I still lock every door twice, even when I know it is safe. I still catch myself replaying conversations in my head, analyzing every word and wondering if I said the wrong thing. Some mornings I wake up with my chest tight for no reason I can explain, as if my body has stored memories that my mind cannot put into words.

That is the strange thing about trauma. The mind can learn, process, and move forward, but the body holds on much longer. My head knows I am okay now. My life is different. I am safe. But my body has not fully caught up.

Healing is not just about choosing peace, it is about teaching your body that peace is not a threat. It means learning how to rest without flinching, how to sit in silence without waiting for the sound of something breaking, how to meet kindness without scanning for danger in someone’s eyes first.

Some days I feel like I have made incredible progress. Other days, I am reminded that progress is not a straight line but a series of small steps, backward and forward. I do not shame myself for the locks, the double checks, or the racing thoughts. Instead, I try to see them as proof of survival. They are the language my body still speaks, a language that protected me when I needed it most.

And maybe healing is not about erasing that language completely but about slowly translating it into something new. A rhythm where safety feels natural, where trust feels steady, and where my body finally believes what my head already knows.