When I wake in the mornings, in that soft, dreamy theta state, I often receive downloads.
Insights that speak to the deep work I do—with myself, and with the brave humans who sit across from me.

Recently, I’ve started recording them as voice notes. Because sometimes what comes through isn’t just for me.

The other morning, I received this:

The Fear That Keeps Us Stuck

Why do we stay in relationships that no longer serve us?

Why do we cling to patterns that quietly hurt us?

Why do we struggle to leave situations that make us feel small, unseen, or disconnected?

Because the fear of being alone can be paralyzing.
It can feel overwhelming. Consuming.
It doesn’t whisper—it screams.

At some point in our lives, we’ve all suffered alone. And in those moments, we made a decision:

“I never want to feel this way again.”

So we stay.
We settle.
We shrink.

Because even the pain of staying feels safer than the fear of leaving.

The Early Wounds We Carry

Many of us were raised in homes where behaviour was punished, not understood—
Timeouts. Spankings. Cold silence. Emotional withdrawal.
We weren’t taught that we were having a hard time. We were told we were the problem.

When our caregivers pulled away, we didn’t question them. We questioned ourselves.

“I must be bad.”
“I must not be lovable.”
“Something’s wrong with me.”

Those early fractures—those tiny heartbreaks—created deep grooves in our nervous systems.

And our child brains, still under construction, did their best.
Some of us became fixers.
Some became rebels.
Some learned to numb.
Some stopped speaking.

But all of it? Was survival.

Why We Stay Stuck

This is how we develop patterns of staying in relationships, jobs, and roles that harm us.

Because leaving can feel like
another wound,
another rejection,
another abandonment.

Even when it’s the right thing. Even when we know we’re ready.

But What If We Don’t Want to Go Back?

For many, revisiting childhood wounds feels like opening Pandora’s box.

“It’s in the past—I’m fine.”
“What good will it do now?”

But those attachment fractures?

They’re still there.
Running silently in the background.
Shaping our fears. Our choices. Our relationships.

That’s how trauma gets passed down. Not just in our blood—but in our behavior.

The Cycle of Unconscious Living

Generational trauma lives in the patterns we don’t see.
It lives in the things we normalize:

Silence. Shutting down. “Toughing it out.” Overachieving. Avoidance.

Sometimes we don’t want to blame our parents.
Other times, we keep blaming them.
Maybe we don’t want to do the work.

But unprocessed pain doesn’t disappear.
It gets passed on.

To our children.
To our partners.
To ourselves.

Processing is not just for you.
So if not for you—

Be curious for them.

Stuck and Frozen Parts

One of the most beautiful things I witness in my work is this:

What happens when EMDR meets the stuck places.

Because trauma doesn’t fade on its own.
It freezes.
It tucks itself into your nervous system and waits.

And when it’s triggered? It takes over.

Have you ever been in a fight and thought,

“Why am I acting like a child?”
“Why are they acting like a child?”

It’s because those wounded parts of us never got to grow up.
They’ve been waiting—for safety. For permission. For someone to help them feel and release what they never could before.

No matter how destructive a situation becomes, the fear that keeps us stuck is often the same:

The fear of being alone.

And that fear? Runs deep.

Processing Begins with Curiosity

In my therapy rooms, I always invite curiosity.

Not shame.
Not blame.
Not embarrassment.

Just:

When did this pattern begin?
How far back does it go?
Is there a memory connected to it?

Generational trauma may not start with us.
But healing can.

Resource Recommendation:
Want to dive deeper into attachment?
I highly recommend Attached: The New Science of Adult Attachment by Dr. Amir Levine & Rachel Heller.
It’s available in print and on Audible.

My Own Journey to Being Alone

When my marriage ended, I was terrified of being alone.

Not just uncomfortable—terrified.
Like, jump-out-of-my-skin kind of fear.

One day, I had the thought:

“I want to go for a hike in the forest.”

I mentioned it to a friend.
They replied simply:

“Then go.”

But my brain screamed:

“Alone? Are you insane? I can’t do that!”

I had spent years avoiding silence. Avoiding stillness. Avoiding… me.
But something inside whispered: Try.

So I did.
I committed to one small thing:
Every Friday, I’d go to the forest.

At first, it was awkward.
Lonely.
Uncomfortable.

But I kept going.
I walked.
And as I walked, I spoke—voice-noting my thoughts, my grief, my growth.

I created rituals. I printed those words. Released them into water. Let go.

And then… I fell in love.
With my own company.
With the stillness.
With me.

A Mountain Worth Climbing

Last April, I challenged myself again.
I hiked Machu Picchu.

That mountain became a symbol—of every step I’d taken to learn how to walk through life on my own.

Reaching the top wasn’t just about the view.
It was about arriving back to myself.

To my heart.
To my desires.
To my worth.

And somewhere along the way, in the silence of that sacred place,
I began to hear the whispers.

The ones that only come when we’re quiet enough to listen.

Coming home to myself wasn’t easy.
But it was everything.
So incredibly worth it.

The Fear of Being Alone: The Hidden Pattern That Keeps Us Stuck