This post includes references to childhood trauma, dissociation, and ritual abuse. While no graphic details are shared, the themes may be triggering for some readers. Please read with care and tend to your own well-being as needed.
Last night I was taken on a beautiful—and harrowing—healing journey.
I’ve always had trouble sleeping, but in recent years it’s escalated to full-blown restlessness. I’m talking near-sleepless nights for no discernible reason (at least, not one I was willing to look at). I don’t eat sugar. I’m meticulous with my diet. I take magnesium and a cocktail of anti-inflammatory supplements. So “restless leg syndrome” should not be a thing. And yet, every night, my legs feel like they’re trying to run a marathon, while deep-seated inflammation rages in my body like it owns the place.
A hot bath or shower in the middle of the night sometimes helps. But not always.
For the longest time, I chalked it up to hormones. But even after tending to that, the symptoms persisted. Last night, the Holy Spirit gently opened my eyes to the pattern, one I had been willfully dissociating from. I didn’t want to look at it until it started costing me too much.
The sleep deprivation has been wreaking havoc in my life. I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
The decision I made? To stop running. To stop dissociating. To step into a truth I had spent my whole life trying to keep under the rug.
The motive? To be healed of the very things I thought I’d never have to face. I’ve done a lot of healing in my life, but there’s certain things I was hoping to get a ‘skip’ on. Newsflash: it doesn’t work that way.
I grew up in a home where ritual abuse was practiced. The church and Christian school I attended were central to it.
I won’t share explicit memories, that would be too triggering for some, and too disorienting for others. But here’s a glimpse, for context: I would often wake up surrounded by people, in unfamiliar places, or with visitors in my room. I was always told, “You were just sleepwalking—go back to bed.” And I believed them. I didn’t know I was being gaslit.
Even as a child, my body started to break down: chronic digestive issues, early rheumatoid arthritis, dislocations, severe pain during periods. I didn’t piece it together until adulthood.
But I’ve never spoken these things out loud, not to pastors, not to therapists, not even to friends. I’ve sensed that people wouldn’t know how to respond, that I’d be met with blank eyes or subtle disbelief. And honestly, I’ve experienced that exact thing even when I’ve shared lesser pieces of my story with pastors and therapists. It’s retraumatizing to open a wound and find no one able—or willing—to bear witness to it.
So, I now know that shaking is an innate human trauma response, part of the autonomic nervous system’s way of releasing energy after a threat. When we can’t shake it out, it lodges itself in our bodies. In the psoas muscles especially. But in those early years, I was often drugged, which meant that natural response never had a chance. Not only were the experiences dissociated, but the trauma was also frozen in my cells.
This trauma now wants to be processed. It wants to come up for healing and be released. That is why my body won’t stop moving at night.
And so… here I am.Fifty years old. A professional. A mother of four now-grown children. A mediator. A healer. Someone who, by all accounts, has worked incredibly hard to build a life of purpose, safety, and service.
And yet my body tells me that the deepest parts of my story are still waiting.
I used to believe that all the trauma work I had done as a young adult, through training programs, books, retreats, and mentorships had earned me an exemption from the worst of it. I believed I could outgrow it. Transcend it. Maybe even bypass it.
But trauma doesn’t negotiate.
And the body never lies.
Last night, I chose to use a method I’ve returned to many times: restoring the timeline.
This gentle, prayer-based inner healing technique allows Jesus or another trusted companion, like an angel to travel with you along the river of your physical timeline. Together, you return to the place of trauma; not to relive it, but to rescue the part of you that got frozen there. The fragmented self is invited into the light. Into the present. Into safety. And from there, healing becomes possible.
As always, it was beautiful. It was kind. It was enough.
Alongside this, I’ve also embraced homeopathy—not as a replacement for prayer or inner healing, but as a complementary energetic tool. Most people misunderstand homeopathy, thinking it’s just a weaker version of herbal medicine or a placebo. It’s not. It’s energy medicine, and when matched properly to your symptoms—physical and emotional—it can work deep, even down to the cellular and epigenetic level.
In this season, I’ve been pairing the two: homeopathy and timeline restoration. One prepares the body. The other mends the soul. Both are done gently, without force or drama or emotional excavation.
So here I am, in the stillness after the storm, feeling both more whole and more human.
As I enter this next chapter of life, no longer raising children, no longer surviving, I feel an unmistakable call to share this—not as a therapist or expert, but as a witness. As someone who has walked the long road and knows how precious it is to find even one step of freedom.
If you’ve been carrying the unspoken, the unspeakable, the unfelt—
Please know: there are ways to heal that are tender, safe, and real.
You don’t have to fall apart to be made whole.
You just have to decide…
That it’s time.
Spiral Up! 
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