Charissa Brim

Do you know how much core strength it takes to stabilize your body when you’re upside-down, balancing on just a few points of contact?⁠

It’s easy to think that being sexually assaulted makes us messy, or less than. That we’re at a disadvantage because we have to deal with our trauma in order to get back to “normal.”⁠

Yes. We have work to do. But once we do that work?⁠

We become Power 👏 Houses 👏

Stabilization Savants.

If you kept any sort of balance while your world was turned on its head, imagine what you can do when you get your footing right-side up. ⁠

You are strong to your core. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise (including yourself).

Life doesn't press pause just because you experience something traumatic.⁠

You had to show up to work, school, social events, church, family dinner etc. and keep it together.⁠

You figured out how to manage a life while your psyche was rocked to its core.⁠ You are a badass.⁠

But if you’re like me, once things calmed down, you might have noticed yourself feeling a bit uncomfortable or restless. ⁠

In chaos our bodies cope by telling us traumatic disruption is not a big deal, normal, home base. ⁠

But in doing so, it also communicates there is something unnerving about peace and stability.⁠

When we find ourselves tempted to shake sh*t up, to self-destruct or lean into habits we know don't serve us well, let’s take a deep breath. ⁠

If that's you today, go easy on yourself. Your response makes sense. You're finally in a place where your feelings are free to surface. And you have a lot of feelings.⁠

Sit in this moment. It will pass. And you will be okay. Because you, my friend, are a badass.

Do you feel pressure to tidy up your feelings when you’re around friends and family?

Me too. Pain is an awkward plus one.

Today might not be the day to show up to the table, acknowledging the fullness of whatever you’re carrying.

But that doesn’t mean you should always keep it small and constrained.

Why does it matter that we acknowledge the extent of our pain? Pain is no fun, so shouldn’t we strive to minimize it? To underplay it? If we keep it small, we’ll feel less of its impact, surely.

Surely, but shortly, this is true.

Minimizing our pain for ourselves and others has a two-fold result:

1 – By avoiding the fullness of our pain, the untouched residue at the bottom of our Bowl of Hurt gets caked on, flaking off into everything that comes into contact with it. All of a sudden we don’t know why we’re blind with rage over cabinet doors left open, and people driving slowly in the left lane. Every personal update is accompanied with tears and we’re stuck in relationships and circumstances that keep us small.

2 - By minimizing our pain to the people closest to us, we cut ourselves off from the benefits of community. We leave coffee dates feeling unseen, misunderstood and alone. Isolation is the breeding ground for shame, distorted beliefs and bitterness.

Compartmentalize when it’s helpful and let others in when it feels safe. Adjust as needed and trust yourself to know the difference.

I paddleboard on a bayou just a few blocks from my home. If you close one eye and squint the other, it can masquerade as a fresh, clean body of water instead of a muddy swamp where I’ve personally seen at least two alligators giving me the side eye.

On a recent paddle, I felt something bumping up against the back of my board. Immediately distressed, I scanned the water.

It was eerily calm. Like, too still. (what does this mean, I don’t know, but I didn’t like it.)

Just slightly to my left I saw a *very* strange rippling, almost as if something was thrashing about just under the surface. I glanced to my right, where I saw the same thing.

Oh. My. Gosh. Oh. My. Gosh.

It was obvious I was under attack. Without any hesitation, I frantically threw my paddle into the water. Right, Right, Left, Left.

I became acutely aware no one else was on the water. WHAT DOES EVERYONE KNOW THAT I DON’T?!

When I was certain I was out of danger, I plopped down onto my knees to catch my breath. I noticed more strange ripples. Sitting there, I knew I couldn’t rush away like before, so I froze. And I was forced to observe. The ripple was from fish eating bugs on the surface of the water. When I stood up, I noticed my board was just slightly less inflated than normal. Standing in the middle caused it to barely bow. The back hovered just slightly above the water, and the small waves from my paddling bumped up against the bottom of my board.

Maybe I hadn’t been under attack.

Hypervigilance is real. How often do we perceive a threat and immediately jump to drastic conclusions? When we can manage to slow down, to observe what’s happening internally, to be curious about what’s happening externally, we might be able to tell ourselves a better story.

When you feel the alarm bells ringing and you’re not sure why, let curiosity be your guide. Your nervous system will thank you.

Therapy and the healing journey equip us with resources to manage our pain.

And sometimes, these resources can sneakily inform a subconscious belief that being more resourced means we’ll be more protected from pain.

These resources don’t eliminate pain, they help us know how to respond so that we can minimize the ripple effect of it instead.

We’ll still get hurt, things will rattle us, stun us and gut-punch us. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

as you prioritize healing, you might see adversity for its gravity more quickly, and it might feel like it hits harder than before.

That’s because you’ve learned to hold it in its fullness instead of playing hot potato and chucking it aside.

You’ve also learned that staring your pain in the eye won’t end you.

Naming the pain, sitting in the feelings of devastation, allowing yourself to be distraught is actually a sign of strength and progress, not unending weakness.

If fresh pain surprises you and tempts you to believe all this healing has been for nothing, consider how your current response feels different than before. There’s proof of healing there.

When I was in elementary school learning about ‘genres’ my teacher asked us to respond to the prompt, “Which genre is your favorite?”

Any guesses what mine was?

Sad.

I wrote on real paper with a real pencil that my favorite genre was “Sad.” And I presented it with a smile on my face.

Okay, this is endlessly hilarious and disturbing to me (along with the fact that my favorite decade was “The Great Depression”...).

When presented with unspeakable loss, we’re forced to examine the personal in the context of the universal.

Each of these “sad” stories tore at my heart. Not only because they zoomed in on the gaping hole of loss, but because in doing so they carved out space for something unexpected to fill it.

If I’m honest, it’s this “filling” that invites more tears than the initial “losing.”

Every sad story (that we read or carry) is simultaneously an invitation to reckon with loss while remaining open to what stands to be gained.

Toxic positivity blots out the pain in favor of the gain. Resilience strives to make room for both.

I’ve lived out plenty of my own sad stories and a handful of personal great depressions. The coexistence of the emptying and the filling might not be a revolutionary idea, but it is formative, foundational and oftentimes forgotten.

It’s an elementary lesson, but then again, aren’t all the important ones?

Resilience is not proof of minimal impact.

Some of the most hilarious, confident, joyous people I know hold some of the most tragic, devastating stories.

This duality brings such profundity to the human experience, but if we’re not careful, we can flatten it with comfortable tropes.

When we allow our own resilience to convince us that we’re immune to pain, or that we’re completely over the hurdles of the past, we smother our own strength.

Healing is never linear, and pain always finds a way to bump into us in unique ways.

Just because you’ve overcome challenges in the past, doesn’t mean it’s a sign of defeat to acknowledge the hurt that still lingers.

Residual pain does not diminish your resilience. It confirms it.

Instructions: Heal.⁠
Cool, cool, cool. But like how tho, because I don't think it's working?⁠

I've been through so many iterations of therapy & guess what? I'm still in that seat.⁠

I journal just about every day and guess what? My mind is still cluttered.⁠

I try to move my body every day and guess what? My anxiety still shoots through the roof.⁠

There are prescriptions for healing. But it's also an art. Healing is not a one size fits all process. It is not a task to be completed.⁠

This doesn't make sense to me, and I don't particularly like it. It feels very inefficient, and I'm trying to get over this thing, if you wouldn't mind.⁠

Sometimes healing looks like therapy and hard work and digging in deep.⁠

Other times healing looks like trading that book for fail videos and enjoying the hell out of the stupid things.⁠

As someone who wants to "be productive" and "maximize" and "be responsible" with my life and time, I often need this reminder:⁠

Powering through and pressing into the bruises 24/7 is not always what we need. There's no way to speed up this healing thing, because it is a mindset, not an accomplishment.⁠

So here's to all us artists as we channel our healing mindsets.

Let's go enjoy something dumb.

When I feel powerless, it’s important that I re-engage the ways strength and power have manifested in my life.
⁠
Let’s take a minute today to do this together.

Deep breath. Hand to heart.

Bring to mind the storms you’ve already braved, the shipwrecks you’ve navigated, dare I say survived. No matter what mental or emotional state you’re in, you’re here. And that's somethin'.⁠

By rightfully honoring the battles we’ve fought, we rightfully embody the resilience we possess. ⁠

So as you feel tempted to spiral in feelings of powerlessness, as is natural to do, imagine yourself in your victories. They’re there, waiting to enliven and embolden you too.

I have to admit something to you.

I’ve been on a nervous system yo-yo TM. And I’ve been on it for longer than I realized (omg how did I not see it?!).

*A quick nod to how shameful it feels to lean into healing HARD, and yet still miss things. Woof.*

I’ve willed my body into all-nighters, half-marathons with pneumonia, performances while injured and customer service smiles pre panic attacks.

I will myself into extremes and then get frustrated when I flatline. I ramp and ramp and ramp and then crash in a way that has me questioning my whole life.

The lows are low, so I chase high highs. A self-perpetuating nightmare.

Just because I have more to give, doesn’t mean I should.

Mental depletion isn’t a cue to drink more coffee and try harder… I have learned.

So how do we get out of this mess? Here are three new things I’m trying, that are helping a ton:

Instead of ramping, try napping - When I feel the mental and physical crash coming on, I set a 15 min timer and lay down to reset and connect.

Instead of filling, try feeling - I’m trying my best to stop making so many plans, and instead I’m filling the space with sensory experiences that put me in my body in the present.

Instead of depleting, try meeting - My current focus is on meeting my physical needs by walking, sleeping and eating nutrient rich foods – more emphasis on my input than my output.

Is there something new you’re trying?

Practices we’re told will help our mental health:

- Gratitude
- Smiling More
- A Positive Mindset

Yes- these are helpful tricks to beat your average blues. BUT these practices don’t resolve trauma (womp, womp).

It’s like painting a rotting board bright yellow and expecting it not to crumble under pressure.

If you find your normal practices aren’t resolving your anxiety, emotional outbursts, or existential crises, it may be time to dig deeper.

It’s so… umcomfy… to admit that there may be trauma lurking beneath the surface. Exposing it can feel so threatening.

If that’s you, I want to remind you: you’ve already survived it.

Digging into it is so, so hard. I won’t underplay that.

But you can do it.

As someone who went years feeling like I was perpetually and permanently on the verge of crumbling, it doesn’t have to feel that way forever.

Address the rotting board, build yourself up around it, and feel what it’s like to be better equipped as you hold the weight of this life.

When the worst has unexpectedly happened, it’s hard not to assume it will happen again.

But this is our trauma talking. The other shoe doesn’t always have to drop. A good thing isn’t always a bad thing in disguise.

Take a deep breath.
In this moment you are safe.

Go ahead and enjoy that, even if it’s for just a second.

Trauma pushes us out of our body.
This is a gracious and protective coping skill.

But if we are to heal, we must learn to find our way back into our body.

Somatic (embodied) dance has helped me strengthen my relationship with my body.

I set a safe and calming scene.
And then I listen.

I move however my body wants to move.

I’m not here to impress, I’m not here to achieve.

I’m here to listen, I’m here to release.

I reserve judgment.
I extend trust.

In this conversation with my body, I feel it flip and flail with intention, intuitively pushing energy and emotion from my burdened shoulders out through my fingertips, out of my cemented hips and into the atmosphere.

It’s through this movement and accumulating catharsis that I learn to trust the wisdom of my body.

And slowly accept the invitation home.

Sometimes what I need to hear is that I’m not the only one. I need to know that what I’m experiencing is normal. That trauma makes an impact and it’s okay if I feel it.

But when I look around and see so many others thriving, the knowledge that many of us have experienced trauma makes me feel alone again.

If we’re all feeling this way,
what’s my excuse?

I better suck it up and figure it out
just like everybody else.

We all ebb and flow between thriving and barely surviving. If we’re going to revel in our resilience in moments of thriving, then we should allow ourselves to soften in our weariness
in moments of surviving.

We can’t always be rockstars, and we won’t always be messes.

We string these extremes together
with narratives about ourselves.

Our default narratives might
shame, blame and exclude.

We can choose narratives that hold,
soothe and connect instead.

With practice, it’s possible for
self-compassion to outbid shame.

And in those moments, we’ll see. We are healing.

Your body knows.

It knows what you’ve seen.

It knows what you need.

It knows what you feel.

It knows what you hold.

It knows what you want.

It knows how to process.

It knows how to dispose.

It knows how to empower.

It knows how to impose.

It knows how to protect.

It knows how to be careful.

It knows how to be brave.

Your body knows.

It’s okay to trust its knowing.

When talking with other survivors, I see so many similarities in how we respond to traumatic events.

It seems like many of us tend towards one of two reactions:

Some of us go on a streak of
self-destruction, taking a mud bath
in the chaos of pain.

Some of us double down on control and restraint – achieving, performing, resisting.

Some of us see-saw exhaustedly between the two.

Aaaaand this is why I often find myself distrusting and avoiding both indulgence *and* discipline. (What an easy breezy way to move through the world………..)

Both feel like familiar coping skills that kept me rattling around in my pain. So I’m scared of them. Indulgence feels like a slippery slope to self-destruction. Discipline feels like a too-tight blazer i’ll
eventually bust out of.

For others making sense of
the impact of previous coping strategies gone wrong, I’ll share with you the same reminder I’m speaking over myself these days:

You are not the same person who previously responded poorly.

Even though circumstances, responses and coping strategies may feel eerie and familiar, you are different.

You’ve learned lessons. You’ve cultivated awareness. You’ve acquired skills.

It’s okay to trust yourself to take care of you.

Even if you don’t respond to
fresh pain perfectly, it will be better than last time. And sometimes that’s enough for now.

Baby steps, baby gurl.

“I feel untethered.” I recently told my therapist.

I try to balance the challenges of life with
other things that feel stable, secure.

I cushion work stress with strong relationships.
I hold my spiritual questions steady with vocational purpose.
I manage strained relationships with healthy routines.
I engage my Trauma in the context of financial stability.

But at the moment most, if not all, of the legs on
this table called life feel wobbly.

And that feels triggering.

Trauma rattles our anchors.

It may take some time for us to realize it, but trauma impacts the way we interact with life. The way our mind & body function is…. different.

We’re left feeling wobbly, desperate for stabilization. Disoriented by this new body and its foreign reactions.

My current unsteadiness feels disproportionately threatening because it feels like trauma. And that makes me feel powerless.

Have you had this feeling too?

When too many things feel up in the air, when uncertainty is triggering, it’s helpful to come back
down to the ground.

Engage with the foundations of your physical
existence. Be reminded of the tiny bursts of agency
you still have access to.

Stabilize yourself with 8 cups of water a day, a good meal, as much sleep as you can muster.

Choose to believe what feels desperately untrue.

Choose to believe the small things will *actually* help you respond to the big things.

Even if the process feels pointless, pithy and passive.

Anchors rely on ropes made up of thousands of tiny fibers. Insignificant and incapable of much on their own, their compiled coalition has the power to steady great ships against the tides of life.

So too do the seemingly insignificant fibers of attending to our physical bodies keep us from drifting far from shore.

The small things steady the big things.

Of that, I'm sure.

I was on a hike the other day on a very muddy trail. On the very last leg of the trail, I hit a slippery patch and immediately launched into the world’s slowest fall. I grapevined my feet, trying to reclaim my footing, all the while just building more and more momentum that finally propelled me harshly and hilariously to the ground. Splat!

How often in life do we find ourselves elaborately trying to push away the inevitable? We invoke the fanciest of footwork to keep us from the impending crash.

I’ve spent the better half of my life reframing the hard, keeping my gaze on the horizon, carrying on with gusto and resolve. The first time my reframe tactic didn’t work, every hard thing I had been sidestepping came crashing into my life. And I fell. Hard, but not hilariously.
I let the muck suck, I tried and failed at getting my footing, I made a mess and got some of my goop on others.

And then I rose, let the mud dry, and I dusted myself off, moving forward with caution and an understanding that I would most likely fall again. But I would get back up.

If you’re sidestepping your pain, hoping to outrun it, I say this with all the love in the world: you won't. But in your fear that it will swallow you whole, I will also tell you from experience: it won’t.

Don’t rob yourself of the beauty of watching yourself get back up. It’s an empowerment unlike anything else.

Are you setting boundaries as a form of resistance or from a posture of presence?

If we’ve had boundaries violated, disregarded or shamed, we might find ourselves setting boundaries as a defense. Each boundary is an act of resistance from outside forces threatening to collapse our safety or sense of self.

An aggressive exterior can protect against external threats, but so can an intentional internal infrastructure.

What would happen if we shifted our perspective around boundaries? What if boundaries became less about keeping perceived threats out and more about protecting the goodness being cultivated within and the presence that follows?

Boundaries aren’t just about keeping bad things out, they’re about keeping good things in too.

Overextending depletes our magic, but compassion reinforces it.

If we assemble boundaries from the posture of defense, then every ask becomes a potential threat.

If we assemble boundaries from the posture of cultivation, then every ask becomes an empowered choice.

Boundaries that allow us to love ourselves and others begin with a focus on preserving the good within and trusting that an intentionally crafted interior is a form of protection too.

What happened?

Gosh, this can feel like such a tricky question.

It doesn’t matter who’s asking (others, my therapist, me!), this question has made me feel so uneasy.

My confusing & splotchy memory of my sexual assault has convinced me at times that:
It wasn’t that big of a deal
I must be remembering it wrong
It must not have happened
I’m better off if I just drop it and move on

When I learned how traumatic memories are stored, & that our recollection of them may be cut off, distorted, or limited to images rather than narratives, I felt I had been punched in the gut.

I was being simultaneously betrayed and protected by my body.

Have you had these confusing thoughts about your confusing memories?

We can’t tell others a story we’re not willing to tell ourselves. Being honest with ourselves about what happened can feel like the beginning of the end of our peace. I feel that way often.

And then I tell the truth. And I survive.

And you can too.

Southwest Airlines randomly mailed me 6 drink vouchers. I recently had a 12 hour travel day and decided to cash in as many of these drink tickets as I could over the course of three flights. In case you couldn’t tell, I was feeling self-destructy and ready to check out of my life for a second.

I asked for my second glass of sparkling wine with one sip left in my first serving. The flight attendant mildly scolded me and told me I could ask for my next beverage once I had finished my first.

Yes ma’am!

My cheeks flushed with warm embarrassment that quickly soured with anger. Sometimes I feel like despite how much I flex for others, there’s such disproportionate rigidity
directed towards me.

No space for my humanity. My angst.
(Do you also find yourself believing obviously false narratives with your whole heart?)

When I did finally receive my second beverage, the second drink ticket was stuck to the branded napkin, wet with condensation. “This one’s on me.”

During the next few flights none of the attendants took a single drink ticket from me. With a wink and a “you’re good,” their casual hospitality softened my angst and my resolve to follow Dierks Bentley’s example of getting drunk on a plane.

I was seeking an escape when what I needed was a tender tether.

This is a strangely vulnerable vignette about drink tickets and bad decisions, but at its core, it’s actually a story of the power of casual compassion.

Grace, hospitality, compassion –
it’s touching when we unexpectedly receive it from others.

But it’s life-changing when we
learn to expect it from ourselves.

Pay attention to where you’re trying to escape, and see if you can offer yourself a tender tether instead.

5 Things that thawed my freeze response

1 Acknowledging that my shutdown was the freeze trauma response.

2 Using my physical voice to tell myself that my response was valid and reasonable.

3 Reminding myself that I would not be in a state of freeze forever.

4 Catching and releasing every thought that began with “I should…” Shame never freed anyone.

5 Categorizing small actions as meaningful wins. Like changing my clothes and getting a fresh cup of water.

Set your tender little frozen self in a bowl in the sun, and let yourself thaw slowly, naturally, and compassionately. No need to chuck yourself in the microwave and demand a quick and forced defrost. Whatever it is that’s shaming you for being stuck can wait. Nothing is that important or urgent. It’s okay to tackle it when you return.

For the one who’s always dealing with a thing

Some of us just seem to be camped out in the middle of the storm.

It’s not that we think others don’t have hard things to deal with, it’s just that there seems to be disproportionate divvying up of the unspeakable.

Maybe for you, the same theme or type of pain keeps rolling in, wave after wave after wave. How cruel.

Maybe you’re playing bingo with tragedy, and you’re getting close to filling your board. How relentless.

I don’t know why this happens, I just know it does.

Despite how targeted it may feel,

Resist the urge to believe it’s personal.

Resist the urge to believe it’s because you’re flawed.

Resist the urge to believe the future only holds hurt for you.

Believe you will do something powerful with the strength you’ve cultivated.

Believe the good things in life will carry deep richness because of your acquaintance with pain.

Believe the future will be beautiful, not because of what may or may not happen, but because you’ll be there. And you’re an expert at creating life out of darkness.

A surprise bouquet of flowers ended up on my doorstep. No note, no evidence of who it was from. What delight!

When I laid my head on the pillow that night I heaved out sobs. I was seen. I was known. I was thought of. I was worth the inconvenience. I was worth the extra stop. I was in pain, but I wasn’t alone.

These truths were too weighty for me to hold. It's hard to accept from others what we can't accept from ourselves.

In the emotional bloating from this anonymous gift, I resolved to pay it forward. A friend was coming over for her birthday a few days later and I decided I would gift them to her. Make her feel seen and loved and known and thought of. In my emotional shutdown that week I was unable to make it to the grocery store, and I was so thankful that I could still find ways to love on her from inside my bunker.

Well, yaddah, yaddah, yaddah, she was the friend who gifted me the flowers.

Howwwwww embarrassing. How classic.

As we laughed about it, she tenderly reminded me it’s okay for me to just receive. Woof.

When life has put you in a position to navigate a lot of pain, to do a lot of asking, to need a disproportionate amount of help, it can feel hard to continue to receive.

You and I, we’re not machines. Input doesn’t always have to translate into immediate output. Sometimes it’s okay to let something kind settle within you, redesigning your internal landscape. Trust that when the time is right, your experience with receiving will compel you to act. And in this flow, you will know that it’s more blessed to give when you have first learned how to receive.

3 things my body is teaching me

1 If you’re holding intense feelings in your shoulders, gut, or back, don’t forget that you have arms, legs, fingers, and toes that are capable of coming online and sharing the weight of this energy. Give that condensed tension permission to loosen and flow to and through the rest of you.

Reminder: It’s okay to call upon others to help you hold the intensity of your feelings.

2 Your body is a boundary. From your skin to the energetic force around you, it knows where you stop and start. Some boundaries may feel more clear or secure than others.

Reminder: There’s a difference between setting emotional, mental, and physical boundaries. Some may come more easily to you than others.

3 We communicate a lot to our bodies about our worth when we neglect our physical needs. Eating junk, wasting away on the couch, and skipping the occasional tooth brushing or face washing devalues our souls.

Reminder: Tending to our outsides tends to our insides. Meeting physical needs equips us to meet emotional needs.

What is your body teaching you?

An emotional need is a valid need.

It’s just true that it’s challenging to respond in a tragedy. What the heck are you supposed to do?! Each person has different individual needs and preferences. Doing it wrong feels extra high stakes when the pain is deep.

The misses feel so obvious when we’re on the receiving end, but weirdly covert when we’re the ones trying hard to read the room. We forget this in our pain. My hope is that as I get older I get better at giving grace to both sides. I hope I find ways to bottle my positive experiences so I can pour them out with care when I’m called upon to tend to another’s wounds.

The vulnerability and lack of control we find in pain can make us gravitate toward tangible, physical needs. Meal trains, grocery runs, places to crash, financial help… these are all such valid and valuable needs that need to be met. We need help with these things, even if we don’t know to ask for it.

But these aren’t the only needs that count.

In the aftermath of trauma, it can be challenging to know what we need.
And even harder to translate that need to the people around us.

We may even judge the validity of our needs based on how others respond.

It’s completely valid if what you need more than a sandwich is a knowing gaze from a friend, the listening ear of someone who gets you, or the company of someone who will talk about TV shows and CostCo products and the weather until you’re ready to talk about The Thing.

Emotional connection is a core human need. It’s okay to ask for it. But resist the temptation to ask for it from everyone. Find your few, and release the others from the grip of your ravenous pain. Let it be enough. There’s no need to borrow more pain. You have enough.