Healing From Childhood Trauma: Finding Freedom, Joy, and Presence

There are moments when happiness should come easily—when nostalgic conversations, candid pictures, and shared laughter should wrap us in warmth. But beneath it all, there’s always a low electrical hum—an undercurrent of anxiety and depression that refuses to let me fully exhale.

I know why.

Childhood trauma leaves deep, lasting imprints on the nervous system. I grew up as a highly sensitive boy with ADHD, struggling to fit into a family, a community, even an era that didn’t know what to do with me. Safety wasn’t a given; validation was nonexistent. My emotions, my experiences—dismissed, distorted, outright rejected. I was relentlessly bullied, invalidated, and conditioned to believe that belonging required silence.

And yet, even at fifty, I find myself stepping back into environments that reinforce those same wounds. Recently, I took a trip to Disney with my sister, believing—for a moment—that we were simply enjoying time together. That illusion shattered at 4 AM when she cut me off mid-sentence, unloading a barrage of blame and frustration onto me. It was a familiar pattern: projecting, unloading, tearing me down.

This time, I didn’t argue. I just listened.

When she was done, I simply said: Thank you for sharing that with me.

Later, when I suggested we process it, she stood silent, unwilling—or unable—to engage in resolution. That morning, I woke up with startling clarity: These people will never just let me be. They will always take pieces of me whenever they can. And yet, I have continued to come back for the abuse. But this time, I did something different. I left. I changed my flight and got the fuck out of there.

Trauma doesn’t just live in the past—it stays in the body. The autonomic nervous system becomes conditioned to react, to brace for impact. Even when the threat is gone, the body keeps the score. The triggers remain: loud voices, dismissive tones, chaotic environments. Healing from emotional trauma isn’t just about recognizing it—it’s about retraining the body to feel safe again.

And here’s the paradox: I teach breathwork. I know the benefits of deep breathing, mindfulness, and nervous system regulation. I understand, on an intellectual level, how yoga rewires trauma responses, how movement allows trapped emotions to release. And yet, when it comes to my practice, resistance is constant. The defiant child in me refuses to be told how to breathe.

Still, I know one thing: the happiest I’ve ever been in my body was when I had a daily yoga practice. When movement replaced thought. When breath became effortless rather than forced.

Healing isn’t passive. It doesn’t happen simply because we hope for it. It requires action. And the storyline of waiting for the right moment? That’s over. Now is the time. A new day. A new opportunity. Not if —but, when.