Why Are We Doing This Work? Reflections for Trauma-Informed Practitioners

Exploring the inner patterns that shape how we show up in healing work

A Question Worth Returning To

“Why am I doing this work?”
For those of us who serve in trauma-informed fields, this is not a question to ask once and forget. It is one to return to again and again. Our answers shift as we grow, as our lives change, and as we deepen in our own self-awareness.

Regular reflection helps us notice what drives us, what sustains us, and where we may need to pause. Without it, we risk slipping into old patterns—sometimes ones that can unintentionally cause harm.

Underlying Patterns That Draw Us In

Many practitioners are called to this work from a place of deep compassion, empathy, or lived experience. But there are also unconscious beliefs that can draw us here:

I must prove my worth through helping. If our value feels tied to how much we give, we may overextend ourselves or blur boundaries.
I need to fix what was broken in me. Sometimes we seek to heal others as a way to touch our own unhealed wounds, without realizing it.
I am only lovable when I am useful. This belief can drive us to overidentify with the caretaker role, leaving little room for our own needs.
I can protect others from what I experienced. While protective instincts are natural, they can lead us to step outside our professional role or unintentionally take away another person’s sense of agency.

These patterns do not make us bad practitioners—they make us human. But without reflection, they can shape how we show up in ways that may not always serve those we care for.

How These Patterns Affect Our Work

When our presence is driven by unmet needs, it changes the dynamic in the room. We may:

Take on too much responsibility for a client’s healing.
Struggle with boundaries, saying yes when we need to say no.
Feel rejected or inadequate if progress is slow.
Seek affirmation from clients rather than holding space for them.

If you’ve ever left a session wondering whether you did enough, or caught yourself replaying a conversation or situation long after it ended, you’re not alone. These moments are part of the quiet weight many of us carry in this work. Naming them openly is the first step toward shifting how they influence us.

When We Wonder If We’ve Done Enough

The question “Did I do enough?” is one that echoes in many practitioners’ minds. At first glance, it seems like a simple reflection on how a session went. But often, it carries deeper layers—tied not to the client’s needs, but to our own self-worth.

Many of us carry shame-based narratives such as:

“I am only good if I have the perfect response.”
“I am only valuable when I am useful.”
“I am only worthy if my clients make progress.”

These beliefs often have deep roots in our personal histories. They may stem from early messages that told us our value depended on performance, care for others, or constant achievement. When left unexamined, they can drive us to overperform, push too hard, or silently measure our worth against outcomes we cannot control.

How It Shapes Our Presence

Unexamined, these patterns might lead us to:

Push harder than is helpful, hoping to “prove” our value by how much progress is made.
Take responsibility for healing that belongs to the client, creating pressure for both them and us.
Seek subtle forms of affirmation—needing a client to express gratitude, approval, or visible progress to reassure us that we are doing a “good job.”

Over time, this can distort the practitioner-client relationship. Clients may sense our unspoken need for reassurance, and this can place them in the position of caretaker—something that undermines the safety and empowerment we intend to create.

The Risk of Wanting Clients to Meet Our Needs

It’s worth asking honestly: Are we hoping our clients will validate us, heal something in us, or meet a need we haven’t acknowledged? If so, we may unknowingly put them in the position of caretakers—the very dynamic we are trying to avoid. Trauma-informed work is about safety, choice, and empowerment. When our own needs are unspoken drivers, it can undermine that foundation.

A Gentle Shift

The invitation is not to rid ourselves of these thoughts completely—they are deeply human—but to notice them with honesty. The question “Did I do enough?” is rarely about the client’s growth. More often, it is about our own self-worth and fear of inadequacy. By recognizing this, we give ourselves permission to soften the grip of shame and to step into a more grounded presence.

Reflection, peer support, and compassionate self-awareness can help us loosen these old patterns. Supervision, trusted colleagues, or journaling can all be mirrors for us to see where our needs are creeping into the work. Slowly, we can reframe the question. Instead of asking, “Did I do enough?” we might begin asking, “Did I show up with presence, care, and integrity?”

That shift does not erase doubt completely, but it transforms it into something gentler—an opportunity to reflect without judgment. It reminds us that the essence of our work is not perfection, but presence.

Reflective Practices to Prevent Harm

The good news is that reflection can transform these patterns. By naming them, we create space to shift. Some ways to do this include:

Regular self-reflection. Journaling, supervision, or personal therapy can help us check in with our motivations.
Awareness of boundaries. Noticing where our needs begin and where our clients’ needs begin keeps the roles clear.
Grounding in humility. Remembering that healing belongs to the client helps us release pressure to “fix.”
Seeking collective support. Connecting with peers who can listen and reflect with us reduces isolation and keeps us accountable.
Compassion for ourselves. Recognizing that our own wounds deserve care reminds us that it is not our clients’ job to fill them.

A Reflection to Keep Close

What we know deep down is that our worth is not measured by perfection, productivity, or outcomes. Our worth is inherent. Clients do not need us to be flawless—they need us to be human, steady, and genuine.

When we can release the burden of “enoughness,” we create more space for authentic connection. We free our clients from carrying our unspoken expectations and allow them to focus on their own healing. And we free ourselves from the exhausting cycle of self-doubt.

Showing up authentically—with humility, care, and integrity—is enough. And perhaps the real work is remembering that again and again.

Invitations for Reflection

My “Why” Today
- Why am I doing this work right now, in this season of my life?
- How has my “why” shifted since I first began?
Unspoken Motivations
- Do I ever feel like I need to prove my worth through helping?
- Am I seeking healing for my own wounds through my clients’ progress?
- Where do I notice thoughts like “I am only good if…” or “I am only valuable when…” showing up in my work?
Impact on How I Show Up
- How might my own needs—spoken or unspoken—be shaping the way I interact with clients?
- Do I ever feel disappointed, frustrated, or rejected if clients don’t respond as I hope?
- Am I holding space for their needs, or am I hoping they will meet mine?
Boundaries & Sustainability
- Where do I struggle to set or honor boundaries?
- What are the signs that I’m giving from depletion rather than steadiness?
- What practices help me return to clarity and balance?
Support & Compassion
- Who are the people I can lean on for reflection and accountability?
- What small, consistent acts of care remind me that I am worthy outside of my role?
- How can I extend to myself the same compassion I encourage in others?

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

How Compassion Fatigue Shows Up in the Body

Finding our way back to balance through the body’s wisdom.

It began quietly — the kind of tiredness that doesn’t have a clear source. I was still doing the work I love — holding space, attuning to others, guiding attention to what is alive in the moment — but something inside me felt heavy, as if my body had begun to move through thicker air.

It wasn’t exhaustion exactly. It was more like a soft dulling at the edges of presence. I would finish a day feeling both full and strangely empty, as though my energy had gone somewhere I couldn’t quite retrieve it from.

That’s how compassion fatigue often arrives. Not as burnout or collapse, but as a slow drift away from the felt sense of connection that once felt vibrant in the body.

When the Body Begins to Speak

Before the mind can label what’s happening, the body begins to speak. It speaks through sensation, through the rhythm of breath and the weight of our own being.

For me, it showed up as a tightening across my chest, a kind of invisible holding that wouldn’t release. My breath stayed shallow even when everything around me was calm. I began to notice small flashes of irritation where I used to feel empathy, or moments of numbness — like my system had dimmed the lights to protect what little energy remained.

These weren’t signs of failure. They were signs of intelligence. The body was communicating that I had reached the edge of what I could hold.

Compassion fatigue is the body’s way of asking for recognition — not judgment, not analysis — just presence.

Listening to the Quiet Within

What keeps me rooted in this work is remembering that connection with my own body is a living relationship — not a technique or a task.

When I turn inward without trying to fix or manage what I find, my body always responds. Sometimes with stillness, sometimes with trembling, sometimes with relief.

And in those quiet moments, the body begins to whisper — not in words, but in feeling. A gentle reminder that I’m part of the space I hold, not outside of it.

This kind of attunement is what keeps compassion from hardening into exhaustion. It lets us witness the suffering of others — and our own — without becoming lost inside it.

The Softening That Comes With Noticing

Simply being with what was happening offered space around it.
The ache in my chest became less like a wall and more like a doorway.

This is what the body teaches when we listen: fatigue and care are not opposites. They move along the same current. When we stay connected, we learn to move with that current instead of being pulled beneath it.

Returning to Ourselves Through the Body

Turning toward the body is not another thing to do; it’s a way of being.

Here are a few ways I return to being:

Sense the Shifts. Notice how your body feels before and after supporting others. The change often tells you what words cannot.
Name What You Feel. Acknowledge sensations — “My shoulders feel heavy.” “There’s warmth in my hands.” “My breath feels shallow.” Naming makes the invisible tangible.
Feel What’s Holding You. Let attention rest on the places where your body meets support — the floor beneath your feet, the chair, the ground itself.
Small Movements. Let your body unwind naturally. A stretch, a roll of the shoulders. Movement helps energy complete its cycle.

These gestures aren’t strategies to perform — they are moments of meeting yourself where you are.

The Strength Found in Sensitivity

Many of us in helping roles were taught that strength means endurance — to stay open, stay steady, keep giving.
But the body knows a different kind of strength.

True strength is responsiveness — the willingness to sense what’s happening and meet it with care.

Compassion fatigue doesn’t mean we’ve given too much love; it means we’ve lost touch with the part of us that also needs receiving.

Reconnection brings that balance back. It reminds us that care is not one-directional — it must flow both outward and inward to remain whole.

Coming Home to Connection

The body doesn’t betray us — it calls us home. Every tension, every ache, every wave of weariness is a message in motion, an invitation to return to ourselves.

When we listen through the body, we rediscover the quiet rhythm beneath effort — the place where compassion, clarity, and vitality live together.

By reconnecting with our own felt experience, we deepen our capacity to hold space for others. The more we cultivate presence within, the more authentic, grounded, and sustaining our care becomes.

Returning to the body isn’t the end of our work — it’s the beginning of being truly alive in it.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Carrying What Isn’t Ours: The Weight of Others’ Stories

Exploring how to honor others’ pain without losing ourselves

The Quiet Weight We Carry

As trauma-informed practitioners, we walk alongside people as they navigate their most painful experiences. We hold space for grief, fear, loss, and memories that often feel unbearable to those who lived them. This is sacred work. And yet, one of the quietest risks we face is carrying what isn’t ours to carry.

We may leave a session replaying every detail, feeling the heaviness in our bodies, or waking in the night with images that don’t belong to us. Without realizing it, we begin to absorb the pain we’re witnessing—believing, in some way, that holding it all is part of doing the work well.

But when we carry what isn’t ours, both we and our clients suffer.

The Subtle Ways We Carry

Carrying can show up in ways that feel small but add up over time:

Taking home clients’ experiences or energy in our thoughts, dreams, or bodies.
Feeling responsible for a client’s progress or safety outside of sessions.
Holding onto fear, shame, or grief as though it were our own.
Believing that “being a good practitioner” means taking on someone else’s burden.

Why We Do It

Often, our intentions are good—but the patterns underneath are complex:

Empathy as both gift and weight. Deep attunement can make it hard to step back.
Old caretaker roles resurfacing. Beliefs like “If I don’t hold this, no one will” can quietly take over.
Shame-based narratives. “I am only valuable if I carry their pain” can drive us to over-identify.
The myth of sacrifice. We may believe that healing requires us to give pieces of ourselves away.

How It Impacts Our Work

When we carry what isn’t ours, the cost is high:

Compassion fatigue and burnout build quickly.
Boundaries blur, and the work becomes unsustainable.
Clients may feel subtle pressure if they sense we are over-identified with their pain.
We lose steadiness, which makes the space less safe and less effective.

Practices of letting go

Letting go does not mean we care less. It means we are honoring the difference between presence and carrying. When we are unattached to another’s experience, we allow them the dignity of their own process — and we honor our own boundaries in the process. Compassion doesn’t require us to hold another’s pain in our body; it invites us to be present, grounded, and available without absorbing.

We can still love deeply, listen fully, and extend care — but from a place of rootedness, not entanglement. This kind of letting go isn’t withdrawal; it’s respect — for both self and other.

Some practices include:

Noticing when you feel responsible for another’s emotions.
Taking a slow breath before responding, to ground in your own body.
Visualizing what is yours and what is theirs — gently releasing what you’ve picked up.
Offering silent compassion instead of fixing.
Returning to your own center through a practice that is useful to you.
Trusting that presence is enough — you don’t need to carry their story to care.

A Reflection to Keep Close

What we know deep down is that the gift of this work is presence—not carrying, not fixing, not absorbing, but being alongside. We cannot heal for others, and we cannot carry what is not ours.

Our task is to witness with compassion, to hold safe space, and then to let go—so that we can keep showing up with steadiness, care, and integrity.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS. This blog is Part 2 of a trilogy : A Quiet Revolution in How We Care for Others – Because our well-being shapes the way we serve.

The Living Conversation of Balance

For a long time, I imagined balance as something solid—like standing still on steady ground, unmoving. But life has shown me it’s much more like the ocean. It moves, it shifts, it fluctuates—sometimes gently like ripples on the shore, and sometimes violently, like a storm pulling the tide. Balance isn’t stagnant. It flows.

When the Ground Shifts Beneath Us

There are seasons when balance feels almost impossible. When my son Chase was hospitalized, everything else fell away. My days and nights revolved around his care. Of course, there was no space for hobbies or routines—how could there be? In that moment, balance wasn’t about “doing it all.” It was about showing up for what mattered most: love, presence, and simply making it through.

I’ve also experienced times when my body forced me to stop. Breaking a bone or being so exhausted that I could hardly get through the day demanded a recalibration. Suddenly, what seemed urgent yesterday no longer mattered. Rest, healing, and saying no to almost everything became my balance.

These moments remind me: balance isn’t about equal distribution of attention or effort. It’s about right relationship with what is most needed now.

Chasing Balance

Here’s where we can get tripped up with balance. There’s a lot of messaging out there about discipline—coaches, influencers, and wellness gurus who promote rigid routines, exact time blocks, and strict accountability systems. And yes, discipline can be powerful. Structure gives shape to our days and can hold us steady when motivation falters.

But when we treat balance like a rigid formula, we start measuring ourselves against an impossible standard. We think balance means the gym five times a week, eight hours of sleep, meditation every morning, all while giving 100% to work, family, and friendships. And when life demands a shift—when we get sick, when a crisis happens, when exhaustion sets in—we look at ourselves and think: “I’ve failed.”

Unhealthy balance often shows up as all-or-nothing thinking (“If I don’t do it perfectly, I’ve blown it”), moralizing rest (“If I slow down, I’m lazy”), or comparing ourselves to someone else’s highlight reel. Naming those patterns helps us loosen their grip and choose a gentler path.

That’s the unhealthy side of balance: when the very idea of it starts to weigh us down, instead of helping us find steadiness.

A Flexible Kind of Discipline

What if we thought about balance differently? Not as perfection, but as permission to pivot. Not as a rigid checklist, but as a living rhythm.

Discipline absolutely has its place. It can keep us grounded and help us follow through on commitments that matter. But discipline without flexibility quickly turns brittle. True balance is discipline with room to breathe. It’s the ability to adjust when life shifts—without shame, without self-punishment.

Discipline can be the anchor, flexibility the tide, and our values the North Star that guides us. When those three move together, balance feels more like navigation than judgment.

The Rhythm of Change

When Chase was in the hospital, I wasn’t “failing” at balance. I was living balance—just in a form that looked different. My focus was singular, my priorities shifted, and that was exactly right for that season.

Balance isn’t something we master once and for all. It’s something we return to again and again. Some days it looks like discipline—getting up early, following the plan. Other days it looks like letting go—resting, recalibrating, being gentle with ourselves.

The key is not perfection, but responsiveness. Balance is about listening to the season we’re in and adjusting accordingly. In chronic stress or illness, balance may look like pacing—small efforts, real rests, then reassessing—like watching the tide rather than forcing a timetable.

And it’s worth remembering: we don’t hold balance alone. Community is part of it too. Asking for help, receiving care, or letting someone else carry the load for a while—these are not signs of imbalance, but of shared humanity.

A More Gentle Question

So maybe instead of asking, “Am I living a balanced life?” we can ask, “What needs attention right now? What can soften? What can wait?”

That feels kinder. More real. More human.

Because in truth, balance isn’t a static goal—it’s a living conversation between our bodies, our hearts, our minds, and the life unfolding around us.

The Image I Hold

I’ve stopped imagining balance as a scale that must be perfectly even. Instead, I see it as a set of tides—sometimes rushing in, sometimes pulling back, always moving, always changing. The ocean is never “out of balance”—it simply flows with its own rhythm.

Maybe our lives are like that too.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

The Rub in Self-Care: Why Practitioners Struggle to Step Into What We Teach

Always Talking About It, Rarely Living It

If you work in trauma-informed care, you’ve probably said it a hundred times: “Self-care is essential.” We encourage our clients, our colleagues, even our friends and families to pause, breathe, rest, and tend to themselves. Yet, if we’re honest, many of us don’t practice what we teach.

Here lies the rub: in a world that constantly tells us to do more, give more, achieve more, self-care can feel like just another item on a never-ending to-do list. We know it matters, but embodying it feels elusive.

Why the Disconnect?

Several dynamics make it hard for practitioners to fully embrace self-care:

Caretaker identity. Many of us define ourselves by helping others, which can make turning inward feel selfish or indulgent.
Example: You might skip lunch to squeeze in one more client session, believing their needs matter more than your own.
Culture of productivity. Society rewards overwork. Rest and slowing down are often mislabeled as laziness or weakness.
Example: Taking a quiet afternoon off may leave you feeling guilty, as though you’re not “working hard enough.”
Compassion fatigue. When we’re running on empty, even small acts of care feel like more effort than we can muster.
Example: At the end of a long day of listening to others’ stories or being with their energy, you may feel too drained to cook a nourishing meal or go for that walk you promised yourself.
Flood of advice. We are bombarded with messages about “what self-care should look like,” which can leave us feeling pressured rather than supported.
Example: Seeing endless social media posts about ideal routines—journaling, yoga, meditation, meal prep—may make you feel like you’re failing if you can’t keep up.
Underlying beliefs and shame. Many of us carry internal messages like “I am only good if I’m productive” or “I am only worthy when I’m giving to others.” Shame feeds these beliefs, convincing us that our value comes only through doing or giving. This can make it difficult to see ourselves as deserving of care, compassion, or even kindness.

Shared Humanity

It’s important to name that you are not alone in this. Many of us who encourage self-care find it difficult to step fully into it ourselves. Acknowledging this gap with honesty—not shame—reminds us that we are human, too. Recognizing our own vulnerability allows us to bring even more authenticity to the work we do with others.

The Role of Collective Care

Self-care is not only an individual practice. Caring for ourselves also includes leaning on others. Collective care—sharing the load, finding support, and connecting with peers—can be just as essential as what we do alone. We do not have to carry everything by ourselves. Together, we can sustain this work in ways that feel lighter and more connected.

Stepping Into Self-Care Differently

Perhaps the challenge isn’t that we don’t know what to do—it’s that we need to rethink how we approach it. Self-care doesn’t have to mean bubble baths, elaborate routines, or performing wellness for others. Instead, it can be:

Micro-moments. A breath between sessions, a quiet sip of tea, a gentle stretch.
Permission. Allowing yourself to not answer that email right away, or to say no without guilt.
Authenticity. Choosing what nourishes you, not what looks good on a checklist.
Compassion. Meeting yourself with the same gentleness you offer to those you serve.

A Reflection to Keep Close

The truth is, stepping fully into self-care asks us to confront uncomfortable beliefs: that we are only worthy when we give, that our needs come second, that rest is earned. These are not easy stories to unlearn. But each small act of self-care is also an act of resistance against burnout, and a step toward wholeness.

You don’t have to start big. Maybe today it looks like taking five minutes to reconnect with yourself before your next session, or reaching out to a colleague who understands. One small step is enough.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS. This blog is Part 1 of a trilogy : A Quiet Revolution in How We Care for Others
Because your well-being shapes the way you serve.

Managing Stress: The Balance Between In-the-Moment Supports and the Bigger Picture

Stress shows up differently for everyone. For some, it feels like being stuck in place—frozen on the couch, unable to take even the smallest step. For others, it’s like speeding through life at full tilt—moving so fast there’s no room for rest, reflection, or connection. Both extremes are signs of the same thing: our nervous system is overwhelmed.

That’s why stress management isn’t about finding the “perfect” strategy or a one-size-fits-all solution. It’s about personalization—understanding what works for you, in this season of life, and learning how to blend tools that help in the moment with choices that support you in the long run.

Why “Fix-All” Strategies Fall Short

The wellness world is full of quick tips and trendy techniques. While many of them can be useful, no single strategy will work for everyone all the time. Stress management isn’t about finding the right tool—it’s about finding your tools, the ones that feel authentic, sustainable, and flexible enough to change as you change.

In-the-Moment Supports

In clinical terms, these are often called self-regulation practices—skills that help your body and mind settle when stress flares up suddenly.

In-the-moment supports:

Taking a breath or a breathing technique
Walking around the block.
Stretching your shoulders for two minutes.
Pausing for a short mindfulness exercise.
Picking up a hobby you enjoy, like sketching, gardening, or knitting.

These small actions don’t erase stress, but they can loosen its grip. And here’s something important: these tools work best when you’ve practiced them outside the storm. Expecting your body to learn stability for the first time in the middle of overwhelm is like trying to learn to swim in a riptide. The more often you practice during steady moments, the easier it becomes to reach for these supports when the waters are rough.

The Bigger Picture

In-the-moment supports matter, but they’re only part of the story. The bigger picture is about shaping a life that gives you more flexibility over time—so stress doesn’t always hit as hard or as often. Think of this as long-term resilience, built through daily choices, boundaries, and rhythms that carry you across seasons of life.

Some examples:

Rest & Nourishment
Stress feels heavier when you’re running on empty. Protect your bedtime routine, keep your phone out of the bedroom, drink water, and choose foods that help sustain your energy.
Boundaries
Overcommitment fuels stress. Saying “no” to one request, closing your laptop at a set time, or protecting a tech-free evening gives your system space to recover.
Living Your Values
Stress often spikes when your days don’t reflect what matters most. Identify your top three values (family, creativity, health, etc.) and make one simple change—like a weekly call with a loved one or setting aside time for art.
Supportive Relationships
Stress shrinks in safe connection. Schedule coffee with someone who listens well, join a group where you feel at ease, or simply check in with a trusted friend.
Shaping Your Environment
Your surroundings can either drain or restore you. Clear one corner of clutter, silence notifications during meals, or create a calming nook with a candle and blanket.
Movement & Presence
Regular movement—like walking, stretching, or gentle exercise—helps release tension and regulate energy. Pairing movement with mindfulness practices teaches your body to return to the present, instead of being pulled into the weight of the past or the worries of the future. These small moments of presence accumulate over time, supporting steadiness in ways you may not notice right away but that deeply matter.

The Dance Between the Two

Here’s the heart of it: in-the-moment supports and long-term practices work together.

In-the-moment supports are about calming the waters right now—the breath, the walk, the pause.
The bigger picture is about steering the boat—your sleep, your boundaries, your values, your relationships, your environment.

One keeps you afloat in the storm; the other helps ensure the storms don’t capsize you in the first place.

And here’s where it can feel confusing: what works for you in one season may not be what steadies you in the next. The tools that feel grounding now might lose their impact later, and that doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re growing. Stress management isn’t about locking onto one solution forever—it’s about staying curious, experimenting, and allowing your supports to evolve as life does.

Think of it as a dance: sometimes you lean on the quick reset, sometimes you lean into the slower work of building habits, and sometimes you discover something new that shifts everything. The rhythm will keep changing, and that’s part of the process.

Finding Your Path, One Small Step at a Time

Stress and anxiety may freeze you in place or push you too fast, but the path forward always begins with one small, personal step. Over time, those steps build momentum. Momentum creates change. And change builds resilience that lasts through every season of life.

The takeaway: in-the-moment supports can give you some relief now, while bigger-picture practices reshape the story. Together, they create the flexibility you need to keep moving forward—even when life feels heavy.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

The Quiet Power of Presence: How walking Changed Everything

I’ve walked every single morning for well over a year — and that one simple act transformed me.

Not just physically.
But emotionally.
Energetically.
Spiritually.

Something in me softened. Realigned. Came home to itself.

Maybe it was the salty ocean air that whispered me awake. Or the steady rhythm of the waves that matched my breath.

Maybe it was simply the ritual — the quiet, mindful movement of walking with awareness, day after day.
Each step became a meditation.
A returning.
A remembering.

Some mornings, I walked alone — fully present to the world around me.
Noticing the way the light moved through the trees or how the ocean moved the sand.

Feeling the earth beneath my feet.
Breathing in deeply.
Listening — not just to the sounds of the ocean, but to the stirrings within.

And on other days, I walked with my husband, my children, or dear friends.
There is something sacred about walking with — About being in motion together, side by side, without needing to speak.

A kind of presence that words can’t reach. A connection born not from conversation, but from shared experience.

That’s mindfulness, too.
The simple act of doing something with full attention. Mindfulness isn’t always sitting still on a cushion. Sometimes, it’s the feeling of cool air on your skin.
The sound of your child’s footsteps beside yours. The knowing that this moment — this exact one — is where life is happening.

And those moments… they add up.
They shape who we are.
They change how we relate to ourselves and to the people we love.
Because:
Our choices matter.
Our presence matters.
How we show up in our bodies and our lives — it all matters.

I found happiness not in a breakthrough, but in the quiet repetition of mindful practice. In choosing to be with myself and others, fully. In learning to listen — to nature, to my breath, to the rhythm of life itself.

Having a clear sense of self — even if it’s something as simple as a daily walk — can change everything.

So:
Know yourself.
Find your still point — even in motion.
Practice presence like it’s sacred.
Because it is.
And when you find that inner balance — that mindful rhythm —
Protect it.
Return to it.
Honor it.
Not because you should.
But because it’s how we stay whole in a noisy world.
It’s how we reconnect — to ourselves, and to each other.

Wishing you Wellness,

Keri Sawyer
Openview Yoga

Rooted in Recovery: Growing Stability, Connection, and Self-Trust

Addiction and Your Body

Even though you’re doing the work of recovery, do you still feel restlessness or unease inside? When we leave the body out of the picture, parts of recovery can feel incomplete.

Your body carries the weight of stress, pain, and memories from difficult experiences. For many of us, addiction became a way to cope with this weight. And even after stepping into recovery, your body may still feel unsettled—tight in your chest, restless in your legs, or on edge in your gut, as if safety is out of reach.

This can make it hard to feel calm or connected. Rooted in Recovery brings together trauma-sensitive yoga and the journey of recovery—intertwining them as a way of creating safety, balance, and connection. It offers a pathway back into stability—a way to feel grounded again in both your body and your life.

Balance, Stability, and Flexibility

Think of a tree. Its roots reach deep into the ground, giving it balance and stability even when strong winds blow. In recovery, you also need roots—steady practices that help you stay grounded through cravings, emotions, and life’s storms.

But trees also bend with the wind. Without flexibility, they would break. In the same way, recovery asks not only for steadiness but also adaptability—meeting change without fear.

Balance in the moment. Noticing what steadies you right now, helping ease intensity in your body.
Stability over time. Maintaining stability practices that feel useful to you so your foundation stays strong when life feels shaky.
Flexibility in change. Meeting the strong winds of life with resilience and adaptability, instead of bracing against them.

From Fear to Presence

In recovery, knowing yourself can feel complicated. Your past may carry shame or regret. Your future might stir anxiety or fear of relapse. Both can pull you out of the present, leaving you disconnected from your own body.

Rooted in Recovery shifts this pattern. Its gentle, mindful movements open the present moment—right here, right now.

Meeting your body in this way creates a chance to experience what is real. Developing a felt sense of yourself—noticing how your body feels in this moment—can bring forward a powerful recognition: you are not your past, and you are not your future. You are here, now.

This awareness supports recovery because it:

Softens fear of who you’ve been or who you might become.
Builds steadiness in the present.
Provides experiences of safety in your body that you can return to again and again.

Weathering the Storms

Imagine standing before a storm. In the past, storms may have overwhelmed you, leaving your body frozen or bracing against what might come.

Through Rooted in Recovery, you can begin developing inner resources—skills and practices that shift how your body responds to stress. Instead of numbing or pushing away, you might pause, notice the storm rising, and respond differently. It could feel like steadying your breath, softening your shoulders, or anchoring through your feet—small choices that keep you present.

This shift supports recovery at its core:

Balance. Meeting intensity in your body with steadiness.
A steady sense of self. Discovering that you can navigate what comes.
Resilience. Facing change with both steadiness and flexibility.

Stability Through Connection

Addiction often thrives in isolation, while recovery grows stronger in community. Rooted in Recovery supports not only grounding in your own body but also a sense of connection with others.

Like trees in a forest whose roots intertwine, practicing in community can remind you that you don’t have to walk recovery alone. Being with others can help your body feel supported, steady, and connected.

Pathways Back to Self

All of these practices—balance, presence, resilience, and connection—come from intertwining trauma-sensitive yoga with the lived experience of recovery. Together, they create gentle pathways back to yourself, helping your body become a safer and steadier place to be.

Noticing

Noticing is the beginning of grounding—like first seeing a tree rooted in the earth. It is the awareness: “I am here. I have a body.”

In addiction, many of us disconnected from our bodies—sometimes even rejecting them. Simply noticing that you have a body, and that it’s here with you, can be a breakthrough. Like roots reaching into the soil, noticing nourishes your connection and lays the foundation for stability.

Meeting

Meeting is like the first tender roots reaching deeper into the soil. It begins with curiosity—becoming interested in a deeper connection with your body.

Meeting creates space for safety—where being in your body can begin to feel more approachable and manageable. Here, you may notice choices—moments of sensing what feels steady, nourishing, or easeful.

Like a young tree settling into the ground, meeting yourself in this way can be the beginning of stability and grounded growth.

Connecting

Connecting is like the trunk of the tree strengthening—linking roots to branches. It reflects forming relationship with yourself, turning toward your body with compassion instead of avoidance.

Here, noticing choices begins to deepen into starting to make choices based on the felt sense of your body. These choices may be small, but they represent trust building within you—trust that you can find steadiness again and again.

Connecting can feel like shaking hands with yourself—a gesture of acknowledgement and respect. Like the trunk of a tree supporting its branches, connecting provides the steady core from which healing can grow.

Rooting

Rooting is like the deep, steady roots of a mature tree. It reflects your body as an anchor—strong enough to hold steady and flexible enough to move with the winds of life.

Rooting may bring the realization that change is possible. Like a tree swaying with the wind, you might notice that the way your body feels can shift. With trust built inside, you can face change—and even create it.

Rooting transforms “I can get through change” into “I can create positive change.”

An Invitation to Grow Roots

Recovery is like planting a tree—you need care, nourishment, and steady ground to grow. Rooted in Recovery helps create that ground through these Pathways Back to Self:

Noticing – beginning to recognize presence in your body.
Meeting – becoming curious, finding safety, and noticing choices.
Connecting – starting to make choices guided by the felt sense of your body.
Rooting – discovering your body as an anchor, steady and flexible enough to meet the winds of life.

These pathways support movement from hope to trust. They open the possibility of facing cravings and struggles not with fear or avoidance, but with grounded presence.

Through Rooted in Recovery, your healing may become more than surviving day to day. It may grow into a rooted, balanced life—steady enough to weather storms, flexible enough to adapt with change, and strong enough to keep growing toward the light.

Wishing you steadiness and connection,
Keri Sawyer

P.S. If you feel ready to explore these pathways in community, Rooted in Recovery classes are available at openviewyoga.com, a Trauma-Sensitive Yoga Virtual Studio. This is an invitation to step into gentle practices that support stability, balance, and reconnection.

Moving Into Balance: Understanding and Supporting Your Nervous System

In today’s fast-moving world, it’s easy to feel like you’re constantly playing catch-up. Between work demands, family responsibilities, and the endless expectations we place on ourselves, many of us find our bodies and minds operating on overdrive. You may notice yourself lying awake at night, unable to relax even when you’re exhausted, or feeling stuck in a cycle of stress and overwhelm.

If this resonates with you, you’re not alone. What you’re experiencing may not be a lack of willpower or “not trying hard enough.” More often, it’s a sign of something deeper: nervous system imbalance.

What Does “Nervous System Imbalance” Mean?

Our nervous system is beautifully designed to keep us safe. It’s always working in the background, managing how we respond to the world—whether we’re gearing up to meet a challenge or winding down into rest and recovery. At its core, two systems are constantly shifting, adjusting, and balancing one another like a dance:

The Sympathetic Nervous System: This is your body’s “accelerator.” It prepares you for action—activating fight, flight, or freeze. Your heart beats faster, your breath quickens, and your muscles tense, all so you can respond to stress or danger. This system is what helps you jump out of the way of a car, meet a deadline, or rise to a difficult situation.
The Parasympathetic Nervous System: Think of this as your body’s “brake.” It supports rest, digestion, healing, and recovery. When this system is active, your heart rate slows, your muscles soften, and your body can absorb nutrients, repair, and replenish. It’s what allows you to feel grounded, calm, and connected.

When these two systems are in harmony, we’re able to flow between them—responding to challenges with the energy we need and then returning to balance when the challenge has passed. This rhythm is what allows us to move through life with resilience.

But when life is filled with ongoing stress, trauma, or tension, the nervous system can get “stuck.” Sometimes the accelerator stays pressed down—you may feel wired, restless, anxious, or constantly “on.” Other times, the brake can feel jammed—you may feel heavy, shut down, disconnected, or emotionally numb. And for many people, it’s a mix of both—swinging between exhaustion and hypervigilance, unable to find steady ground.

This stuckness isn’t a personal failure—it’s the body doing its best to protect you. The nervous system doesn’t always know the difference between real danger right now and old stress or fear carried forward. So it stays on alert, even when the threat has passed. Over time, this can leave you feeling worn out, overwhelmed, or unable to fully rest, no matter how much you try.

You’re nervous system is not broken. It’s adaptable, capable of learning, and responsive to care. With awareness, safety, and supportive practices, you can move back into balance—by creating experiences that communicate that we don’t have to live in survival mode.

How Imbalance Shows Up

Everyone experiences nervous system imbalance differently. For some, it feels like running on empty, while for others it feels like running on overdrive. Often, it can even be a confusing mix of both. Common signs may include:

Physical symptoms: ongoing muscle tension, clenched jaw, headaches, stomach upset, fatigue, or difficulty sleeping. The body may feel “wired but tired”—unable to rest, even when exhausted.
Emotional overwhelm: feeling anxious, irritable, impatient, or on edge, as though even small things push you past your limit. At times, emotions may also feel too big to manage, coming in waves that feel unsteady or unpredictable.
A sense of “being stuck”: difficulty making decisions, struggling to focus, or feeling like you can’t move forward no matter how hard you try. This can show up as procrastination, lack of motivation, or a deep sense of heaviness.
Disconnection: feeling cut off from yourself, your body, or those around you. Some describe this as numbness, emptiness, or “going through the motions” without truly feeling present.
Difficulty relaxing: even in safe or restful environments, the body may resist settling down. You might notice a constant undercurrent of restlessness, scanning for what could go wrong, or the inability to fully exhale and release tension.

For some people, this looks like constant activation—always “on,” unable to sit still, and easily startled or stressed. For others, it shows up as shutting down—feeling drained, disconnected, or unable to engage with life. And for many, it’s a shifting back and forth between the two.

These experiences are not evidence that you are “broken.” They are signs of your body’s intelligent attempts to protect you in the face of overwhelming stress, trauma, or prolonged pressure. Your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do—trying to keep you safe. The challenge is that, over time, these protective responses can become patterns that no longer serve you, keeping you in survival mode long after the original stress has passed.

With compassion, awareness, and supportive practices, your body can learn to find steadier rhythms—ones that allow you to feel safe, connected, and more at ease in your own skin.

Moving Into Balance: Gentle Steps Toward Healing

The path to balance doesn’t require pushing harder or achieving perfection. In fact, trauma-informed care reminds us that healing begins with safety, choice, and compassion.

When you begin to explore nervous system balance, it helps to start small. Healing doesn’t require grand gestures or hours of practice—it can begin with the simplest shifts in awareness, safety, and movement. Here are a few gentle invitations to try:

Coming Home to Now

The first step in balance is moving to the present moment. When we’re caught in the past—replaying what has already happened—or pulled into the future—worrying about what might come—our nervous system often reacts as if those experiences are happening right now. This can leave the body in a constant state of vigilance, unable to truly rest.

By gently returning your attention to this moment, you begin to send your nervous system a new message: “I am here, and I am safe enough right now.” In response, your breath may slow, your heart rate may soften, and the brain’s alarm system (the amygdala) can quiet. At the same time, the parts of the brain that support calm, reasoning, and connection—the prefrontal cortex—become more active.

Awareness naturally grows out of presence. As you anchor yourself in the here and now, you may notice sensations or emotions with more clarity: “My shoulders feel tight,” or “I notice my heart racing.” Naming these experiences with gentleness rather than self-criticism creates space for compassion.

Presence, then, is more than just noticing—it is the anchor that steadies both body and mind. Over time, this practice can help you to move out of survival mode and into greater resilience, clarity, and connection.

Presence is where safety is felt. Awareness is how we learn to trust it.

Cultivating Safety

Safety is the foundation of balance. Before the body can relax or the mind can soften, the nervous system must sense that it is safe enough to do so. Without this felt sense of safety, even the most well-intentioned practices can feel overwhelming or out of reach.

Cultivating safety doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be as simple as creating small moments where your body and mind register comfort and ease. This might look like dimming harsh lights, wrapping yourself in a soft blanket, or choosing to spend time with people who make you feel understood. Sometimes it’s pausing, or finding a quiet space where you can rest without interruption. These choices send powerful messages to the nervous system: “You are safe right now.” Movement can also be a pathway into safety. When stress or trauma has left the body feeling frozen, gentle motion reminds the nervous system that you are here, alive, and capable of choice.

As safety takes root, muscles soften, breathing steadies, and the body begins to find its natural rhythm again. With each small act of cultivating safety—through environment, connection, or gentle movement—you create the conditions for deeper healing to unfold.

Moving With Care

Movement is one of the most nourishing ways to support your nervous system, and it doesn’t have to be strenuous or demanding. In fact, some of the most supportive practices are often the simplest—stretching your arms overhead, rolling your shoulders, taking a slow, mindful walk, or exploring trauma-sensitive yoga.

When approached with care, movement becomes less about exercise and more about relationship. Each small action is an invitation to notice how your body feels and to honor what feels right in the moment. This kind of movement isn’t about reaching a goal or performing a pose—it’s about building connection, presence, and trust with yourself.

These moments of movement also create opportunities to reclaim choice. In trauma-informed care, this is sometimes called agency—the ability to decide what feels right for you. You might choose to move, to pause, or simply to notice the sensations in your body. Having this freedom to choose—even in the smallest ways—can be deeply supportive for the nervous system, especially if life has felt overwhelming or out of control.

Over time, moving with care helps your body and mind remember that it’s safe to feel and safe to be present. Each nourishing step of movement is like a gentle reminder: “I am here, and I am listening to myself.”

Rooting Through the Senses

Your senses are one of the most accessible ways to return to the present moment. When your mind is racing into the past or future, your body can gently guide you back to now through sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. Each sense becomes an anchor, reminding you that you are here, in this moment, safe enough to pause and breathe.

You might try:

Feet on the ground – Notice the pressure of your feet on the floor
Listening deeply – Pause to notice the sounds around you, whether it’s the hum of a fan, birds outside, or even your own breath.
- Touch and texture – Hold something soothing, like a stone, a warm mug, or soft fabric, and notice how it feels.
Engaging smell or taste – Light a candle, smell fresh herbs, or sip tea slowly, paying attention to the sensory experience.

Grounding through the senses works by gently shifting into connection with the present. These simple practices help your body register: “I am here, I am steady, I am supported.”

Over time, sensing the present can become a trusted tool—a way to root yourself whenever stress feels overwhelming or life pulls you away from balance.

Reclaiming Your Ground

When your nervous system begins to come into balance, it’s not about becoming a “new” person—it’s about returning to the wholeness that has always been within you. Healing allows your body and mind to move out of survival mode and into states of greater ease, presence, and connection.

You may begin to notice:

Increased ability to relax and rest — falling asleep more easily, or simply feeling calmer in your daily rhythms.
More emotional steadiness and resilience — finding yourself less reactive, and more able to pause and respond with clarity.
Greater connection with yourself and others — rebuilding trust in your own body, and opening space for authentic relationships.
A renewed sense of safety and presence — feeling more grounded in the here and now, instead of caught in constant worry or vigilance.

It’s important to remember: Balance does not mean eliminating all stress or “fixing” yourself. Life will always bring challenges, but balance gives you the capacity to meet those challenges without being consumed by them.

When your nervous system is balanced, you can shift fluidly between activation and rest—just as nature intended. This is where resilience is born, and where hope takes root. Balance opens the door to living with more choice, more presence, and more freedom.

Moving Forward With Compassion

If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or disconnected, know that this is not your fault. Your body has been doing its best to protect you, often in ways that you may not even realize. Feeling restless at night, snapping at someone you care about, struggling to focus, or shutting down when life feels too heavy—these are not signs of weakness. They are signs of a nervous system that has been working tirelessly to keep you safe.

Healing begins when we honor this truth. Instead of meeting ourselves with criticism—“Why can’t I just get it together?”—we begin to offer compassion: “Of course I feel this way. My body has carried so much.” This shift from blame to understanding is where space for healing opens.

Moving into balance is not about forcing yourself to be calm or striving to become someone new. It is a gentle journey of rediscovery—of remembering that your body holds wisdom, that your pace is valid, and that your needs matter. Sometimes this means reconnecting in small ways: noticing the warmth of sunlight on your skin, pausing to take a slow breath between tasks, or choosing a movement practice that feels supportive instead of demanding.

With time, intention, and support, your nervous system can learn what it means to feel safe again. You may notice moments of ease appearing where there used to be tension, or find that you can stay present in situations that once felt overwhelming. Slowly, balance becomes less of a distant hope and more of a lived experience.

Healing doesn’t mean erasing the past—it means creating a new relationship with yourself in the present. And in that relationship, you may discover resilience, softness, and a deeper sense of peace than you thought possible.

Wishing you Wellness,

Keri Sawyer

P.S. Remember: Healing doesn’t have to be a race. It can begin with awareness, safety, and compassion.

Openviewyoga.com – check out classes and Workshops that support nervous system balance.

Flowing Into Connection

Life experiences can leave lasting imprints on our bodies and minds. Stress, loss, or trauma can sometimes make us feel unsettled or disconnected—not only from others, but from ourselves. At times, our bodies may not feel predictable or steady, and that can make it difficult to trust our own signals or feel grounded in daily life.

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga offers a gentle, compassionate practice that isn’t about perfect poses or pushing through discomfort. Instead, it’s about noticing what’s happening inside and making choices based on a felt sense of the body. Each movement is an invitation to come back to yourself in a way that feels steady and empowering.

Cultivating Safety Within

When we carry stress or trauma, our bodies can sometimes feel unfamiliar or hard to predict. A racing heartbeat, sudden tension, or a sense of numbness may seem to come out of nowhere. These experiences can make it difficult to feel safe in our own skin.

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga introduces gentle and consistent practices that support a more reliable relationship with ourselves. Each movement is offered as an invitation. You choose what to explore, what to leave out, and when to pause. Over time, these body based choices create something powerful: a steady, more predictable sense of self. Instead of bracing for what might come next, we begin to notice that we can meet our experiences with curiosity and choice. That sense of steadiness becomes the ground for healing.

From Powerless to Possibility: The Role of Agency

Agency is more than just the ability to make choices—it’s the recognition that our choices matter. In Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, we learn that the way we move, breathe, and notice our bodies can actually change how we feel in the moment. A single decision to pause, stretch, or take a breath can create a shift in our bodies, helping us move toward presence.

Over time, these small moments of choice remind us of something even bigger: we are not stuck. We can influence how our bodies feel, and in doing so, we begin to influence the trajectory of our lives. Agency gives us the capacity to move from surviving toward thriving—one intentional choice at a time.

When we discover agency—the ability to shift how we feel and the course of our lives—we create the foundation for stronger, more authentic connections with others. Healing begins inside and ripples outward, carried forward on the currents of connection.

Strengthening Relationships Through Inner Steadiness

As we begin to build a greater sense of safety and agency within ourselves, it often shifts how we relate to others. When we feel steadier on the inside, we can show up in our relationships with more presence and ease.

We might notice moments where we can pause and respond more thoughtfully instead of reacting right away. We may find it feels a little easier to share honestly, because we’re more connected to our own voice. Over time, we can begin to create boundaries that respect both our own needs and the needs of those around us.

The healing we cultivate inside doesn’t stay inside—it ripples outward, helping us build relationships that feel safer, stronger, and more authentic.

Practicing Together: The Power of Non-Verbal Connection

Another unique part of trauma sensitive yoga is the experience of practicing alongside a facilitator. It’s not a teacher–student dynamic where one person instructs and the other follows. Instead, both the facilitator and participants are practicing together—each noticing sensations in their own body in the same shared space.

This creates a non-verbal connection that can feel deeply healing. To move and breathe alongside someone who is modeling healthy presence, respect, and choice—without judgment or pressure—offers a new experience of relationship. It’s a way of being with another person that is safe, grounded, and mutual.

Over time, this experience can carry into future relationships. Practicing non-verbal presence with someone trustworthy helps us learn that connection doesn’t have to mean control or fear. It can mean mutual respect, safety, and authenticity. This new template of relationship can become a foundation for building healthier, more supportive connections beyond the yoga space.

Currents of Connection

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga is more than movement—it’s a practice of rebuilding our relationship with ourselves and, through that, creating deeper connections with others. By cultivating safety, predictability, and agency, we nurture qualities like trust, openness, and compassion that allow relationships to grow in healthier, more supportive ways.

Healing begins within, but it doesn’t stop there. Like water flowing outward, each time we practice presence, each time we choose what feels right for us, each time we meet ourselves with kindness—it extends into our relationships and communities.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Interested in learning more? Openviewyoga.com