A Short Story

The other night, during the middle of spring break, in what I thought portrayed a wonderful pause from school and other obligations, I found my daughter tearful. Central Oregon was our backdrop, a beautiful rented home, and lots to do. But sadness engulfed her. I placed a hand on her shoulder and sat closely as she tearfully said, “I miss my friends.” Then she felt bad and tried to reassure me saying, “I love our trip and visiting schools, I just miss my friends too.” As we spoke, what unfolded was an admission of secondary stress due to COVID and distance learning over the past two years. With the ups and downs of school closures, response to new strains of the virus, and mask mandates, weariness felt tangible and potential loss felt heavy. She had only begun to enjoy seeing friends regularly again, going to games and immersing herself in the buzz of high school. Being without her friends felt full of angst and sadness. I could have minimized her feelings by saying, “you’ll see them again next week,” but I understood that we’ve made lots of promises over the past two and half years without a lot of reliability. So, instead, I said, “I understand. I have no idea what high school must feel like with big chunks of time without social connection that feels meaningful.” And I really did understand – we have all experienced a loss of connection.

Part of trauma-informed work means sitting with stories. Listening with the intent of caring and holding space versus fixing or solving. Creating safe environments for people to feel they can share worry, abuse, or concern without becoming further traumatized. Then, restoring a felt sense of safety and building resilience with them. Through choice, through empowerment, and through a strength-based lens, these stressors can be alleviated. Whether we’re talking about one person’s acute stress or another’s historical trauma, listening to stories changes everything. Once someone feels less alone, the process of validation opens up a different kind of dialogue.

Last fall, at my provider retreat, we did just that. We sat with each other’s stories and created a holding space to process trauma that all providers have experienced. The only way to create space for others is to do so for ourselves. The looks of compassion, shared experience, validation, and outpouring of love were palpable. I truly believe it was the first time in months that these providers felt cared for by someone else.

I hope you join us this spring. We’ll share 3 days of trauma-informed work, building resilience and having time to restore ourselves.

In the meantime, here’s your homework. Over the next week, when you listen to someone’s story, lean in, and listen solely for the purpose of caring and providing a holding space. Set aside problem-solving and solutions. Maybe even say, “tell me more” or “what else?” and see what happens. I’d love to hear how it goes.

And then, give yourself some love and join me in wine country for 3 days that will transform your practice.

With compassion,

Dr. Amy