In my last post, I reflected on a moment before I had language for mental health — standing still on the Westwood pitches, looking up at a plane, feeling something inside me quietly give way.

Since then, I’ve been thinking about what happens once we do have the language.

We live in an age where trauma is better understood than ever before. That awareness has helped many people breathe again. For years, people suffered in silence without vocabulary or validation.
Now we recognise that repeated instability, fear, neglect, addiction, and pressure leave marks — not just on memory, but on the body and nervous system.

That understanding matters.

At the same time, I’ve noticed something in recovery and Christian spaces. Once we learn the language of trauma, there can be a subtle sense that we should go straight to the wound.

Name it.
Uncover it.
Explain it.
Process it publicly.

As though healing naturally begins with exposure.

Philip Yancey and Dr. Paul Brand once described pain as a gift — not because pain is pleasant, but because it signals that something needs care. You don’t heal a damaged nerve by repeatedly pressing on it to confirm it still hurts. Pain carries information. It invites attentiveness.

Trauma does something similar. It tells us something real has happened. It shows us where pressure has been applied. It reveals how the body has learned to protect itself.

What follows from that can take different forms.

For some, healing begins with careful conversation and structured support. For others, it begins with safety — with belonging, with stability, with a new way of living that slowly reshapes what the body has learned.

When I entered recovery, no one began by excavating every formative wound. I was invited into a community shaped by the love of God, rhythms of prayer and discipline, and a different vision of who I could become.

The invitation was simple: learn to walk in the light.

That didn’t deny the past. It placed it within a larger story.

Over time, some things surfaced naturally. Some required honest conversation. Some healed quietly through changed habits, strengthened character, and trustworthy relationships.

And I’ve seen something similar in others.

When people feel safe, they open up in their own time.
When they feel steady, they speak honestly.
When they feel respected, they take responsibility.

Jesus never appears hurried in the presence of wounded people. He asks questions. He notices posture. He responds to what is offered. He does not crush a bruised reed (Isaiah 42:3). Truth unfolds within safety.

In mental health conversations, naming is often an important step. It can lift shame. It can clarify patterns. It can help someone realise they are not alone.

And yet naming is not the whole journey.

If identity settles entirely around the wound, the wound can quietly become the organising centre of a life.

“I am traumatised.”
“I am in recovery.”
“I am what happened to me.”

Those statements may describe part of a story. They do not contain all of it.

Human beings are more than their injuries.
More than their coping strategies.
More than their diagnoses.

Hope, purpose, and responsibility remain deeply human capacities. They are not threats to healing. They are often part of it.

Not every wound needs prodding.

Some need protecting.
Some need nourishing.
Some need time.
Some need new experiences strong enough to teach the body that the world can be different.

If you’re carrying something heavy, this isn’t a dismissal of therapy or honesty. It is simply an acknowledgement that healing is rarely linear, and rarely uniform.

There is wisdom in speaking.
There is wisdom in building strength.
There is wisdom in allowing life, faith, and community to widen the horizon gradually.

Sometimes courage looks like telling the story.

Sometimes it looks like quietly building a different future.

Both belong within the work of healing.

A quiet note

Reaching out isn’t a failure — sometimes it’s simply the next small step toward staying present and safe.

If reading this has stirred something difficult, and you feel you need to speak to someone sooner rather than later, you don’t have to carry that alone. In the UK, Samaritans are available 24 hours a day on 116 123, or at www.samaritans.org. They offer a listening ear without pressure or judgement.

If this resonates…you may want to read:

• Standing Still, Looking Up
• Airplane Gaze
• Other reflections under Window Seat (Life Story)

All available on the blog.