The wisdom of Trauma…
Dr. Gabor Maté says trauma isn’t what happened to you—it’s what happened inside you because of what happened to you. And he calls it The Wisdom of Trauma.
I love that. I love it because it doesn’t pretend the mess disappears. It names the mess. It hands you a flashlight and says, “Go on, look in there.” And if you’re anything like me, looking in there means discovering a collection of dusty emotional furniture you’ve been dragging from house to house, plus a few broken chairs you should have left at the curb in 1997.
The thing about The Wisdom of Trauma is that it’s not the pretty, linen-robed, Instagram-filter kind of wisdom sold on retreat flyers. It’s the bruised-knuckle kind. The laugh-so-deep-people-wonder-if-you-have-a-dark-backstory kind. The “I survived this, and I can still put on lipstick in a moving car” kind.
When I walked across the country, trauma didn’t stay home—it packed a bag and came along. Sometimes it marched right up front, pointing out every old landmark I’d rather forget. Other days it sulked in the back, quiet but heavy. And every now and then, it would slip into the driver’s seat, just to remind me it still knew the way to all my old dead ends.
In Arizona, on those blistered blacktop days where the heat turned the road into a mirage, I thought about how some chapters in life look beautiful from far away but burn like hell when you’re in them.
In Texas, on endless straightaways where the horizon never seemed to move, I learned healing can feel exactly like that—like walking forever and thinking you’re stuck, until one day you realize the air smells different and you’ve already crossed into someplace new.
And in Mississippi, swaying in my hammock with the mosquitoes holding a family reunion around my head, I understood that not everything and everyone gets carried forward—and that’s not cruelty, it’s survival.
Healing culture likes to package trauma like it’s a DIY project: face it, feel it, fix it, done. Sprinkle in some sage smudging, a few affirmations, maybe a crystal that matches your aura, and voilà—you’re healed. Except, no. Healing is not a mood board. It’s a feral animal. It wanders in and out on its own schedule, sometimes bringing gifts, sometimes dead things, and you have to learn when to feed it and when to keep your distance.
By the time menopause kicks in, the estrogen’s gone, the filter’s gone, and so is the need to make your story easier for people to hear. You stop polishing the sharp edges. You stop cushioning the truth with disclaimers like, “But it wasn’t all bad…” You say what happened. You let it hang in the air. And if someone squirms, well—maybe they should.
The Wisdom of Trauma isn’t just knowing what happened—it’s seeing what it taught you without pretending it was worth the price. It’s noticing the weeds it grew alongside the wildflowers, and understanding both came from the same compost pile. It’s realizing you can laugh at things that once broke you, not because they’re funny, but because the alternative is letting them take up the rest of your life.
By the time I reached the Atlantic, I knew trauma was never going to be gone. But it wasn’t bossing me around anymore. It was in the backseat. Seatbelt on. Knows better than to touch the radio. And I was still driving.
That’s The Wisdom of Trauma.