What Has Truly Helped Me Heal from Trauma? The Unexpected Power of a Slower Life

Healing isn't a destination, and I'm certainly not claiming to have it all figured out. But when I look back at the past six years, I can see just how much has changed…

What has made the biggest difference to my healing journey? What has helped me feel more regulated, more present in my body and better able to understand what I need?

Trauma is a complex subject, and our experiences of it can be vastly different. So are the ways we respond to it and the paths we take towards healing.

Over the years, I've become increasingly interested in the deeper aspects of human nature, consciousness and spirituality. I've often wondered whether some of our most difficult experiences can eventually lead us towards a deeper understanding of ourselves and of life itself.

That's a perspective I've developed through my own journey, and perhaps a topic for another day.

Today, though, I want to share something much more practical.

Something that, over the past six years, has helped me recognise that I might finally be emerging from some of the patterns that shaped my earlier life.

I'm not saying that my healing is complete. I don't believe healing necessarily works like that. But most days, I feel well regulated, present and connected to my body. I'm better able to recognise what I'm feeling and what I need.

I no longer find myself ruminating about the past to the same extent I once did. And time and time again, I notice changes in how I relate to other people. I'm less likely to respond from old wounds or fall into familiar patterns that no longer serve me.

When I really stop and think about it, some of these changes still feel almost foreign to me.

And yet, they also feel easier. More peaceful. More aligned with who I am.

I feel less defined by my past and more able to live from a place of choice rather than old conditioning.

And I'm genuinely glad this transformation didn't happen overnight.

Because the contrast between who I was and who I am today is almost unrecognisable.

Someone I went to high school with got in touch recently and told me, "You haven't changed at all. You're still the same person!"

I had to laugh to myself. You couldn't be further from the truth!

It made me think about how we often hold on to familiar versions of people, perhaps because familiarity gives us a sense of safety. We assume that because someone looks the same, sounds the same or remembers the same stories, they must still be the same person.

But we have no idea what another person has experienced internally, how much they've questioned themselves, what they've worked through or how profoundly their relationship with themselves might have changed.

Sometimes, the biggest transformations are the ones nobody else can see.

Looking back, I can recognise how much different therapies and approaches helped me understand my experiences intellectually. They gave me language, perspective and ways to make sense of things.

But at some point, I felt stuck in my own head. I kept analysing, revisiting the same questions and trying to understand everything, as though finding the right explanation would somehow make everything fall into place.

I explored all sorts of alternative approaches to healing, too. Some of those experiences were pretty extraordinary — including vomiting my guts out in the Peruvian jungle and tripping at high altitude in the Andes! ;)

And yes, I've explored a number of different psychedelics. Some of those experiences brought profound insights and shifts in perspective.

I'm not dismissing any of these experiences. They've all contributed something to my journey, in their own way.

But over time, I began to realise something I hadn't fully appreciated before.

Perhaps one of the most significant things that helped me heal wasn't another therapy, another technique or another profound experience. Perhaps it was learning to slow down.

And that brings me back to 2020.

Six years ago, when the pandemic brought much of the world to a standstill, I suddenly had to stop working.

Back then, I was living in Edinburgh and working as a massage therapist, yoga teacher and neurofeedback practitioner. When my usual work stopped, so did much of the structure that had kept my days full.

And something unexpected happened.

I started spending more and more time outdoors (although this wasn’t allowed! Crazy time!) Walking for hours through forests, across mountains and alongside rivers.

We had the most beautiful spring that year. The world seemed quieter, there was less traffic and, for a while, there was much less noise around me.

I started slowing down. Properly slowing down.

And I began to realise just how much my previous way of living had been affecting me.

I had always been busy. Productive. Doing things. Working towards something. Finding the next project, the next opportunity, the next thing to improve or achieve. Proud of being busy..

From the outside, I probably looked like someone who had her life together.

But internally, I was often anything but settled.

Looking back, I can see how being constantly busy sometimes gave me a way to avoid sitting with myself. There was always something else to do, something to focus on, something to keep my mind occupied.

I hadn't fully recognised how easily productivity could become another form of escape.

And I began to understand that being able to keep going isn't necessarily the same as being well.

Sometimes, what looks like strength from the outside can coexist with a great deal of inner unrest.

Slowing down gave me space to notice things I had previously moved too quickly to recognise. To become more aware of my body, my needs and my internal state. To spend time without having to turn every moment into something productive.

And gradually, I began to discover that I didn't always need to be doing something to feel that my life had value.

I could simply be.

Six years later, so much has changed.

I'm no longer doing hands-on therapies, and I haven't been seeing clients in person for quite some time. I'm no longer living in my beloved Edinburgh, either.

My life has become simpler, quieter and, in many ways, more authentic.

I'm less interested in chasing busyness for the sake of it. I no longer feel the same need to fill every gap in my day or distract myself from uncomfortable feelings by constantly doing more.

And this is where so much of the magic has happened for me.

I've become more attuned to the seasons and to the changing needs of my body. This year, I've soaked up more sunshine than in all my years living in Edinburgh combined!

And now, as autumn settles in, I find myself looking forward to a different rhythm. More time indoors, more reflection, more nourishing routines and more space to restore my energy through the colder months.

I'm learning to appreciate that different seasons of life call for different things.

Sometimes we need expansion, exploration and movement. Sometimes we need quiet, retreat and restoration.

And perhaps we don't need to resist those changes quite so much.

One of the most valuable things I've learnt is that I don't have to earn my rest. I don't need to justify taking a break or wait until I'm completely exhausted before I give myself permission to slow down.

I can prioritise peace simply because it matters to me.

I can spend time in silence, walk without listening to a podcast, leave my phone behind for a while or allow myself a day without a plan.

These things might sound insignificant, but for me, they've become an important part of learning to live differently.

Of course, a slower life isn't a magic cure for trauma, and I wouldn't suggest that it replaces therapy or other forms of support when they're needed. Healing is individual, and what helps one person may not be what another person needs.

But I do believe there's something worth reflecting on here.

What if some of the things we consider normal in modern life — the constant rushing, the endless stimulation, the pressure to be productive, busy mind, the feeling that we should always be doing something — are making it harder for us to hear ourselves?

What if, sometimes, the next step isn't to add another practice to our already crowded schedules, but to create a little more space?

Space to feel.

Space to notice.

Space to rest.

Space to recognise what is genuinely nourishing us and what might be keeping us disconnected from ourselves.

For me, healing has involved learning to listen more closely to those quieter inner signals — the things that can easily get drowned out by expectations, distractions and the noise of everyday life.

And perhaps that's where I'd like to leave you today.

Not with another technique to master or another thing to add to your to-do list.

But with an invitation to pause and ask yourself:

What in my life genuinely supports my wellbeing, and what am I continuing to do simply because I've become accustomed to living that way?

Where might you benefit from slowing down a little?

And what might you discover if you gave yourself permission to stop striving for a moment and simply be where you are?

I'm still learning. Still changing. Still healing.

But I'm beginning to understand that sometimes, moving forward doesn't mean doing more.

Sometimes, it means creating enough space to finally hear yourself.

And that, for me, has been one of the most unexpected and beautiful parts of this journey.