Sitting at My Fire

Have you ever heard people say, “This happened for you, not to you”, or “everything happens for a reason”?

I remember hearing that long before I began any of my healing work. And to be honest—it used to make me mad. Enraged in fact.

When my dad died at 18, people would say, “One day, this thing—your dad dying—is going to help so many people.”
And I wanted to scream.

Because in the midst of my grief and sorrow and the overwhelming unfairness of it all—I couldn't see it. I couldn’t even reach for that idea. I felt so unseen.

People would say things like, “This will pass” or “It won’t always hurt this much.”
I think they meant well. I think they were trying to offer hope… trying to help me see that it wouldn’t last forever. But in those moments when my heart was breaking open and I was drowning in sorrow—it wasn’t helpful.

Why?

Because it felt like they were trying to get me to skip the feeling.
To skip the sitting.
To skip the fire.

They wanted to fast-forward to healing, without sitting in the grief.
There was no one helping me process.
Just people trying to get me to the other side without actually walking me through the middle.

And so… I buried it.
Because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do.
Every time something painful happened, I buried that too.

No one had modelled how to sit with the ache.
So I just... kept burying.

Back then, I didn’t know there were ways to heal that didn’t require talking about the pain.
I didn’t know support could look so different—quiet, tapping, and deeply effective.

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I recently returned from Sanibel, Florida.
If you’ve never been, let me tell you—there’s magic in the sand there.

The beach is scattered with the most extraordinary seashells.
Every time you walk along the water’s edge, there’s this little flutter of wonder:
What will I find today? What’s waiting for me beneath the surface?

If you bring a little shovel and start digging, you’ll find thousands of hidden shells beneath the sand.

And it hit me.

That’s what healing work is like.

When we finally decide to go beneath the surface—when we dig—we discover all these buried parts. The shells. The wounds. The live wires.

They’ve just been sitting there.
Quiet. Hidden.
Until something touches them. And then—zap.

A trigger.
A reaction.
A flood of emotion.
A behaviour we don’t quite understand.

And most of the time, it’s happening unconsciously.

Because like me, many of us were never taught how to sit with the pain.
We were never given the gift of witnessing.
So we buried it.

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What I’ve come to know—deep in my bones—is this:

In order for something that’s happened to us to transform into a teaching or a gift,
we first have to heal it. Sit with it. Really SEE it.

Only then—only then—can we begin to see the wisdom inside it.
The pattern. The meaning. The deeper purpose.

And here’s the beautiful part: when we do that work, when we sit with our wounds instead of burying them, we gain something priceless—the ability to hold space for others.

I’ve noticed this in my work, especially when someone comes into session who’s lost a parent at a young age.
I can feel that pain.
Not as a live wire anymore. But as something integrated. Something softened.

And that’s not just because time has passed.
It’s because I’ve done my own healing work—specifically through EMDR.

It’s been transformative for me—because I had no idea what was under the surface.
I didn’t realize I was holding so much.
Through EMDR, I was able to see and make sense of why I felt the way I did.
I was able to let go of so much I didn’t even know I was carrying.

And because of that, I can now offer presence—not reactivity.
I don’t hijack someone’s story with my own. I don’t bleed into their pain.

Instead, I witness it.
I hold it.
I stay.
And in that space, they get to discover their own knowing.

That human connection—the one that whispers you’re not alone—that’s everything.

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What I see in the world, over and over, is this:
When we don’t heal our own buried pain, we struggle to meet others in theirs.

We lose our capacity to connect with suffering.
Not because we’re bad or broken, but because somewhere inside, there’s a voice saying,
“Well, no one helped me through my pain. Why should I help them through theirs?”

And so, we harden.
We look at homelessness and feel disgust.
We see addiction and feel anger.
We witness mental illness and feel judgment.

But underneath all of that?

It’s just the echo of our own unmet pain.
It’s the body remembering how it wasn’t held.
It’s the nervous system still on guard.

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These buried wounds—they don’t just disappear.
They show up in the body.
They show up in relationships.
Sometimes they show up as tumours. As illness. As anxiety that won’t quit.

People ask me all the time:
“Is it possible to change the imprint? To heal what happened?”

And my answer is always:
Yes.
But only if we’re willing to attend to the pain first.

Only if we’re willing to stop burying, and start sitting.

So if you’re in it right now… if you’re considering beginning… if you’ve already started walking this road—I just want you to know:

You're not alone.

And healing doesn’t require you to talk about everything.
It doesn’t require you to rip the wound open again.

But it does ask you to sit.
To notice.
To feel.

And maybe—just maybe—to let someone sit beside you while you do.

From my heart to yours,
Kara

P.S. If you're feeling overwhelmed or unsure where to begin, our free group EMDR session might be the softest place to start. You don’t need to talk or share your story. Visit www.shiftchange.life to learn more.

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

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:

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

When Grit Isn’t Enough: Understanding Trauma and True Resilience

We live in a world that loves simplicity. From streamlining our schedules to summarizing complex ideas in a few words, we’re always looking for ways to make life easier to understand. And while simplicity can be helpful, it also has its limits—especially when it comes to tricky topics like trauma.

Trauma isn’t something we can neatly categorize or reduce to a single definition. Yet, our brains naturally try to make sense of it, often assigning labels or creating shortcuts to explain what it means.

Here’s the catch: as soon as we hear the word “trauma,” many of us have an immediate reaction. Maybe it brings up thoughts of extreme events like war or natural disasters. Perhaps you picture a particular moment from your own life. Or maybe you think, “my life isn’t that bad compared too…”

But what if we got curious? What if we took a deeper look, beneath the surface?

Defining Trauma

Trauma is often defined as a deeply distressing or disturbing experience. But that definition doesn’t quite capture the full picture.

At its core, trauma is less about what happened (the event) and more about what happened inside of us. Trauma is the brain and body’s way of protecting you during a time of overwhelm. It creates an imprint on the brain, leaving behind patterns that shape how we think, feel, and react.

Importantly, trauma isn’t just caused by dramatic, life-threatening events like natural disasters or abuse. It can also stem from quieter, everyday moments where we felt unseen, unsupported, or unsafe. Where there wasn’t an empathetic witness to our suffering.

Now pause and think about this for a second. If trauma is determined by how the brain and body respond—by the impact rather than the event itself—then does the idea of "push through," "grit," or "bear it" really do anything? Nope.

In fact, those approaches often reinforce the stress and prevent healing because they ignore the imprint left behind on the brain and body. Trauma isn’t something you “power through”—it’s something you process, release, and heal.

Small “t” Trauma and Big “T” Trauma

To understand trauma more fully, it helps to think of it in two broad categories:

Big “T” Trauma
These are significant, life-altering events that often threaten your physical safety or sense of security. Examples include:

• Surviving a car accident.

• Experiencing physical or sexual abuse.

• Being in a war zone or natural disaster.

• Experiencing a birth trauma or anything related to the fertility journey

Big “T” trauma is what many people think of when they hear the word “trauma,” and it’s often linked to conditions like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD).

Small “t” Trauma
These are less obvious but just as impactful—if not more so—when they happen repeatedly over time. Examples include:

• Being repeatedly criticized or dismissed as a child.

• Experiencing social rejection, like being excluded or bullied at school.

• Struggling with chronic stress at work or in a toxic relationship.

The Research: Studies have shown that repeated small “t” traumas can actually have a greater long-term impact on the brain than a single big “T” trauma. When the brain is exposed to ongoing stress without an opportunity to recover or process, it becomes wired for survival, constantly on high alert. Over time, this can lead to issues like chronic anxiety, depression, and difficulty trusting others.

PTSD, Complex Trauma, and Vicarious Trauma

Trauma affects everyone differently, but there are three specific types of trauma that are worth understanding:

PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)
PTSD occurs when the brain and body remain stuck in survival mode long after the traumatic event is over. It can feel like the trauma is happening in the present moment, even if it occurred years ago.

Common symptoms of PTSD include:

• Flashbacks or intrusive memories.

• Avoiding reminders of the trauma.

• Hyper vigilance (always feeling on edge).

• Emotional numbness or disconnection.

PTSD often stems from big “T” traumas, but small “t” traumas—especially when repeated—can also lead to similar symptoms.

Complex Trauma
Complex trauma occurs when someone experiences repeated or prolonged exposure to trauma, often in relationships or environments that were supposed to feel safe.

Examples of complex trauma include:

• Growing up in an abusive or neglectful household.

• Being in a controlling or abusive relationship.

• Living in unsafe environments for an extended period of time.

Unlike PTSD, which is often linked to a single event, complex trauma is the result of patterns of traumatic experiences that shape how we see ourselves and the world. It can lead to struggles with trust, self-worth, and emotional regulation.

Vicarious Trauma (Secondary Trauma)
Trauma doesn’t always have to happen directly to us to leave a mark. Vicarious trauma occurs when we absorb the stress, pain, or suffering of others—especially when we are repeatedly exposed to it.

This type of trauma is common for people who work in caregiving, helping, or frontline professions. Examples include:

• First responders and police officers who witness distressing scenes or hear traumatic accounts while on duty.

• Healthcare providers who see patients in pain, repeatedly experiencing life-threatening conditions or loss. Being threatened by clients during a shift.

• Therapists and social workers who listen to stories of abuse, loss, or extreme hardship.

• Parents or partners who emotionally support a loved one experiencing trauma, especially when they feel helpless to "fix" the situation.

Vicarious trauma doesn’t mean you’ve done something wrong—it’s a reflection of your empathy and human connection. But if left unaddressed, it can create symptoms similar to direct trauma, such as emotional exhaustion, feelings of helplessness, or even avoidance of situations that remind you of the pain you’ve absorbed.

A Personal Discovery of Trauma

When I was in grad school, we had a course on trauma. Our instructor was incredible in her teachings, having spent many years working in the field, but she was also very rigid in her belief that only people who specialize in trauma should work in this area.

I remember leaving that class terrified to ever work with trauma. Instead of feeling curious about what courses I could take next to deepen my learning, I thought, I am never going to work with trauma. Ever.

I laugh at that now because, as I began my career in private practice, I realized that every single person who walked through my door was holding trauma. It wasn’t always the big, dramatic events I had imagined—so often, it was the smaller, quieter experiences that created suffering.

I knew that if I wanted to truly help people, I needed to equip myself to work with trauma. At this point, I understood that I had experienced a big “T” trauma with the passing of my dad to cancer when I was 18. But I had no idea what was waiting for me on the other side of “equipping myself.”

As I dove into the work, I began learning about big “T” and small “t” traumas and how trauma often happens when there’s no witness—when no one is there to help us process or hold space for our pain. Slowly, many small “t” traumas from my own life revealed themselves. And none of them looked like what I had been taught to think of as trauma.

The good news is, that uncovering and working through my traumas didn’t take me out. I survived. It’s the work I’ve done in the trenches, both personally and professionally, that shaped my life’s purpose. The business I’ve built, and the support I now provide—all grew from this journey of facing and healing my pain.

Trauma Is Part of the Human Experience

Trauma isn’t a sign of weakness, nor is it something to be ashamed of. It’s a reflection of how deeply our brains are wired for survival.

But just as trauma is part of being human, so is healing. By understanding trauma—what it is, how it works, and how it impacts us—we can bring the unconscious to the surface. Knowledge is power. Therefore the more we know and understand, the more power we have to take action to change our lives. As Maya Angelou said “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better. Do better!

What If Talking Is a Privilege?

What if talking—the ability to express, label, and name your feelings—is actually a privilege?
What if you grew up in a home where emotions weren’t discussed or modelled, where no one gave you the words to connect what you were feeling to what it was called?

What if, instead of learning how to understand and process your emotions, you grew up in systems that medicalized your experiences, diagnosed your struggles, and labeled your pain—but never taught you how to move forward, how to heal, or how to thrive?

What if you were taught to ignore the pain, to push it down, to act as if it didn’t hurt? What if you were told to “be tough,” “suck it up,” or “be a man”?

What if the people you turned to for help—parents, teachers, even therapists—didn’t have the capacity to hold your pain because no one had held theirs?
What if the systems we’ve historically relied on for care are broken, unable to provide the help we truly need?

And what if talking—so often framed as the foundation of mental health conversations—feels too overwhelming, too unsafe, or simply out of reach?

A Way That Doesn’t Require Words

What if healing didn’t require you to talk?
What if, instead of words, you could access your own intuitive wisdom—guided by gentle tapping, rhythmic movements, or a process that helps your body release what it’s been holding?

What if these simple, non-verbal techniques could open a doorway to a deeper understanding—a connection to what you need, what you feel, and how to move forward?

What if healing didn’t flood your nervous system with overwhelm, but instead calmed it enough that, one day, you could tell your story, if you wanted to?

What if there’s another way?

There is another way.

Dear Bell, Let’s Talk About the People Who Can’t Talk

Your initiative is incredible—it has opened doors for so many to speak openly about their struggles. But there are countless others who can’t talk yet, who don’t have the words or the safety to share their pain.

What if, instead of talking, we tapped instead?
What if we could help people heal without needing them to say a word?

It’s time to expand the conversation and recognize that healing doesn’t always start with words. Sometimes, it starts with a quiet shift—with a gentle process that helps the body let go, one tap at a time.