Battle Cry

When dismissive words became a call to strength

I spent 20 adult years caught in a long recovery from childhood trauma — something hidden by my system until I was finally strong enough. More than once, I didn’t know if I would survive the journey.

Twenty years of weekly therapy.
A Master of Social Work with a trauma focus.

And then I lost even more years — this time to complex illness.

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When I could finally work again, I wanted to look ahead, not back.
So I signed up for a year-long business class. I wanted to use what I’d learned to help others.

In a group discussion with the founder — a top business expert — I shared that a particular method didn’t work for me.

I felt safe to say so because just moments before, the founder had described how the course was designed for freedom — that anyone could choose what worked for them. They’d even shared how certain pieces didn’t fit for them personally, but were included for others.

So I explained: this method felt too much like the patterns of my childhood trauma.

And what I heard back?

“That’s a trauma response. That’s not my area of expertise. You’ll need to work on that with someone else.”

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In the moment, I thought I was fine. Strong, even.

I didn’t crumble, didn’t fall into the old pit of shame that had silenced me so many times before.

Progress, I thought.

But the next days brought a depression that hit like a storm.
Deep, heavy, uncharacteristic.

And as I’ve done for thirty years, I searched for the roots.
Not to yank them out — that causes more damage — but to notice them, name them.
My system knows what to do with that kind of noticing.

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Three days later, I sat outside at sunrise, espresso macchiato in hand, letting thoughts drift.

And up floated the words:
”That’s a trauma response.”

With the unspoken implication:
”You’re broken. You need fixing. You’re not ok until this changes.”

That’s when the anger came.
Not the kind that burns others — the kind that burns hot and clean.

Because this was not a “trauma response.”
It was a trauma-informed decision.

Before, I had no such choice.
Eons-old survival programming spoke for me. My brain and body froze. I instantly changed who I was and obeyed — without even realizing it, without remembering what I’d thought or felt before.

My share with the business expert was about choice — deliberate choice.
And I deliberately chose to share my choice and rationale.

Because now, I can.
And I will keep choosing.

Not weakness. Not pathology.
A choice made with scars, not in spite of them.

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I’ve been a child warrior who survived the first battles.
A woman who survived the remembering, decades later.
A survivor again through years of complex illness.

I have scars, yes. I limp, sometimes.
But what hero who’s faced the impossible doesn’t?

My scars are evidence of survival. Evidence of triumph.
Purged. Refined. Pure gold, honed in fire.
I love them for the salvation they gave me.

The moment I named that truth — not a trauma response, but a trauma-informed decision —
this poem poured out of me, and the depression lifted.

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“That’s a trauma response.”
Not question. Not curiosity.
Diagnosis. Dismissal.

I did not react blindly — I chose.
I made a trauma-informed decision.

A decision honed from thirty years of hardship —
and thirty-five more of hidden tragedy.

My scars are survival badges — not weakness.
Signs of courage.
Signs of what survival cost — what recovery took.
Pure gold, refined in fire.

Never will I call this weakness.
I survived. I recovered. I triumphed.
I am a hero returned.

Let’s change the trauma dictionary.
Let’s call scars strength,
and injury injury.

Let’s build a lexicon of dignity —
perhaps even name trauma social justice.
And let go of words that wound, not honor.

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Once the poem poured out, the depression lifted.

My breath felt different — I felt different — lighter, relieved, settled.

By the time I sat with my alternative health care doctor for my regular appointment later that morning, I was ready for the next layer, which unfolded right then: more meaning, and even more healing.

After I shared the morning’s unfolding, my doctor — a wise man with a story for everything — told me one from Ray Bradbury’s 𝑀𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑎𝑛 𝐶ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑐𝑙𝑒𝑠: how people arriving on Mars saw what their hearts most longed for — because the Martians mirrored their heart’s desires back to them.

Our systems do something similar, he said — projecting what we most need, and other systems respond.

Maybe the business expert wasn’t correct. But their words stirred something in me that was ready to heal. My system knew what it needed, even before I did.

Yes, I fell into depression — and the need became obvious.
And the anger I finally noticed, once voiced, did its work: once it was no longer turned inward, the depression lifted.

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I don’t do “trauma responses” anymore.
Not the uncontrolled kind. Not the reflexive kind.
I’ve healed past that.

What I do now is make trauma-informed decisions.
Measured, judicious, respecting all my scars and wisdom.

I honor my scars, and treat them with whatever tenderness they need.

Please don’t reduce that to weakness.
My strength is hard-won.
This is my battle cry.

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✦

This spark lit an entire path: in the coming weeks, we’ll see the private sting in Fuse, the Lexicon of words that heal, and what anger itself has to teach us. Be sure to subscribe so they’ll all come right to your inbox.

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Battle Cry came so easily because my own capacity has grown — work I first experienced as a client and now share with others. In the past, it might have taken months, even years, to find words and move through this. Now capacity grows by itself, as my body is free to lead the way.

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That’s the heart of what I offer clients — their capacity expands, the body returns to what it was always meant to do, and the ease that follows is often surprising.

If you’d like to explore this work more deeply, you might also enjoy An Unconscious Language — a reflection on how the body speaks and can be “heard.”