December 3, 2018

Healing from Trauma can be Beautiful, Too.

I love these moments
When the curtains of the painful past
And I see
With new eyes.

I greet now
With every last part of me.
I am so thirsty
For the thick nectar richness
Of this newness.
It tingles in my toes and rings out in my ears,
I stick out my tongue to taste it,
I breathe it in my lungs.

Oh, how my lungs soar and expand
As I stand tall
And sit deeply
Into my hips and feet.
The past whispers and echoes, a gossamer ghost;
But the more I walk into it,
The more I look at it with the eyes of my heart:
The less it haunts me.
The less that trauma is my life.
The more I become myself.
The more I become something other than a pulsating, raw nerve.

I have substance.
I have form.
I have bones, skin, preferences, likes, and dislikes,
A voice that rings and resounds best in seas of poetry where clarity comes like a bell
And vibrates through my skeleton.
I am not lost anymore.
I not helpless anymore.
I am here.
I am powerful.

And this realization, though it packs a punch of fire,
A thousand ruby sparklers in a mid-July sky,
It is soothing, too.
It melts like water.
As I separate out
The sticky spiderwebs of what used to be
And what is now true.
And I am mostly sweetly surprised
When I look around
And there is so much peace, at least.

There is quiet, like a cozy snowfall.
There is beauty, revealed by the path of pain.
There is the love I created through it all.
I made it.
I am not perfect, but I am here.
Anchored in this moment in time.

Ease grows, smooth as butter;
That’s how I am held in this moment:
By the arms of the Great Mother.
So very softly
I am held.
I am calm.
I am powerful.
I am soft.
I am strong.
I am that which a list of adjectives can never explain.
I am a spark of soul, of magic, of wild, incandescent life

I breathe in, and the sun shines on my cheeks,
My lungs swallow an ocean of breath,
And little by little
More than anything

My flesh enraptured with the knowing that
I am not meant to be this splintered thing;
I was not always broken.
And yes, in the cracks that the pain made
Salty tears stung,
But wisdom


author: Sarah Harvey

Image: Svetlana Pochatun/Unsplash

Editor: Nicole Cameron

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Sarah Harvey

Sarah Harvey resides in the mysterious mountains of western North Carolina. Through the journey of healing her own trauma and pain, she has found power in poetry, art, and dance. She loves supporting people to step into their power, find their voices, and flourish. She believes in resilience. She believes that sometimes, our darkest days lead to the most unexpected, breathless joy. She currently offers life coaching sessions and is pursuing her Masters in Counseling. She feels passionate about supporting sensitive souls with a grounded, creative, and gentle approach.  Follow Sarah on Facebook and her website!