When we look at political conflict, it is easy to stay focused on policies, parties, and headlines. Yet beneath these surface struggles live much older stories about fear, belonging, and the need to feel safe. Drawing on the work of Erich Fromm and on what we now know about early development and trauma, this essay explores how the roots of today’s political behavior can be traced back to childhood experiences of attachment, shame, and identity. It offers a way of seeing our current moment not only as a political crisis, but as a human one that asks for deeper understanding and more relational forms of healing.

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

@uns__nstudio

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?

Motivational quotes can uplift, but their impact depends on our mindset. In this post, I reflect on my journey through personal struggles, exploring the duality of inspirational messages and the power of intentional listening. What would change if we listened as intently to our loved ones as we do to the words on our walls? What would we write, if given the space to craft our own inspirational message?

As I begin packing for our upcoming trip to Malaga, Spain, I find myself reflecting on the rituals of cleansing and preparing for new experiences. It’s interesting how the process of packing for sunshine feels different than the usual post-holiday cleanup. After months of overcast skies, I feel an overwhelming need to escape the grayness and embrace the warmth and light that Malaga promises. There’s something healing about sunlight, about feeling the fresh air after days of dreary weather. But beyond the practicalities of travel, I’m reminded that the distractions—like flight prices and logistics—are just a way of avoiding the deeper questions that my soul is longing to answer. As we embark on this journey, I know that the real transition I seek is not just geographical, but personal.

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.

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.