For some survivors, disappearing meant becoming small.

For others, disappearing may have looked completely different.

You got bigger.

Louder.

Funnier.

You filled the room before anyone else could.

Maybe you learned to make people laugh when things became uncomfortable. Maybe you talked when there was silence. Maybe you became the one with the story, the joke, the energy everyone noticed.

Maybe you laughed at times when other people didn’t understand why you were laughing.

Maybe sitting still felt impossible.

Maybe you needed to know what everyone was doing, where everyone was, what was happening next.

Maybe being in the center of things felt safer than being on the outside.

Sometimes taking up a lot of space can be a way of surviving, too.

There can be many reasons someone learned to be big, loud, funny, animated, or constantly moving. Perhaps being entertaining changed the feeling in a room. Perhaps being noticed felt safer than being overlooked. Perhaps keeping everyone engaged meant there was less opportunity for something unexpected to happen.

Or perhaps that is simply how someone learned to be in the world.

We don’t always know.

And that matters.

Because when someone arrives with a lot of energy, there can be a temptation to believe we know what they need.

Slow down.

Settle.

Be still.

Lower your voice.

Take a breath.

Sometimes these invitations are offered with care. We may believe we are helping someone feel safer or more regulated.

But what if becoming calmer isn’t the goal?

What if we are simply replacing one expectation with another?

Just as healing doesn’t necessarily mean teaching someone who has made themselves small to become bigger, it doesn’t necessarily mean teaching someone who has been big to become smaller.

Trauma-sensitive yoga can offer something different.

There can be movement without someone else deciding how much movement is enough.

Perhaps you move quickly.

Perhaps you move slowly.

Perhaps you make a large movement.

Perhaps you make a small one.

Perhaps you pause.

Perhaps you don’t.

You might begin one way and discover that you want something different.

The practitioner doesn’t have to decide that slower is better.

Stillness isn’t necessarily progress.

Less isn’t necessarily more regulated.

And calm doesn’t have to be the destination.

Sometimes trauma teaches you to become very good at reading everyone except yourself.

You notice the mood in the room.

You notice who is uncomfortable.

You notice when someone needs you to be funny, entertaining, agreeable, energetic, or okay.

You learn how to change the feeling in the room before you ever have a chance to notice what is happening inside of you.

And eventually, other people may begin telling you what you need there, too.

Slow down.

Settle.

Be still.

Calm yourself.

Try to relax.

The intention may be caring.

But there is something important that can get lost when we decide that healing means helping someone become the opposite of who they have learned to be.

Because perhaps the deeper question isn’t:

How do we help this person become calmer?

Perhaps it is:

What happens when this person no longer has to shape themselves around what someone else thinks they should be?

In trauma-sensitive yoga, that can begin in moments that might look almost insignificant from the outside.

You move, and no one tells you that you moved too much.

You pause because you want to, not because someone told you to settle down.

You keep moving because that is what feels right to you.

You try something and realize you don’t want it.

You change your mind.

You begin to notice the difference between doing something because it is expected of you and doing something because you chose it for yourself.

And maybe that is where something very important begins.

Because when so much of your life has been shaped around anticipating other people — their moods, their reactions, their needs, their expectations — discovering that you can have your own response can feel unfamiliar.

What do I want?

What feels right to me?

Do I want to keep going?

Do I want something different?

These are small questions.

But they can belong to something much bigger.

A life that is not always organized around everyone else.

A life in which someone else’s idea of who you should be doesn’t automatically become who you have to become.

Maybe you will discover that you love being loud.

Maybe your laughter will still fill the room.

Maybe you will always have a lot to say.

Maybe sometimes you will want to sit without saying anything at all.

None of those things tells us whether you are healing.

The important thing is that, little by little, they can become yours.

Not the laughter that kept everyone comfortable.

Not the stillness someone else asked you to find.

Not the version of you another person decided was healthier.

Yours.

Your movement.

Your pace.

Your response.

Your way of being in this moment.

Perhaps that is what we are really making room for.

Not a calmer person.

Not a smaller person.

Not even a different person.

A person who is beginning to experience that their life does not always have to be shaped by what someone else wants from them.

A person who can begin to ask:

What do I want?

And discover that their answer matters.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

For some survivors, disappearing was never about wanting to be invisible.

It was about staying safe.

You learned to read the room before you entered it. To notice the shift in someone’s voice, the look on their face, the feeling that something might change. You learned when to speak and when not to. When to move and when to stay still.

You learned how little space you could take up.

Maybe you pulled your shoulders in. Kept your arms close. Made your movements smaller. Lowered your voice. Tried not to ask for too much, need too much, or draw attention to yourself.

Maybe being small became a kind of protection.

Because being seen could feel dangerous.

Over time, that carefulness can become so familiar that it no longer feels like something you are doing.

It can begin to feel like who you are.

You step aside.

You hold back.

You become almost like an outline of yourself — present, but trying not to be too visible.

And then we tell people to take up space.

Be seen.

Be bold.

Be stronger.

Use your voice.

Sometimes these words are offered as encouragement. We want someone to know they matter. We want them to experience themselves as capable and powerful.

But what if that isn’t what they need?

There can be an assumption that healing should look like becoming bigger, brighter, louder, more confident. That someone who once made themselves small will know they are healing when they finally take up more room.

But that can become another expectation.

Another person deciding what strength should look like.

Another person deciding where someone should be headed.

For someone who survived by becoming small, there may have been intelligence in that response. There was a reason for pulling in, staying unnoticed, or moving carefully.

We don’t need to turn around and tell them that now they should do the opposite.

This is one of the places where trauma-sensitive yoga can offer something different.

Not by asking someone to become bigger.

Not by deciding what a movement should look like.

Not by assuming that a bigger movement is a better movement.

Instead, there can be an invitation to move and an opportunity for the participant to notice their own experience.

Perhaps you extend an arm and choose how far it moves.

Perhaps you move slowly.

Perhaps you make a larger shape.

Perhaps you keep the movement small.

Perhaps you begin and then change your mind.

Perhaps you don’t move at all.

The practitioner doesn’t need to decide that more movement is better, that bigger is braver, or that taking up more space means healing.

Because the size of the movement isn’t the point.

The experience belongs to the participant.

That matters because trauma can involve moments when choice, control, or a sense of ownership over one’s own experience was taken away. In trauma-sensitive yoga, even very small decisions can offer an opportunity to experience something different:

I can notice.

I can decide.

I can respond to what I am experiencing.

Taking up space, then, does not have to mean stretching farther or becoming more visible.

It might simply mean beginning to discover that there is no required shape.

No correct amount.

No expectation that you should be bigger than you are.

Perhaps taking up space can begin with something much more personal:

I am here.

I can notice what this feels like.

And I can choose how I want to be in this moment.

Maybe there will be a day when taking up more space feels powerful.

Maybe there won’t.

Maybe strength is extending your arms wide.

Maybe strength is keeping them close.

Maybe neither needs to be called strength at all.

We don’t have to decide what the experience means for someone else.

Perhaps the invitation is simpler:

There is no particular way you need to be here.

You can notice.

You can move.

You can choose.

And you can discover for yourself what taking up space — or not taking up space — means to you.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

The importance of knowing ourselves in the work of supporting others

When we enter professional spaces, it can be easy to imagine that we are stepping into a role.

Therapist. Facilitator. Yoga teacher. Coach. Clinician. Practitioner.

The role matters. Training matters. Ethics matter. Skill matters.

But we do not leave ourselves outside the room.

We bring our own histories.
Our ways of coping.
Our comfort with uncertainty.
Our relationship with choice.
Our impulse to help.
Our urge to fix.
Our sensitivity to disconnection.
Our capacity to stay present when something becomes difficult.

None of this means the work should become about us.

It does mean that who we are in the room matters.

We are always part of the relationship

Relational work is not something we perform from a distance.

We are participating in it.

The way we listen shapes the interaction.

The way we respond to silence matters.

The way we handle uncertainty matters.

The way we respond when someone says no matters.

The way we notice our own urgency matters.

The way we recognize when we are becoming disconnected matters.

Even when we are highly trained, there are moments when something in the work touches something in us.

We may feel impatient.

Protective.

Uncertain.

Pulled toward fixing.

Pulled toward withdrawing.

We may notice ourselves wanting the moment to go differently than it is going.

These responses are not necessarily signs that we are doing something wrong.

They are information.

The question is whether we are able to notice them.

Knowing ourselves is part of the work

There is a difference between bringing ourselves into the room and making our experience someone else’s responsibility.

The first is unavoidable.

The second is something we need to remain attentive to.

Knowing ourselves can help us recognize that distinction.

We may begin to notice:

Is this urgency mine?

Am I moving toward an answer because it is helpful, or because uncertainty is difficult for me?

Am I offering choice, or am I hoping someone chooses what would make me feel more comfortable?

Am I listening to what is actually being communicated, or to what I expect to hear?

Am I trying to repair something that has not been identified as broken?

These are not questions we answer once.

They are questions we return to.

The professional self is still a self

There can be pressure in helping professions to become increasingly composed, certain, and unaffected.

But professionalism does not require us to stop having an inner experience.

It asks us to be responsible for how we relate to that experience.

That may mean recognizing when we need support.

It may mean noticing when our own history is becoming especially present.

It may mean making space before responding.

It may mean seeking consultation.

It may mean returning to practices that help us reconnect with ourselves.

This is where continued practice becomes important.

Not because we should be trying to eliminate our reactions.

Not because enough practice will eventually make us neutral.

But because continued practice can help us stay familiar with ourselves.

It gives us opportunities to notice patterns.

To recognize what pulls us away from connection.

To feel when urgency is beginning to take over.

To remember that choice belongs to the person in front of us.

To return to curiosity when certainty becomes tempting.

Continued practice keeps the relationship alive

Training can give us language, frameworks, and skills.

Continued practice gives us opportunities to keep encountering ourselves within them.

That matters because we change.

The work changes.

The people we meet change us.

Experiences that once felt manageable may land differently later. Something we thought we understood may become more complex. We may discover a response in ourselves that we had not noticed before.

Continued practice gives us a place to remain curious about that.

Not to perfect ourselves.

Not to become unaffected.

But to stay connected enough to recognize what we are bringing with us.

And perhaps that is part of what allows us to meet another person with greater clarity.

Healing in everyday life

The way we relate to ourselves outside the professional space does not remain entirely separate from the way we show up within it.

How we respond to our own uncertainty.

How we notice our own limits.

How we make room for choice.

How we reconnect after losing connection.

How willing we are to remain curious about ourselves.

These things travel with us.

Maybe that is one reason continued practice matters so much.

It reminds us that our professional development is not only about what we know.

It is also about the relationship we continue to have with ourselves.

Because when we enter the room, we bring more than our training.

We bring ourselves.

And knowing what we bring with us is part of how we continue to care for the work.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Why continuing growth matters in the work of supporting others

Master your mind. Master your body.

We hear versions of these messages all the time.

There is an appealing promise underneath them: if we learn enough, become disciplined enough, or work hard enough, perhaps we can gain control over our experience.

But what does it actually mean to master your mind? Or master your body?

Does mastery mean our thoughts no longer surprise us? That our bodies respond the way we want them to? That we never become overwhelmed, uncertain, distracted, activated, or afraid?

And if those things still happen, have we somehow failed?

I wonder if connection offers us something very different from mastery.

Not control over our experience, but a way of deepening our relationship with it.

What are we trying to master?

Mastery often carries the idea of arrival.

We have learned enough. Experienced enough. Developed enough skill. We know what to do.

In professional spaces, that can be especially compelling. We train, gain credentials, develop skills, and naturally want to become more competent. There is real value in that. Skill matters. Knowledge matters. Ethics matter. Experience matters.

But relational work does not become predictable simply because we become more experienced.

The people we support are not problems we can become proficient at solving.

Our own responses do not disappear because we have more training.

Uncertainty does not stop showing up.

Neither does our humanity.

So perhaps the question is not simply whether mastery is possible.

Perhaps the more useful question is: why have we made mastery the goal?

What if there isn’t a point where we arrive?

There can be a subtle message in professional development that we are always moving toward a place where we should know enough, feel steady enough, and be experienced enough to handle whatever comes next.

As if there is a point where uncertainty should disappear.

But what if there isn’t?

What if it isn’t about becoming unaffected or always knowing what to do?

What if it is about learning how to stay connected to ourselves while experience continues to unfold?

That can mean noticing when we are rushing toward an answer.

When we are trying to fix.

When we are becoming disconnected.

When something in the moment is asking more of us than we expected.

When our certainty is getting in the way of curiosity.

When we need to pause before responding.

Those moments are not necessarily evidence that we should be further along.

They may simply be part of the work.

We need somewhere to return

There are things we understand intellectually that can be much harder to access when something is actually happening.

We may value choice and still notice an urge to direct.

We may believe deeply in being in relationship and still pull away when something becomes uncomfortable.

We may understand the importance of presence and still become hurried, distracted, or unsure.

Knowing something and being able to live it are not always the same.

We need somewhere to return.

To noticing.

To choice.

To connection.

To curiosity.

To the person in front of us.

Not perfectly.

Not every time.

But with a growing capacity to recognize what is happening and respond with intention.

That is different from mastery.

Maybe connection changes our relationship with uncertainty

The longer we do this work, the more we may begin to see how much we cannot control.

That does not necessarily make us less capable.

It may make us more responsive.

We may become more willing to admit that we do not know.

More able to stay present when there is no obvious answer.

More comfortable allowing someone else’s choice to remain theirs.

More willing to repair when we miss something.

More interested in what is happening than in proving that we know what should happen next.

In that sense, connection may not look like greater certainty.

It may look like a greater capacity to remain in relationship with uncertainty.

Perhaps practice isn’t proof that we are getting closer to mastery.

Perhaps it is how we stay connected to ourselves as experience continues to unfold.

To notice what is here.
To recognize what we need.
To make room for choice.
To return when we lose connection.

There may be no final arrival.

And maybe there doesn’t need to be.

Maybe contiued practice is simply one way we continue to meet ourselves with awareness, choice, and care.

What if it isn’t about mastery, but about deepening our relationship with ourselves?

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Someone pauses during practice.

They do not follow the movement being offered. They look away, sit differently, or remain still.

In that moment, the question is not whether they are participating correctly.

The question is whether connection can remain when they choose something different.

We often talk about safer spaces as though they are created by having the right language, the right structure, or the right approach.

Those things matter.

Predictability matters. Choice matters. Transparency matters. The way we hold power matters.

But none of them exists apart from relationship.

A space may begin to feel safer when another person senses that they are being met.

Not managed.

Not evaluated.

Not pushed toward a particular experience.

Met.

Connection is difficult to reduce to a technique. It is felt in the way we listen, the way we respond, and the way we make room for someone’s experience to be different from what we expected.

Connection Before Technique

In Trauma Center Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, we may use invitational language, offer choices, and support people in noticing what they experience within their bodies.

But the words themselves are not enough.

A choice may be offered verbally while a facilitator’s tone or pacing communicates that one option is preferred.

An invitation may sound open while carrying an unspoken expectation that someone will follow it.

A facilitator may say that stopping is welcome while appearing uncomfortable when someone actually stops.

People often notice much more than the language we use.

They notice whether we remain connected when they choose differently.

They notice whether their response disappoints us.

They notice whether we are truly curious or simply waiting for them to do what we planned.

Trauma-sensitive facilitation is not only about what we offer. It is also about the relationship we create while offering it.

Relational connection can communicate:

You do not have to perform for me.

You do not have to respond in a particular way.

You do not have to explain your choices for them to be respected.

You are still welcome here.

You do not have to override yourself in order to remain connected.

Connection Does Not Look the Same for Everyone

Connection does not always look like eye contact, disclosure, verbal participation, emotional expression, or closeness.

For some people, connection may be experienced through having space.

Through observing before participating.

Through remaining near trusted members of their community.

Through not being singled out.

Through knowing that no explanation is required.

Trust, authority, privacy, movement, participation, and respect may be understood differently across cultures, families, and communities.

What one facilitator experiences as openness may feel intrusive to someone else.

What is offered as encouragement may feel like pressure.

A relational approach cannot assume that connection will look the same for everyone.

For many people, healing is also not understood only as an individual process. It may be connected to family, community, ancestry, spirituality, land, language, and collective survival.

These relationships are not separate from healing; for many people, they are central to it.

Humility Makes Connection Possible

Connection asks us to loosen our certainty.

We may bring knowledge, training, and experience, but we are not the expert on another person’s body, culture, history, or lived experience.

We do not know what a movement may bring forward for them.

We do not know whether focusing on their breath will feel supportive.

We do not know whether continuing, changing, observing, pausing, or stopping will feel most accessible.

Imagine that someone chooses not to move during part of a practice.

A facilitator might feel the urge to offer another option, check in, reassure them, or help them reengage.

Those responses may come from care.

But humility asks us to pause long enough to notice whether our need to help is beginning to become pressure.

Can we allow their choice to stand without requiring an explanation?

Can we remain present without making their response into a problem?

Can we continue the practice without withdrawing warmth or attention?

This is where humility becomes relational.

It allows us to listen before interpreting.

It helps us remain curious when someone’s experience is different from our own.

It allows us to hold our knowledge without using it to override another person’s knowing.

Cultural humility asks even more of us.

It asks us to consider whose knowledge has been centered in our training and whose ways of understanding healing have been overlooked.

It reminds us that no model can fully explain another person’s experience or translate perfectly into every community.

The language may need to change.

The structure may need to change.

The practice may need to be shaped by the people and communities we are with.

Humility is not simply being open-minded. It is a willingness to listen, remain accountable, and let relationship change how we understand the work.

Connection Is Never Separate From Power

Connection does not happen outside of power.

A facilitator’s professional role, race, culture, language, education, class, gender, disability, credentials, institutional affiliations, and relationship to the community may all affect how their presence is experienced.

Even when we use invitational language, we still hold authority.

Even when participation is described as optional, someone may still feel pressure to comply.

Even when we practice alongside others, we may still control the structure, time, setting, and what happens next.

Power does not disappear because our intentions are caring.

Trust may grow when power is acknowledged rather than denied.

Humility asks us to notice the power we carry.

Transparency asks us to make it more visible.

Accountability asks us to remain open to how that power affects others, including in ways we did not intend.

This is especially important when working with people and communities whose experiences may include racism, colonization, displacement, cultural erasure, institutional betrayal, poverty, or systems that have repeatedly treated their bodies and communities as problems to be managed.

Warmth alone cannot repair structural harm.

But warmth joined with honesty, awareness, accountability, and a willingness to share power can become part of a more respectful relational experience.

Transparency, Vulnerability, and Repair

Connection grows when people understand what is happening, what is being offered, and what is expected of them.

Transparency may include naming how long a practice may last.

Explaining that their eyes can remain open.

Acknowledging that focusing on their breath may not feel supportive.

Clearly stating that they are welcome to change a movement, observe, pause, or not participate.

It also means being honest about our role and limitations.

Sometimes connection asks us to say:

I am not sure.

I misunderstood.

That did not land as I intended.

I need to listen more carefully.

Vulnerability in facilitation is not oversharing or asking participants to care for us. It is allowing ourselves to be human enough to acknowledge an impact without rushing to defend our intention.

Repair shows that connection does not depend on perfection.

It shows that accountability does not have to end belonging.

It reminds us that relationship can continue even when something needs to be named, reconsidered, or changed.

Care Must Be Relational

Care cannot be defined only by the person offering it.

What feels caring, respectful, responsive, or relational may differ across people and communities.

A facilitator may intend to be warm or encouraging while someone else experiences their approach as intrusive, overly familiar, or disconnected from cultural expectations.

This asks us to listen beyond our intentions.

It asks us to notice impact.

It asks us to let people and communities help define what dignity, accessibility, support, and connection mean to them.

Connection is not something we deliver to another person.

It is something we participate in.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Deep breathing is often offered as though it is universally helpful.

Take a slow breath.

Breathe into your belly.

Make the exhale longer.

Pause.

Try again.

For some people, these invitations can feel supportive. They may create more space, help the body settle, or offer something steady to return to.

For others, the moment attention turns toward the breath, anxiety increases.

The chest tightens.

The heart feels louder.

The body becomes more noticeable.

Instead of feeling more present, someone may feel trapped inside sensations they were already working hard to manage.

This does not mean they are doing the practice incorrectly.

It may mean the practice is asking them to notice something that does not yet feel tolerable.

When breathing begins to feel like panic

Breathing is always happening, but intentionally focusing on it can change the experience.

A person may suddenly become aware of tightness in the chest, difficulty getting a satisfying breath, dizziness, a racing heart, or the fear that they are not breathing correctly.

For someone who has experienced panic, these sensations may already carry meaning.

A deeper breath may not feel expansive.

It may feel like the beginning of something frightening.

For someone who has spent a long time disconnecting from internal sensations, being asked to turn inward may also feel overwhelming. What appears to be a simple breathing exercise may bring attention to physical experiences that have been avoided for important reasons.

The body is not resisting healing.

It may be communicating that the invitation feels too fast, too intense, or too familiar.

Why is deep breathing given so much space in therapeutic settings?

Breathing practices are accessible, portable, and easy to introduce. They do not require equipment, and they can sometimes support regulation.

But familiarity can create false simplicity.

Because everyone breathes, it can be easy to assume that guiding the breath requires little training.

Yet breathwork is still an intervention.

It directs attention.

It changes internal sensation.

It can influence arousal.

It can also carry an unspoken expectation that the person should become more settled, more focused, or more manageable.

The words may sound invitational while the relationship communicates something else:

This should help.

Try harder.

Stay with it.

Go deeper.

You need to calm down.

When the person does not feel better, they may begin to believe they have failed at something everyone else finds easy.

They may also override what they are experiencing in order to cooperate with the therapist, teacher, or facilitator.

That is where a breathing practice can move from supportive to coercive.

Guidance carries power

The person leading a therapeutic or movement-based practice holds influence, even when they do not intend to.

A suggestion can feel like an instruction.

An invitation can feel like an expectation.

A pause intended to create space can feel like pressure to continue.

This matters because many people have learned to preserve relationships by complying.

They may stay with a practice because they do not want to disappoint the person guiding them. They may say that they are okay because stopping feels impolite. They may continue breathing more deeply while their anxiety increases because they assume the professional knows what their body needs better than they do.

Trauma-sensitive practice requires more than using softer language.

It requires attention to what is happening in the relationship.

Is the person genuinely free to decline?

Can they change their mind after beginning?

Can they say that the practice is making things worse?

Will they be believed?

Will the relationship remain intact if they stop?

The breath does not have to be controlled

Not every breathing practice needs to involve deeper, slower, or more regulated breathing.

Someone might notice their natural breath without changing it.

They might notice movement in only one part of the body.

They might focus on contact with the floor, sounds in the room, or something they can see.

They might choose movement instead of stillness.

They might decide not to attend to the breath at all.

The purpose is not to find a more acceptable way to get someone back to the original exercise.

The purpose is to honor what they are noticing.

Sometimes the most trauma-sensitive response is not another modification.

It is stopping.

The practice is also in the relationship

Perhaps the most important part of a breathing practice is not what happens to the breath.

It is what happens when someone says:

“This is making me more anxious.”

“This doesn’t feel good.”

“I want to stop.”

Do they have to defend their experience?

Are they encouraged to stay for one more breath?

Does the person guiding them become disappointed, corrective, or overly reassuring?

Or are they believed?

Can they pause, change direction, or stop without feeling that connection is at risk?

A trauma-sensitive relationship does not ask someone to override their body in order to preserve the relationship.

It communicates:

You do not have to continue for me.

You do not have to feel better for this practice to be successful.

You are allowed to know something about your experience that I do not.

Choice is not simply one option offered at the beginning of an exercise.

It must remain available throughout the experience.

The goal is not to persuade someone to stay with the breath.

It is to create a relationship where their experience can be heard, their boundaries can be respected, and choice and connection can exist together.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Some sessions stay with you long after they end.

I was meeting one-on-one with an adolescent girl who had chosen to participate in trauma-sensitive yoga. As with every session, participating was always optional.

That day, she arrived with her shoulders slumped, speaking softly, barely above a whisper. She wasn’t bringing much energy into the room, and that was okay. That was where she was.

We began the way we often did. I laid out a small deck of yoga cards and invited her to choose a few movements that felt right to her. The cards were familiar, offering a simple opportunity to make choices about how she wanted to begin.

The movements were invitations, not expectations. There was space to explore a smaller or larger range of movement, a slower or quicker pace, or even to choose not to move at all. We shared the practice together, while each of us remained free to move at our own pace, explore our own range of movement, and make our own choices.

There wasn’t a goal to help her become more energetic or more engaged. The invitation was simply to notice what was possible in that moment.

Over time, something shifted.

Not dramatically. Not all at once.

Little by little, I noticed her movements becoming a little larger. By the time we arrived at a few sun breaths, there was more reach than when we had begun. It wasn’t something I was trying to create. It was simply something I noticed.

What stayed with me wasn’t that her movements changed.

What stayed with me was how different that session might have been if I had expected her to meet me where I was instead of taking the time to meet her where she was.

As facilitators, therapists, and helping professionals, it’s easy to feel responsible for moving people forward. But that day reminded me that meaningful change doesn’t always begin by asking someone to go somewhere new.

Sometimes it begins by honoring where they’ve already had the courage to arrive.

We don’t always know what it has taken for someone to walk through the door. The energy they have, the pace they’re moving at, the amount they’re willing to engage—those may not be obstacles to overcome. They may simply be an honest expression of what is possible in that moment.

When we meet people there, without asking them to become someone different before we begin, we create space for something new to unfold.

That moment has stayed with me.

And it continues to leave me wondering:

How might our work change if we spent a little less time trying to move people forward and a little more time creating space for where they are?

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

What if the opposite of control isn’t chaos?

What if there’s something in between?

A space where we can notice.

A space where we can become curious.

A space where even the smallest choice can begin to shift our experience.

Many of us spend our days trying to stay one step ahead of life. We make plans, solve problems, anticipate what could go wrong, and work hard to create certainty in an uncertain world.

There is nothing wrong with that.

In fact, for many people, the desire for control developed for good reason. When life has felt unpredictable or overwhelming, seeking control can become a way of creating a sense of safety. It is a deeply human response.

The challenge is that life is always changing.

We cannot control every conversation, every circumstance, or every outcome. The more tightly we hold on to certainty, the more exhausting life can become.

But perhaps the answer isn’t to give up control altogether.

Perhaps it’s to discover what lives alongside it.

Trauma-sensitive yoga offers an opportunity to explore that space—not by asking us to force anything, but by inviting us to notice what is happening right now.

You’re Welcome to notice the contact between your feet and the floor.

Perhaps become curious about a sensation in your shoulders?

You’re invited to start circling your shoulders or might choose to move your shoulders up and down.

These may seem like ordinary moments, but they are opportunities to practice something many of us overlook: choice.

Not the life-changing kind.

The kind that reminds us we are participating in our experience, one moment at a time.

Over time, these small moments of choice can begin to change the way we relate to ourselves. We may notice that while we cannot always control what life brings, we can cultivate a different relationship with what we are experiencing in the present moment.

That isn’t about getting it right.

It isn’t about becoming perfectly calm or perfectly mindful.

It’s about becoming more available to what is here.

Perhaps healing doesn’t ask us to control more.

Perhaps it begins by noticing the space between what we cannot control and the choices that are still available to us.

Sometimes those choices are as simple as noticing a breath.

Feeling your feet against the ground.

Exploring a movement.

Or choosing to pause.

Small choices rarely feel dramatic.

Yet they can gently remind us that possibility often begins in the present moment.

Not by controlling life—

but by meeting it, one choice at a time.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

One of the questions I often hear from people interested in facilitating Trauma Center Trauma-Sensitive Yoga (TCTSY) is, “How much should I practice before I begin facilitating?”

My answer is usually the same:

Longer than you think.

Not because there is a required number of hours. Not because you need to be “healed” before supporting others. And certainly not because you need to become an expert in your own experience.

The reason is much simpler.

TCTSY is not something we learn only with our minds.

It is something we learn through our bodies.

When we first begin practicing, we often notice the obvious things. We might notice sensations, preferences, comfort, discomfort, movement, stillness. But over time, something deeper begins to unfold.

We start to recognize patterns.

We notice how quickly we move away from discomfort. We notice how often we override our own preferences. We notice how unfamiliar choice can sometimes feel. We notice the moments when we’re present and the moments when we’re not.

The body reveals itself slowly.

What I learned in my first few months of practice is very different from what I understand years later. The practice continues to teach me because I continue to change.

That’s one of the reasons I believe it is so important to spend significant time practicing before facilitating.

Embodiment is not a concept. It’s a relationship.

And relationships take time.

One of the most meaningful aspects of TCTSY is the opportunity to explore choice. Not the big life-altering choices we often think about, but the small choices that happen moment by moment.

Do I lift my arms or keep them lowered?

Do I continue with this shape or try something different?

Do I move more slowly? More quickly? Or not at all?

These choices may seem simple, but they can tell us a great deal about ourselves.

The longer we practice, the more we begin to understand that choice isn’t always easy. Neither is paying attention to our bodies. Neither is staying curious when something feels unfamiliar, vulnerable, or uncertain.

And that understanding changes us.

Over time, many of us become less attached to getting it right.

We become more patient.

More curious.

More willing to stay with uncertainty.

More respectful of another person’s experience.

These aren’t skills we master in a training. They are qualities that develop through practice.

Perhaps most importantly, our own practice teaches us how to tolerate not knowing.

Many of us come to this work as therapists, teachers, coaches, healers, or helping professionals. We have been trained to explain, guide, assess, and support.

TCTSY asks something different of us.

It asks us to trust that each person’s experience belongs to them.

It asks us to make room for exploration rather than interpretation.

It asks us to stay curious rather than assume we know.

That way of being takes practice.

And people can feel the difference.

Not because facilitators need to have all the answers. In fact, quite the opposite.

People can often sense when invitations come from lived experience rather than from a script. They can feel when a facilitator has spent time exploring these experiences in their own body.

There is a groundedness that comes from being a practitioner first.

And that matters.

The people who come to TCTSY groups are trusting us with something precious. Some may be reconnecting with their bodies after years of disconnection. Some may be exploring choice in a new way. Some may simply be wondering what it feels like to notice themselves.

They deserve our commitment.

Not perfection.

Not expertise.

Commitment.

They deserve facilitators who continue to practice. Facilitators who remain students of the work. Facilitators who are willing to be surprised by their own experience again and again.

Because the truth is, our personal practice is not something we complete before we facilitate.

It is the ground we stand on.

It shapes how we listen, how we speak, how we offer invitations, and how we relate to the people who practice with us.

The longer we stay connected to our own embodied experience, the more authenticity, humility, and respect we bring into the room.

For me, that is why practice matters.

Not because there is a finish line we must reach before facilitating.

But because TCTSY is not something we teach.

It is something we live.

And the people who practice with us deserve nothing less than our willingness to keep practicing.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Have you ever felt disconnected from yourself—even when everything in your life looks fine from the outside?

You keep showing up.

You meet responsibilities. You care for others. You get through your day.

Yet beneath the busyness, there may be a quiet feeling that something is missing. A sense that you’ve lost touch with yourself.

If you’ve ever felt that way, you’re not alone.

Many people come to Trauma-Sensitive Yoga believing they need to find themselves again. They imagine healing as a journey back to someone they used to be or a destination they have yet to reach.

But what if we aren’t actually lost?

What if the path back to ourselves is closer than we think?

When Survival Becomes a Way of Life

I often hear people say:

“I don’t even know what I need anymore.”

They’ve spent years caring for children, supporting partners, meeting expectations, navigating difficult relationships, or simply doing what was necessary to get through challenging experiences.

Some have lived through trauma. Others have endured chronic stress, burnout, grief, or overwhelming life transitions.

Somewhere along the way, they learned to ignore the signals from their own bodies.

Not because they wanted to.

Because survival required it.

Our nervous systems are designed to protect us. When we experience adversity, our bodies adapt in remarkable ways to help us cope.

We may become highly productive and constantly busy.

We may disconnect from our emotions.

We may stop noticing our own needs.

We may feel numb, exhausted, restless, or perpetually on edge.

These are not signs that something is wrong with us.

They are signs that our bodies have been working hard to keep us safe.

The challenge is that the survival strategies that once protected us can eventually leave us feeling disconnected from ourselves.

The Hidden Cost of Disconnection

Many people don’t realize how disconnected they’ve become until they pause long enough to notice.

They may struggle to answer simple questions:

• What am I feeling right now?
• What does my body need?
• When was the last time I felt truly present?
• What brings me joy?

Instead, life can begin to feel like a series of tasks to complete.

Days blur together.

Relationships feel distant.

Rest becomes difficult.

Even moments of happiness can feel just out of reach.

Underneath it all is often a longing—not to become someone different, but to feel connected again.

To feel alive.

To feel at home within ourselves.

Healing Begins with Noticing

In a culture that encourages us to push harder, do more, and constantly improve ourselves, healing can seem like another project to complete.

Trauma-informed approaches offer something different.

Healing often begins not with striving, but with noticing.

Noticing your feet touching the ground.

Noticing the sensation of your breath moving in and out.

Noticing the support of the chair beneath you.

Noticing that you are here.

Right now.

These small moments may seem insignificant, but they are often where reconnection begins.

Each moment of awareness strengthens our relationship with ourselves.

Each moment of presence reminds us that our body is not an obstacle to overcome but a source of wisdom, information, and experience.

What Makes Trauma-Sensitive Yoga Different?

In Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, participants are invited—not instructed—to explore movement and awareness.

You might notice the feeling of your feet against the floor.

You might choose whether to move your arms or remain still.

You might become aware of your breathing.

There is no expectation to perform.

No pressure to push beyond your comfort.

No right way to participate.

This emphasis on choice and self-awareness can be especially meaningful for individuals whose experiences have left them feeling disconnected from their bodies or uncertain about their own needs.

Over time, these small experiences can help rebuild trust in ourselves.

You May Be Closer Than You Think

Many of us spend years searching for the person we think we’ve lost.

Yet beneath the stress, the survival strategies, and the endless demands of life, there is still a part of us that has been here all along.

Waiting to be noticed.

Waiting to be heard.

Waiting to be welcomed back with compassion.

Perhaps healing isn’t a journey back to who we used to be.

Perhaps it’s an invitation to meet ourselves exactly as we are, right now.

One breath.

One choice.

One moment at a time.

An Invitation

If you’re longing to feel more connected to yourself, Trauma-Sensitive Yoga offers a gentle and supportive place to begin.

Together, we explore practices that support nervous system regulation, body awareness, self-compassion, and authentic connection—all grounded in the principles of compassion, connection, and choice.

You don’t have to force healing.

You don’t have to have it all figured out.

You don’t have to become someone new.

You can begin exactly where you are.

And that is enough.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer