It divides rather than unites. It silences rather than heals. It keeps us looking backward when what we truly need is a way forward.
Many of us have been shaped by a culture that externalises responsibility. If something goes wrong, someone must be at fault. But the more we focus on assigning blame, the less we focus on change. Responsibility is not the same as blame. When we take responsibility, we reclaim our power. When we stay in blame, we hand our power away.
None of this is to say that harm doesn’t happen. That suffering isn’t real. That people aren’t left carrying the weight of another person’s actions. Some wounds are caused by others, and acknowledging that truth is part of healing. But staying in blame forever binds us to the pain. Justice is important. Accountability is essential. But healing is something no one else can do for us.
Blame shuts down communication. It fuels division. It breeds resentment. And resentment doesn’t just live in the mind—it settles in the body like poison. It keeps us tethered to what hurt us rather than freeing us from it. If we truly want to heal, we must release the grip of resentment. Not for those who harmed us, but for ourselves.
Blame—whether directed at others or ourselves—shuts down communication. It fuels division. It breeds resentment. But when blame turns inward, it takes an even deeper toll.
Self-blame can feel like control, like taking responsibility. But instead of leading to change, it often leads to shame. And shame doesn’t make us better—it makes us feel unworthy of being better. It silences us. It keeps us small. It convinces us that we are our mistakes.
“Shame corrodes the very part of us that believes we are capable of change.” – Brené Brown
Self-blame and shame are deeply connected, often reinforcing each other in a painful cycle.
1. Self-Blame: Turns Pain Inward
When something goes wrong, instead of recognizing external factors or acknowledging that mistakes are a natural part of life, self-blame makes it personal. It turns an event into a reflection of who we are. Instead of thinking, “I made a mistake,” we think, “I am a mistake.”
2. The Birth of Shame
Self-blame, when left unchecked, evolves into shame. While guilt says, “I did something bad,” shame whispers, “I am bad.” Over time, this internalised belief can become part of our identity, shaping how we see ourselves and the world around us.
3. The Impact of Shame
• Emotional paralysis – Shame makes it hard to take action or change because we believe we are inherently flawed.
• Hiding and isolation – Shame thrives in secrecy. The more we blame ourselves, the less we reach out for connection or support.
• Self-sabotage – If we believe we are unworthy, we may unconsciously reinforce that belief by pushing away opportunities, relationships, or success.
• Perfectionism and people-pleasing – To compensate for shame, we may overcompensate by trying to be “perfect” or constantly seeking approval.
To stop the cycle, we must shift from blame to understanding. Instead of asking, “What’s wrong with me?” we can ask, “What happened to me?” Instead of punishing ourselves for struggling, we can offer ourselves the kindness we would extend to a friend.
Because healing doesn’t come from blame. It comes from self-compassion.
If we want to heal, we must recognize that mistakes and struggles do not define us. We must replace self-blame with self-compassion. Because healing doesn’t come from punishing ourselves—it comes from understanding ourselves.
If we want to create change, we must model something different. We must shift from blame to understanding, from division to connection, from resentment to responsibility.
• Instead of blaming, we can seek understanding
• Instead of resentment, we can seek healing.
• Instead of passing down blame, we can teach accountability and self-awareness.
Because the next generation is watching. And if we show them how to move forward without carrying the weight of blame, maybe—just maybe—we start to change the cycle.
Understanding Trauma
Understanding Trauma, Disconnection, and Vulnerability to Manipulation
One of the most important yet misunderstood aspects of trauma is how it disconnects us—from ourselves and from others. And this disconnection doesn’t just leave us feeling isolated; it also makes us more vulnerable to manipulation, including grooming, coercion, and abuse.
A common misconception is that trauma only refers to catastrophic events—accidents, assaults, war, or extreme abuse. But if we define trauma as the impact an event has on our nervous system, we can start to see a much bigger picture. Everyday experiences—criticism, financial stress, being bullied at work—can also shape how we feel about ourselves, how we relate to others, and how we cope.
When our suffering is dismissed—when we hear things like, “Lots of people get criticised at work, but they don’t all drink because of it,” or “Everyone struggles financially, but they don’t all become hermits,”—we internalise the idea that our pain is an overreaction. Many people learn to mask their struggles because minimising their pain only makes them feel worse. But ignoring it doesn’t make it go away.
How Disconnection Makes Us Vulnerable
Unprocessed emotional energy doesn’t just disappear; it gets stored in the nervous system. Over time, this can lead to external coping strategies like substance use, comfort eating, gambling—or internal strategies like avoidance, people-pleasing, and emotional shutdown.
When we are disconnected or dissociative, our internal body awareness (interoception) becomes muted. This means we miss subtle cues—our own instincts, gut feelings, or physical sensations that might alert us to danger.
This is exactly what grooming tactics exploit. Manipulators look for people who are distracted, self-doubting, unsure. They rely on the fact that when we’re disconnected from ourselves, we’re less likely to notice red flags—or to trust ourselves enough to act on them.
Why This Matters for Protecting Children and Families
In our work, we regularly see people in therapy who have been groomed, bullied, or abused—both as children and as adults. Many of them didn’t recognise the warning signs at the time. Not because they weren’t intelligent or strong enough, but because disconnection from their own internal signals made them more susceptible.
Breaking this cycle requires prevention. And prevention starts with awareness.
This is why we created STAND: Parents as Protectors, an online workshop designed to support parents and caregivers in understanding these patterns—how trauma impacts connection, how disconnection creates risk, and how to recognize grooming behaviours before they take hold.
When we understand trauma for what it really is—the way it shapes our nervous system and our sense of self—we gain the power to reconnect. To trust ourselves. To keep our children and families safe.
27th March 2025 by Deborah J Crozier
The Dorsal Space
There’s a place beyond exhaustion, beyond sadness, beyond fear. A place where the weight of everything drags you down so completely that movement feels impossible. Where the black cloud of doom doesn’t just hover—it swallows.This is dorsal collapse.
It’s not just being “stuck.” It’s being buried. The slippery slope leads straight down to a cell in the ground—darkness, dirt, doom. You sit there, still, waiting. Because moving is too frightening, too impossible. Better to wait for the last flicker of light—the one that belongs to a world above you—to blow out. Then, at least, the waiting ends - ease comes.
In that stillness, there’s a battle. A fight in your mind with those who claim to understand but don’t. People who see you, but not really. They underestimate -, assuming you are weaker than you are. Or they overestimate -, assuming you can just push through, that you’re capable of more than you are in that moment. Either way, they don’t truly see you. Judgments & assumptions—whether wrapped in criticism or false encouragement—don’t help. They push & when you’re teetering on the edge, that push can be the final one.
Dorsal is not just a state of mind; it’s a lens that distorts everything. Every thought & emotion is covered in dirt. If snapping out of it were an option, it would have already happened. Because this place is a painful hell, not a choice.
Yet, decisions that shape the lives of people in this state—our most vulnerable—are made by those who have never been here. Politicians, policymakers, systems built on theory, not lived experience. The result? More panic. More despair.
This has to change.
We need lived experience insight at the heart of decisions that affect real people. Before it’s too late for the next person who finds themselves here.
Climbing out of this place isn’t about ‘thinking positive’ or ‘trying harder.’ It starts with something much smaller, something that barely feels like movement at all. A breath. A sound. The smallest shift in weight. A moment of noticing that you are still here.
Reconnection begins in tiny moments, often ones that don’t even feel like progress. The feel of your feet on the ground. The warmth of sunlight through a window. The vibration of your own voice, even if it’s just a hum. These are the threads that begin to reattach you to life.
The world above, the one that once felt impossibly far away—doesn’t have to be climbed in one leap. It’s a slow re-emergence. A remembering of self. And perhaps most importantly, it’s not meant to be done alone.
Because when someone truly sees you—without judgment, without expectation—something shifts. The cell in the ground starts to feel less like a prison & more like a place you passed through on your way back to yourself.
#TraumaInformedTRUST