Can we talk about loneliness?

Not as a statistic.
Not as a trending topic.
But as something we each carry—quietly, or not so quietly—through different stages of life.

Over the past decade, I have noticed loneliness in unexpected places. Even with family, friends, and a busy career, it can still find a way in.

I wrote this piece to share my own story and to ask a question I think we all need to sit with:

What would it take to live in a way that loosens its grip?

In the midst of preparing for my first exams in the Master of Science in Integrative Therapy program, I’ve been deeply immersed in The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel van der Kolk, alongside a wealth of academic and scientific research. The material I’m studying has been both academically enriching and personally affirming. Looking back on my journey, from finance and marketing to midwifery care, I see how each step, including my own experience as a survivor of trauma, has shaped my path.

Through the lens of trauma studies, I now understand how trauma isn’t just a psychological wound—it’s a physiological imprint that can be passed down through generations. As we deepen our understanding of embodied healing, the importance of early intervention becomes clear. The body holds the wisdom to heal, and by listening to it, we have the power to break the cycle of trauma for future generations.

Unsplash Image by Unseen Studio

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We often think of mental health in terms of major life changes—therapy, self-help programs, or big commitments. But what if the real key to well-being lies in the small, daily habits we build? Just like brushing our teeth prevents cavities, small mental health practices help prevent stress, anxiety, and burnout.

From mindfulness exercises to consistent sleep routines, small actions can have a profound impact over time. You don’t need to overhaul your life—just a few minutes each day can make a difference. So, what’s one small step you can take today for your mental health?

In the quiet moments of healing, we often rediscover the joy we thought was lost. It’s not about erasing pain but finding peace amidst it. Through compassion, self-love, and intentional living, we can gently guide ourselves from the depths of grief towards the light of joy. By allowing ourselves to feel, to grieve, and to heal, we create the space for joy to return—reminding us that even after the darkest times, beauty and happiness can flourish once again.

Fear connects us all, a silent companion in our darkest moments. It whispers doubts into the quiet of the night and grips our hearts when we face the unknown. But within this shared struggle lies our shared humanity. By embracing our fears, we uncover the courage to grow, to heal, and to find beauty even in vulnerability.

The typewriter was more than just a machine; it was a sanctuary. In the chaos of my childhood, it was the one constant, the one thing that allowed me to express the turmoil inside. The rhythmic clack of the keys was my only form of self-expression, and it became my lifeline. The act of writing grounded me, gave me purpose, and helped me heal. Writing wasn’t just a pastime—it was my way of survival, my way of making sense of the world. Even now, as technology changes, that sound, that rhythm, is still a part of me.

Every night, I stood at the edge of the brown shag carpet, staring at the towering canopy bed, my heart racing as shadows twisted into shapes that seemed to come alive. I would take a deep breath and leap, certain the monsters hiding beneath would grab me if I didn’t.

But the jump wasn’t just about bedtime. My whole life felt like one long leap into the unknown—moving to Amarillo, starting a new school, living with Mama Jean and Daddy Bud. Everything was new, strange, and unsettling. The only constant through it all was the rhythmic clack of the typewriter, its steady sound grounding me when everything else felt uncertain.

In the glow of daylight, I fought back. I invented stories on Mama Jean’s typewriter—stories where the monsters were defeated, where the lonely girl found her place. I typed until my fingers ached, until the room felt less dark, until the monsters went silent. For a while.

Years later, I realized the monsters were never gone; they simply changed form. As a child, they took shape in the shadows of a new bedroom. As an adult, they hid in the recesses of my memory, emerging during moments of doubt or fear. But back then, the typewriter gave me a tool to face them. Every clack of its keys was an act of defiance, a small victory against the unseen forces trying to pull me down.

As a child, I couldn’t grasp the complexities of trauma or why it settled in my young heart like a heavy fog. I just knew I felt out of place, carrying a sadness that words couldn’t capture. The adults around me, though filled with love, were navigating their own struggles, leaving me to wrestle with emotions I couldn’t name. It wasn’t until years later that I began to see the puzzle of our family more clearly—the way each of us carried pieces of resilience and unspoken pain. Through it all, Mama Jean’s typewriter became my silent confidant, the one place I could pour out my tangled thoughts and begin to make sense of my world.

In Amarillo, nothing felt familiar—not the suburban streets, not the orderly rows of houses, and certainly not the buildings stacked atop each other like bales of hay in the city’s heart. I had come from a place where life sprawled outward—fields stretching to the horizon, barefoot days spent chasing fireflies, and people who spoke in the rhythm of cicadas. Here, everything rose up, as if the world were trying to press me into the ground.

I didn’t fit. My clothes, my accent, even my wiry frame marked me as different. I was the redneck farm girl who didn’t understand why sidewalks replaced dirt paths or why the sky seemed smaller here. At night, the shadows cast by streetlights through the canopy bed’s frilly lace convinced me that monsters lay in wait. By day, those same monsters followed me into classrooms where my sharp mind didn’t help me make friends, only made me more of an outsider.

The typewriter became my sanctuary. Its keys were solid and predictable, a grounding rhythm I could control in a world that felt like a storm. When I pressed down, the letters landed on paper in neat, orderly lines, as if it were possible to make sense of things after all.

Resilience isn’t about avoiding life’s hardships—it’s about learning to adapt, grow, and thrive despite them. Discover practical ways to cultivate resilience and transform challenges into opportunities for personal growth and strength.