The Sacred Work of Healing: Why Your Story Still Matters
- The Broken & Beautiful
- Sep 9
- 7 min read
Updated: Oct 15
Patria Rector, NFTC Certified Story Coach, Certified Enneagram Coach, The Broken and Beautiful Collective
The Shattering
She was seven the first time she learned to hold her breath. Not underwater, but in the middle of the living room, in the space between her mom's enraged silence and the sharp edge of her fear. A vase had shattered when she was playing. In her enjoyment, she'd flung her arms wide and spun around and around until she was dizzy and in a moment of sheer joy, she accidentally knocked the vase off the table.
When it hit the ground, something inside her froze. Eyes wide, breath shallow, skin hot, she willed herself to look up into her mom's face. And her brain, small and still forming, drew a deeply felt conclusion, implicitly understood. I'm going to get it.
But, she didn't get it. Or did she? She's never known how to understand what happened next.
When she willed herself to look up at her mom's face, she saw something. She couldn't say what it was, but she could feel it deep in her belly. And then, without a word, her mom turned around and walked away, a slight shake of her head the only response to a chasm of terror in the little girl.
Only moments earlier, baby girl was flying high in the sky with her imagination and joy overflowing and now all she could feel was a tummy ache and the impossible chasm separating her from her mom as she watched her walk away.
She didn't know then that the vase was the least of the shattering that day. Her heart, once full of little girl wonder and fantasy and play, lost its ability to access that freedom, the wonder that comes when we are held and loved and known - even when we make mistakes, even when we break mom's favorite vase.
The little girl automatically, unconsciously started teaching herself how to never again make a mistake that would make her mom's face look that way or give her own belly that ache of terror.
The Adaptation
That seven-year-old grew up with that unresolved terror in her belly.
To compensate for the ever present contraction of waiting for her mom to come back, to tell her it was okay, that she was okay, that they were okay, she became the fixer, the overachiever or maybe the peacekeeper, really, she became whatever she needed to be to avoid that feeling! She learned to navigate the world by preempting disaster in every way she possibly could.
She became so good at managing other people's faces that she forgot she had a face of her own. In high school, she got praise for her maturity. In college, she was known as the one who always had it together.
At work, she was the one who picked up the pieces and never said no to extra shifts. She didn't breathe too deeply. That took too much time. She didn't take up too much space. That was uncomfortable and knocked her back into smallness, which there also wasn't time for.
The Longing
But sometimes late at night, she'd feel it. The breath she never took, the part of her still waiting for her mom to come toward her in the room, sit beside her and the broken vase and say, my goodness, I'm so sorry that happened. This is a mess, but we can clean it up together. First though, are you okay? Did you get hurt or are you scared?
She needed someone to notice her crestfallen face and contain her terror filled belly and be in the mess with her; to tell her that this was just an accident and accidents are okay.
The Healing Encounter
Years later in a quiet room with soft lighting and the scent of peppermint tea, someone finally did. A friend or a therapist or a pastor. Someone who knew how to listen, really listen. Someone who didn't flinch when she sobbed out the terror that had been so long held in her good belly. Someone who understood that the way she adapted was brilliant and necessary and told her just that.
Something in the now grown up little girl. Some armor she hadn't known was there cracked open, not loudly, but quietly, a soft shift. She took a breath, her story beginning to reorganize and a part of herself re-emerging out of the desert of her fear.
The Universal Story
We all have a story like that, a moment when we learned who we needed to be to survive; a shift that exiled the most tender, vulnerable and human parts of us. Maybe words weren't said to teach us that lesson. Maybe it was "just" a look or a the chaos of watching someone leave when you most needed them to stay.
Sometimes the adaptation of survival takes us so far into our personality that we just overdo what we're good at in order to get something of what we need. We forget how much of a learning curve being human truly is and that underneath all of our survival strategies, there's still just a child looking for someone looking for them.
Dr. Dan Siegel, a renowned educator and neuropsychiatrist, talks about healing as a framework that contains at least these three things: attunement, containment and the repair of rupture.
Attunement isn't a big word for something complicated. It's just someone's empathetic presence saying something like this: you matter enough for me to see you, to wait for you, and to weep with you. It's someone looking into our eyes and saying, I am here and you are good.
The Invitation
When kindness meets our grief, our anger, our tenderness, we learn to breathe again, literally breathe. Take a moment right now and notice if you're holding your breath. Many of us walk through life acting out a role for which we never auditioned for and we really need to pause, reflect and have lavish room to try a new way of being. There's nothing wrong with you for adapting.
And when the right kind of presence meets you, you can begin to return. Return to your body, return to your story, return to the parts of you that never stopped hoping to be met. This is the sacred work of healing.
Now pause with. me, will you? Take a breath... in and out.
Place one hand gently on your heart, the other on your belly.
Just keep breathing and feel your breath rise and fall.
When you're ready, notice if there are any moments recent or long ago that bubble up in this quiet place that's supported with a hand on your heart and on your belly and your quiet, normal breathing. It might be a familiar memory that loops or stings a lot, or it might be one you haven't thought about in a long time.
You might not feel anything at all, but see an image in your mind's eye of a time that you'd forgotten about. Try not to overanalyze it, just feel it. Notice if it's stored in a particular place in your body. Sometimes our shoulders, hands or neck can contract. Sometimes our legs feel tingly like they need to run. What emotion is that? Sad, mad, happy, glad, afraid, ashamed.
What do you usually tell yourself about it?
Now imagine someone with you, someone safe.
Whoever that might be for you, they're not fixing anything about this experience because you're just noticing it. They're not rushing, but instead witnessing, holding the space with you.
Your story is worthy of good, skilled care. You are worth investing in.
See if those words can really land in this place where this memory resides. If not, if they're sarcasm or cynicism or skepticism, that's okay. Right-brained work is very different than what we're accustomed to. However, see if you notice any part of you that changes or softens or even wants to.
Now breathe again because you are safe in this moment.
The body is the place where the story lives. Let's linger here just a little bit longer. If you're able to physically stay where you are, close your eyes if you can without becoming disoriented. And if it is too disorienting to close your eyes, that's okay, just keep them open.
See if you can just let your body gently sway a little bit side to side or front to back. Pretend you're holding a newborn infant who's needing to go to sleep. Press her little ear against your chest and notice your own heartbeat.
Feel the support of that rhythm of life in your good body. And see if you can whisper these words to yourself. This story matters. I can let it be here. I can even let it settle.
Let those words become breath. Let them become rhythm in a sync with your heartbeat.
You might place your hands on your heart again. Feel the pulse of life, the steadiness beneath the swirl.
The Next Chapter
You truly are not the chaos you've had to carry. You are worthy of the kind of care that holds your story just like a little precious baby, understanding that the need here is normal.
You have done something sacred today. You've met your story with presence and presence changes things. You are not the roles you had to play. You are not the silence you were met with. You are not the story you were handed, but you are the one writing the next chapter. When you feel yourself slipping back into old narratives, try to pause and breathe and remember healing isn't perfection, it's presence. It's the permission to hold your story more honestly. If this episode has touched something in you, would you share it with someone who you feel might benefit from it?
I invite you to reach out to any of our coaches for next steps.
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