Unraveling the Threads: Navigating Trauma’s Impact on the Nervous System

In a recent Instagram poll, your curiosity about trauma and my own journey with it grabbed my attention. This was not an easy post to write, talking about your own trauma is somewhat of a formidable task. The complexity lies not only in the fact that trauma significantly alters the nervous system but also in that I am three months post-partum.

Recovering from trauma is not a linear journey that concludes neatly; it's an ongoing process. As my insightful business coach, Meg Fitzgerald, aptly puts it, "teach from the scar, not the wound." This sentiment resonates deeply and this post is my beginning attempt to do just that.

My scars, both emotional and from the C-section, have reached a point of closure, no longer presenting as raw openings in my being. I am medically cleared and seemingly "healed" on the surface. But even in this new version of myself, my abdomen bears the lingering aftermath of the incision—a visible reminder of the once-exposed vulnerability. This holds true beyond the physical realm.

With time these marks will gradually fade. The awareness of the healed but still discernible scars will evolve into an integral part of me. Yet, at this moment, that transformative destination remains on the horizon. For now, here is my story, with nervous system awareness layered in. On this blog I usually remain more “science based” but this post is a deeply personal share.

On July 19th, my precious daughter, Amelia, entered the world through a scheduled cesarean section. The procedure seemed to go smoothly. However, a day after returning home I woke up in severe pain. What began as an attempt to dismiss the pain as GI-related soon escalated into a realization that something was gravely wrong. In the middle of the night, I found myself trembling in bed, tightly gripping my husband's hand as we urgently reached out to the midwife.

As the clock ticked, and the pain intensified to the point where sitting became unbearable, we made the decision to seek help. By 6 am, my father-in-law arrived to care for our other children, and my husband rushed me to the ER. I was wheeled in on a stretcher, as walking was no longer an option. Unaware that Amelia couldn't accompany us into the ER, my husband would later confide that, as they rolled me away, the fear of potentially becoming a single dad overwhelmed him.

The agony persisted as I underwent assessment. The diagnosis revealed a large abdominal hematoma, necessitating another surgery. In the midst of this chaos, my husband sought formula and bottles for our hungry newborn from the ER staff. Someone also assisted me in pumping during this blurry timeframe.

Post-surgery, I received the reassuring news that they had successfully addressed the issue. However, I lost a lot of blood in the surgery and this was a primary concern for my health and recovery. The knowledge that my level of blood loss could have been fatal is a huge piece of my personal trauma. With depleted energy levels and low hemoglobin, the hospital opted for IV iron to aid in my recovery.

I was discharged 2 days later and I embraced a sense of weakness mingled with gratitude as I went home. However, by the next afternoon, I had a fever. A return to the ER ensued, with the initial belief that it was merely my body grappling with the aftermath of profound trauma, resulting in a swift dismissal.

In a subsequent twist, the doctor opted for antibiotics, yet after 24 hours, the fever persisted. Despite managing my double C-section incision pain with high doses of Tylenol and Motrin, the fever persisted. The weekend unfolded with the addition of two more antibiotics, bringing the total to three by the time I revisited the doctor on Monday morning. Bloodwork was repeated, and the day became a wait-and-see ordeal.

This juncture marked a pivotal moment for my nervous system as I gradually descended into a state of shutdown. I withdrew from reaching out to others and confined myself to my room, solely attending to the needs of nursing the baby. Perhaps intuitively, I sensed a return to the hospital looming, as evidenced by the bag I packed that day. Monday night materialized into another ER visit, unveiling the presence of yet another infected hematoma, prompting admission.

In the grip of a complete nervous system shutdown, I declined the offers of friends and family to sit with me. My husband stayed as long as he could before he had to go home and take care of our 3 kids. In the quiet of the hospital bed, I craved the space to be alone and just cry. One of the more hurtful parts of this experience, is people misunderstanding that desire. This was a true nervous system response and the best I could do for myself here was honor my nervous system and myself.

The medical team grappled with determining the next course of action. The unsettling prospect of a third surgery came up and this triggered a profound emotional shutdown within me. I reached a point where I texted my husband, urging him to come to the hospital, as the weight of medical decisions had become too burdensome for me to bear. The tears had ceased, leaving me a shell of my former self. The subsequent five days unfolded within the hospital walls, marked by the insertion of a drain in my abdomen, a regimen of IV antibiotics, and a blood transfusion.

I remember standing by the hospital window, yearning for the outside world. FaceTime was a bittersweet lifeline, offering glimpses of my kids, including my newborn, through a screen. Grateful for the ability to pump, yet infuriated by the position I found myself in. Nightly visits from my husband became a sanctuary for my frazzled nervous system, yet his departure to be with our children stirred a tumult of emotions—appreciation for his presence with them, entwined with a deep sadness for my own physical absence.

I filled the hours with Netflix, sporadic conversations with friends, and the occasional visitor. More often than not, solitude was my refuge; engaging with others felt overwhelming. In the quiet spaces, my thoughts delved into the depths of self-reflection—pondering aspects of my identity, grappling with moments of regret, and evaluating the intricate tapestry of my relationships.

Gratitude welled up within me for those who showed up, recognizing that this wasn't their first time standing by my side. The experience, however, became a stark illumination of which relationships warranted my attention and energy. As the days passed, the ache for my kids and the comforting presence of my husband intensified. Throughout our history, he has stood as my unwavering anchor, especially in moments of vulnerability. Revisiting those days in my mind is hard. I'm convinced my nervous system remained in a prolonged state of shutdown during those 5 days, rendering connections and visits arduous as I struggled to engage in meaningful connection.

After 5 long days I got to go home. I was so happy to see my kids and simultaneously so worried for the impact this was going to have on them. Those initial weeks at home were shadowed by a pervasive fear. Every subtle sensation in my body triggered an unwarranted certainty that a return to the hospital loomed. Despite having navigated postpartum twice before, this experience defied all expectations.

I soon realized that the postpartum journey with my third baby demanded more than anticipated. Frustration became a constant companion as the desire for my "normal" postpartum routine clashed with the reality of my body's limitations. The yearning for leisurely walks, seamless navigation between house floors, and the independence to care for my children solo clashed with a starkly different plan—one that required a slower pace.

I grappled with the necessity of accepting more help for a more extended period. Each attempt to assert normalcy was met with my body's insistence to do less. Listening to my body became an essential practice, demanding a surrender of expectations and an embrace of the unique demands of my reality. I thought I knew surrender before, but this was next level surrender.

Through this period, my nervous system swung between states of shutdown and fight. As my physical healing progressed, the emergence of the fight state became more evident. The desire for solitude persisted, extending beyond my immediate family. However, the reality of needing assistance, particularly with my husband returning to work, curtailed this. I found myself increasingly attuned to the nuances of my own nervous system in the everyday moments, a subtle but significant indicator of the beginning of my healing.

By early September things started feeling more stable, although remnants of trauma symptoms lingered. The fear of a hospital return and, to be completely honest, the fear of dying, gradually receded. Through much of August, bedtime induced sheer panic, akin to what I can only imagine a panic attack feels like—a sensation that mercifully began to wane.

Gradually, my perspective shifted from feeling "robbed" of a typical postpartum experience to acknowledging it as different and unexpected. The most conspicuous change was the narrowing of my window of tolerance. My capacity for additional stimulation was just less, making it all too easy to teeter on the edge of desperation. Lingering symptoms of a nervous system in fight mode were a part of daily life — a perpetually clenched jaw, heightened sensitivity to clothing and temperature, occasional skin irritations, and a noticeable depletion of patience compared to my usual self.

It's challenging to pinpoint specific actions that propelled my recovery, and as I mentioned earlier, I don't consider the healing journey complete. Ultimately, it seems that my decades-long commitment to nervous system health became my autopilot. "Practice what I preach" became the mantra, prioritizing the deliberate effort to center healing. Balancing the demands of three young kids necessitated tough choices and intentional pauses. Somatic exercises, sessions with a spiritual counselor, and an unwavering commitment to nurturing my nervous system emerged as non-negotiable practices.

In the end, this experience isn't just a personal narrative. It's a revelation that promises to shape my role as a coach. Two decades of studying the nervous system, yet never feeling its nuances so sharply as in these past three months.

Writing this post has been a challenge. Reliving the trauma can trigger responses, but it's also a cathartic act of sharing and connecting. Trauma wears many faces, and this is my story—a story of gratitude amid hardship. Grateful for resilient children, an unwavering husband, and the support that flows from friends and family. Grateful for the depth of knowledge about the nervous system cultivated over two decades. Grateful for this community, a silent witness and a supportive audience.

In the end, this journey, as arduous as it has been, is transforming into the raw material for becoming a better coach and person. Thank you for being here, for witnessing this chapter of my story.