Join Me in a FREE Daily Practice Call

Many people ask which exact method I used to soothe my nervous system and heal the lingering effects of childhood PTSD. If you’ve seen my videos, you already know I call it the daily practice — a precise journaling exercise followed by a straightforward meditation, done twice each day. I mention it often: there’s a free course, a detailed explanation in my book Reeregulated, and a simple downloadable worksheet that I’ll link in the description below. You can also join a recorded daily practice call. At Crappy Childhood Fairy we host these calls every week at no cost to anyone who has learned the method and wants to participate. I understand that the scheduled live times don’t work for everyone or that some people prefer a preview before committing, so this is a recorded daily practice Zoom session to give you a feel for how it goes.
Here’s the format we use on the calls: we begin by writing for 15 minutes, listing fears and resentments using a very particular structure. Because filming people writing doesn’t make for the most compelling visuals, I’ll fade the video while we do the writing so you can pause and practice the technique in private, then return when you’re ready. After writing, I’ll introduce a 20-minute meditation and again fade the screen so you can complete it offline and rejoin for an extended Q&A. During that Q&A I answer audience questions about the daily practice, so you’ll not only learn the method but also witness how our community interacts — which many find compelling. If you like what you experience, I strongly encourage signing up for the free course and joining a live call; we run them weekly — two led by me and two by other team members — and we’ll email prompts and a schedule to anyone who takes the course. It’s very straightforward.
Ready to begin? Let’s watch the recording. Today’s participants are joining from around the globe to write out their fears and resentments and then meditate, after which I’ll stay on to respond to questions for as long as I can. Everyone on this call has been notified that it’s recorded and has chosen whether to display their camera or name, so rest assured that privacy choices have been made. We’ll start now with the writing portion. Some attendees are veterans of this practice and others are newcomers; we provided a handout for guidance, and if you’re watching this recording we’ll make that handout available to you as well. Still, we recommend taking the free daily practice course to learn the method in depth. Many common questions are also answered in the course videos or in Reeregulated, both of which present the material in writing for easy reference.
So, retrieve a sheet of paper — we’ll spend 15 minutes writing. If you finish early, that’s fine: you can either move straight into meditation or skip ahead in the recording. We’ll follow the specific format that belongs to the daily practice. I’ll set a timer and return with a 2-minute warning about 13 minutes in. One critical point about this writing is that it’s preparatory to the release statement — sometimes called the prayer or the sign-off — in which we ask for whatever we’ve named to be removed. Every line you jot down within the daily practice serves as an expression of willingness to have that burden taken away. For example: “I have fear that I’m just no good,” or whatever fear is real for you — the attitude throughout is an offer to let it go.
Next we’ll shift into meditation. If you already have an established meditation routine, you can simply use that. The aim here is rest, not an intense concentration practice: if traditional meditation feels very difficult for you, avoid trying to force a strict emptiness of mind. While it’s fine if your mind quiets, there’s no need to berate yourself for thoughts that arise — they will. You don’t have to focus rigidly on breath, posture, or thought-observing techniques unless that’s your usual practice and it serves you. If you need a simple option for today, try the “super simple meditation”: close your eyes and sit comfortably (anything but lying down is recommended for most people, since lying down tends to invite sleep — though if you’re ill or injured, lying down is okay). Some find it helpful to prop their feet up, hold a pillow against the belly, or keep a blanket nearby. Expect household noises; learning to rest despite ordinary interruptions is part of the practice. If a child needs you or there’s a knock at the door, pause to handle it, then return to the cushion — I’ll let you know when the 20 minutes are up.
You may choose an anchor word or mantra — something neutral and gentle rather than a big directive like “save the world” or “be amazing,” which works against the goal of rest. If you’re religious, a sacred name can be used, but long scriptural passages aren’t ideal for restful meditation. A simple word such as “okay” or “this,” or any short, unobtrusive reminder you can repeat silently every few seconds, is sufficient. You might forget your word occasionally — that’s normal. The reminder is only to nudge you back into the intention of resting. People with trauma often notice their minds become busy when silence arrives, so allow the reminder to help you settle: rest is highly therapeutic.
I’ll set a 20-minute timer now; afterwards we’ll open the floor for Q&A. My purpose today is to clarify the daily practice and help everyone refine their technique — it’s a nuanced process that unfolds in stages, which is why we keep running these calls. Many answers appear in Reeregulated, which you can see here, or in the free daily practice course that contains a helpful FAQ. When you ask questions, please try to phrase them as direct questions up front rather than telling a long story before you ask; that helps me respond to as many people as possible and keeps the session focused. To raise your hand in Zoom, use the react button and select the little hand icon to enter the queue; you can lower your hand later if you change your mind. I’ll take questions in the order hands are raised. If you want to remain anonymous, you may keep your camera off and even change the display name that appears. This session will be recorded and may be shared on the Crappy Childhood Fairy website, social platforms, and YouTube so others who can’t attend live can still learn the method.
Now we’ll begin questions. Deborah, you’re first — please unmute. Hi, thank you. I want to say how grateful I am for this work; discovering it was so illuminating and helpful in showing me that childhood trauma can be addressed. My question is a bit fuzzy: I struggle when writing down negative thoughts because I tend to be literal in my spiritual studies and I’ve often been taught that focusing on negativity brings more negativity. I get there’s a nuance — that we write it down and then release it — but I worry that by writing I might be reinforcing the thing or making it more likely to happen. Does that make sense? Mhm. Yes.
Some people do hold that belief, but that’s not what the daily practice is about. If a thought is already in your mind, naming it doesn’t implant it — it frees you from carrying it internally. Think of the old scenario of memorizing a phone number without paper: you’d repeat it to yourself endlessly until you could write it down. The journaling acts like that paper — it gives your scattered thoughts somewhere to rest so you don’t have to keep them looping in your head. For example, I might wake up fretting: “I have too much to do,” “I shouldn’t have slept so late,” “I never sleep enough.” Writing those anxieties down in the morning simply offloads them so the day can proceed. Most of the worries that surface turn out to be trivial — once released, they lose their grip — and that clears mental space for the genuinely important items, like remembering to send an insurance form. When your mind isn’t clogged with a thousand small alarms, you’re less likely to drop the ball.
People come to this practice with different beliefs about how change happens. If you truly believe you must never name a fearful thought out loud, then this technique may not fit you — but for most folks, naming is a way of relinquishing control. From the moment the pen touches paper you’re offering: “Here it is; take it.” Many find it helpful to address whatever higher power they believe in, asking for the burden to be removed. If you don’t use spiritual language, you can still make an intention to release it. The strongest framework you personally accept is the one to use: if that’s a God-shaped belief, pray; if that’s a secular sense of letting go, state that instead. Some people admit that they cling to anger and anxiety because those emotions were their only boundaries in childhood — they felt safer being on guard. Learning to name and release is a leap of faith that you can be safe without holding onto those defenses.
You’ve probably already noticed, with repeated practice, that particular items lose their intensity over time. Writing followed by the release and then the meditation genuinely reduces discomfort. It helps to think of the writing not as reinforcement but as handing the trouble over. Don’t feel you must invent vivid visualizations to make the release work; simple intention is enough. Many students are surprised to find the method is easier and more natural than they expected. Keep the spirit of the practice: you sit down with the purpose of becoming free of whatever troubles you. You don’t have to laboriously craft a perfect ritual — name the fears and resentments, express your desire for them to be removed, and trust the process. That was a key insight I missed initially too, and once understood it made the whole practice much clearer. Great — thank you. Next is HC; you can unmute.

Hello — I began the daily meditation practice on Saturday, and I believe today is roughly my third day. That’s wonderful, thank you. My question is: during the daily sessions I sometimes notice my emotions being triggered.

Sometimes the daily writing and meditating stir up anxiety and even tears. Is that normal? Yes — completely normal and okay. First, let me say that cleansing tears are one of nature’s best ways to reset. When you sit with pain quietly and put it down on paper, letting yourself cry a bit, that’s a powerful and necessary form of expression. We’re confronting painful material in a safe container, and sometimes meditation brings tears too — that’s fine. Feeling anxious during these practices is also common; for many of us it’s almost the default. If you find your mind racing when you try to meditate, it may be a sign to write a bit more first. But if writing or meditating feels overwhelmingly upsetting, slow the pace or ask yourself whether this is the right thing to do right now. For some people, meditation can increase dissociation, so if you’re prone to that, there’s no obligation to meditate — do what’s safe for you. These techniques are being taught so you know the how and why, and in general emotional expression is acceptable. Some of us were taught to clamp down on feelings; others tend to be outwardly dysregulated and may cry incessantly. Sometimes that’s unavoidable. If the daily practice helps, doing it consistently tends to bring you back toward the center: your emotions settle into a healthier proportion so they don’t hijack you when you’re giving a talk or reading to a child, for example. You don’t want to “lose it” in moments where composure matters. People often ask, “Aren’t all feelings good?” and I answer, “Yes — if you don’t have what I have.” For some, feelings get exaggerated by nervous-system dysregulation and become a real problem. Otherwise, though, full access to emotion is the aim. Trauma is tragic — the thing that caused this is painful — and crying is an appropriate response. As you do the practice more, it often becomes easier and more natural; whether that happens for you, only time will tell, but many people report it does. Think of it like recovering from surgery: at first you can’t tolerate certain foods and it’s rocky, and later you’re fine. Start-up can be bumpy. A big caution: if the practice triggers severe anxiety attacks, don’t push. If you’re in a vulnerable place or under professional care, talk it over with your clinician. Many learn about the daily practice through therapy, and therapists may have concerns — ultimately you decide what serves you. Unless you’re in such a poor state that you can’t safely make choices, claim your sovereignty: decide if this helps or if you need to stop. People worry about discipline — if it’s helping, aim for twice a day. Practicing twice daily tends to produce benefits that far exceed a single session; it helps shift your paradigm materially and spiritually, creating a sense that you’re truly processing things. I often use a river metaphor: getting into a current can feel terrifying because you don’t know where you’ll end up, but over time you find you’re safe and can let the water carry you toward better places. Stay sovereign in your choices. I’ve paused the practice for periods myself — not because it harmed me, but sometimes to avoid the social consequences of changing. Clearing emotional material can create distance from people you used to spend time with, because you may outgrow the dynamics of friends or partners who prefer to remain stuck in fear and resentment. There’s a temptation to abandon your practice to maintain those relationships. When I stopped before, it was usually to fit in with people not on the same path of change, and in the end I often still lost those people and felt sad, which brought me back to the practice. If you want to experiment, simply stop writing and meditating for a while and notice what happens. A regular practice is like exercise — missing one day can feel fine, but missing a year leaves you worse off. That’s my experience. Thank you. It’s common to discover you haven’t been allowed to express feelings; hearing someone say “I wasn’t allowed to express my feelings” is very helpful. There’s a useful image — perhaps like the little Dutch boy plugging a leak with his finger — but the daily practice is never about tackling the entire reservoir of pain at once. We only take on what’s surfacing in the moment. We won’t drown. You can pause, slow down, do a little more or less. Sometimes what’s truly needed is a nap, and meditating after a short rest can be very regulating. If you have thirty things you could unpack, don’t force them all out now; only handle what’s on the top. If you commit to a daily habit, the rest will come in time — there’s no need to rush or to be exhaustive or scientific. Taking it gradually is more sustainable. Also, remember to meditate: I’ve rarely seen someone keep up daily writing for more than a month without also meditating. Writing can be tiring in a specific way and the mind needs a shut-down period afterward. This is anecdotal from years of working with people, but to make the practice last, meditation tends to be essential. Thanks, HC. You’re welcome. Lou, you’re next. Hi, Lou. You can unmute. Hi everyone. My question: is there a list of feeling words to use for the daily practice? I’ll put it in context from yesterday’s class — is that okay? Sure, but the short answer is: no list. What happened yesterday was the word “control” showed up for me, and I hadn’t noticed I felt so controlled, so that became something to explore in the practice. If you realize a thought like “I didn’t know I was so controlled” popped up, write it plainly: “I have fear — I didn’t know I was so controlled.” Sometimes people fret that “fear” and “resentment” are too narrow categories and wonder about other subtle feelings or observations. The method intentionally keeps it simple: we mainly use two buckets. You can certainly describe more specific experiences in your writing, but grammatically file them under “I have fear…” or “I have resentment…” Simplicity helps — it prevents the process from becoming unnecessarily complicated. In this approach, “fear” is a catch-all for anything that’s not peaceful harmony — anything disturbing, anxious, uncertain — while “resentment” is the same thing with an edge of anger or blame. Over time the million shades of your experience become more vivid and nuanced as fear and resentment soften. Sometimes a realization like “control” might feel foreign, but you can still put it under fear and trust the process; we don’t assign moral value to thoughts and feelings here. Get them on paper, release them, and trust that what remains will be the parts that matter. Jennifer, you can unmute. Hi — quick question: you tell us when to meditate, and you said don’t rest the back of your head against something. Why not? My meditation teacher advised against leaning the back of the head on something because that tends to trigger sleep. You can get as comfortable as you like, but if the back of your head is supported you might nod off. Falling asleep is okay occasionally, but meditating is a different practice than sleeping. If you find you don’t fall asleep when leaning back, that’s fine — do what works for you — but as a best practice I teach keeping the head upright. That said, if you have neck injuries or genuine discomfort, support the head. I once bought an expensive pillow — $270 — but it was the best purchase for my chronic neck pain; it has a steep slope and a shallow slope for neck traction and made a huge difference. Slight aside, but that pillow really helped my neck. Oh — we’re recording, so I shouldn’t go on — but I love that pillow. Karen, you’re next. Hi Anna. My question: can I write “I have fear that I have resentment”? I hadn’t noticed resentment until recently; I wasn’t allowed to have it in my family of origin and it came up for me today. Yes, you can write that, and it’s fine to write it once. Say whatever is actually present: “I have fear that if I write this, I’ll get in trouble,” or whatever the specific fear is. It’s helpful to know that resentment is usually a big knot of fear. We separate it because there’s an extra dynamic — when resentment is present we often center the problem on someone else and add blame. I don’t want to over-psychologize it, but a common pattern is that we resent people we’re closest to and our blame creates a kind of force field that skews perception. For example, with my husband, most of the time I love him and he makes life comfortable, but occasionally I find myself extremely resentful. A small petty example: we have a Keurig with two reusable stainless pods we got at Christmas. I try to make sure one is clean for him, but he doesn’t always reciprocate, and I can really spiral over that. I’ll go upstairs after making my coffee, start writing, and think, “He made a coffee and left two dirty pods for me.” My mind will spin: I’m resentful because I have fears — he’s selfish, he doesn’t care, I have to do everything. Getting that fear out on paper helps. And the cup itself, in perspective, isn’t the end of the world: if I cleaned that pod each time it wouldn’t be catastrophic. Sometimes I’ll use my nicest, “nice-girl” voice and say, “Would you mind making sure there’s always a clean one for me?” and he’ll go, “Oh, yeah, yeah, sure,” and then he

The little irritations someone else causes somehow make me forget the bigger issues I face. For instance, when my coffee gets spilled I end up having to dump it out and rinse everything myself. If you share your life with other people, you know how it goes — you win some things and you lose others. I complained about this enough times that eventually I stopped fighting every minor battle. I decided I’d probably be the one cleaning up after coffee nine times out of ten, and I accepted that unless it was a really important fight I would let it go. Resentment, though, can be so trivial and persistent. I don’t feel afraid so much as resentful — there’s this instant thought of, “Oh, it’s his fault.” It’s striking how something as small as a Kurug cup can flip me into a full-blown victim narrative, dredging up childhood wounds that lie dormant until a present-day annoyance confirms them. My practice has been to unhook from that reinforcement: keep releasing the charge and choose carefully which battles to take on.
Lately my chosen battle has been over why there are thirty dirty socks stuffed into the hall closet where we hang coats. Who left them there? Nobody admits it, and I get so irritated — now all the coats smell like feet, and it sure as hell isn’t my feet. I have other things that feel more consequential, but the mechanism is the same: when I get locked into the story that no one cares, the hall closet becomes proof of that, and I convince myself I’m always stuck doing everything. Like the time I found three-month-old bacon in the silverware drawer — what on earth is happening in here? People, come on. I’ve felt like I have to handle everything.
Then there are days after my practice when I’m flooded with gratitude. I remember feeling so alone for much of my life that having a family now feels like a miracle, even with the inevitable ups and downs. When I’m in that grateful state, I’m far happier. With the daily practice, gratitude arrives naturally; I don’t have to force gratitude lists the way I once did. After I’ve written through fear and resentment and meditated, appreciation tends to bubble up on its own. Of course I still have bad days and bad hours.
Another lesson I learned is that acceptance doesn’t mean passive resignation. In 12-step work for families of alcoholics I was taught to accept, and I used to struggle with that — I didn’t want to just accept things. A friend who introduced me to the daily practice put it bluntly: “You don’t have to accept shit.” Pardon the language, but that phrase stuck with me. It captures the paradox: you don’t have to tolerate everything, you don’t have to accept unjust things, yet a gentle, easy acceptance of reality also arises — dirty socks in the closet, bacon in the silverware drawer, coffee left in the cup — and I can simply deal with those facts. This is my life: these are the conditions of the day, and also I have food, shelter, and this kind man who’s working hard, watching videos to learn how to fix aspects of a difficult childhood. That makes me happy. Friends visit, and suddenly I’m less weighed down.
What used to depress me was thinking everything was awful. Over time I began to clear away the parts that weren’t working, especially where I played a role in the mess. I learned to enjoy noticing and fixing those patterns, and my daily practice often allows me to see them. When fear dominates — as trauma can make criticism feel like an existential threat — the reaction used to be overwhelming, like I would die from being judged. Now it hurts less; it doesn’t annihilate me. I can listen to criticism from a distance, on my figurative front porch, and not bring it inside. I can read it like YouTube comments and think, “Okay, maybe I was thoughtless,” and then leave that judgment on the porch and move on.

“Back and, um, sometimes I genuinely learn something.” My son told me the other day, “You’re really confusing.” He was upset and added, “Everyone knows it. You think you’ve explained exactly what you want people to do, but it’s not clear, and then no one knows what to do. They get frustrated and assume you’ll be angry with them.” When he said that, my eyes widened and I thought, I hear you — you’re right. I understand. Thank you. I’ll try to be more clear. Those small moments — the little gifts life hands us — matter enormously in deciding whether people stay in our lives. The question becomes: can you distinguish between someone simply lashing out and someone offering feedback that would actually help you? That discernment is something I never had before, and daily practice taught me to make that distinction. When something upsets me now, I can write about it. After my conversation with my son, I had to put some things down on paper. I felt resentful about other issues too, and we talked them through, but writing let me separate out the valuable part from the rest — the wheat from the chaff. We talk about that metaphor here sometimes: the chaff is the inedible husk of the wheat plant and the wheat is the part we eat, assuming you tolerate wheat. You thresh to get rid of the chaff. You don’t bake it into bread; it’s unpalatable and not nourishing. That’s what this work does for us: we discard the chaff and keep the wheat. When trauma overwhelms you, though, you can’t tell wheat from chaff. The overload makes thinking impossible while more information keeps pressing in. I learned something striking in my neurobiology of trauma class last year: traumatic experiences like childhood abuse and neglect can actually damage the brain systems that process the normal cycle of experience — the surge of adrenaline and cortisol, the coping response, and the movement into memory and resolution. That capacity can be impaired. Sometimes it needs a nudge. That’s why naming my fears and resentments — the things that spike my adrenaline and cortisol — and asking for them to be removed helps me process them. I picture my mind and nervous system as an old, rusty factory: a bit sluggish, some wheels stuck, a conveyor belt of experiences that you want moving. I tell myself, “Daily practice — keep it going,” but I’m not perfect at it. Doing the practice for years has made me better, though I can still sense the impairment. Injuries vary: some are like amputations, others mere scrapes. Some never fully heal and we need workarounds; some recover on their own. We learn to tell the difference, devise workarounds, and sometimes resent that we must rely on them. Practical rules have helped me: Kleenex everywhere (inexpensive in bulk and the size that fits a purse), little pocket notebooks, a pen tucked into the spiral — small things that mean I can write down what I need to wherever I go. That feels like wearing a kind of flak jacket; I can almost go anywhere. Thank you — that was Karen. Now over to Cindy. Hello, Cindy. I had the pleasure of meeting Cindy in person before. Hi. Hi, Anna. Can you hear me? Yes, great. I wrote down what I wanted to say so I wouldn’t get off track. I’ll start with my question. And yes, part of what I wanted to say was that I enjoyed meeting you in person — I appreciate you remembering me. I have a great photo of us from last year’s retreat; whenever I look at it, I smile — we were both beaming right after one of your excellent sessions. My question is: how long have you ever been in a dysregulated state? Days, months, years? For me, I didn’t realize how dysregulated I’d been during a three-and-a-half-year relationship with my now-ex until he ended things in a deeply traumatic way. Only then did I see that I’d been off balance the whole time. I didn’t even have the vocabulary — dysregulation, reregulation, childhood PTSD — although those feelings swirled in my head for years. I went down what I call an Anna rabbit hole: watching your videos, sometimes three to five times a day, doing the daily practice, and slowly things shifted. A year later I can finally feel my nervous system settling back toward normal. This month marks one year since that traumatic event for me — it was around Easter — and I’m so grateful I found your work when I did. I didn’t have the words for dysregulation or CPTSD, but the videos, the daily practice, and attending your in-person retreat in Sonoma last May were instrumental in my healing. I will always be grateful for that. I think, like you, when I’m dysregulated it becomes harder to form memories or keep track of time, so everything feels fuzzy — like a blob. But dysregulation also comes in degrees: sometimes a whole day or hour will feel clear and you’ll think, “Ah, this is what clarity feels like” — like the song “I Can See Clearly Now.” That occasional clarity is encouraging. Dysregulation isn’t an on/off switch. A little of it is often present. Some days I have poor focus or unexplained fatigue; things feel off without an obvious cause. Much of dysregulation happens outside our awareness. For instance, a child going into puberty prematurely because of early stress is an endocrine dysregulation linked to trauma. There are countless ways dysregulation manifests. I’m open-minded about what counts as it. I relish the moments when my body and awareness feel united — when I’m present rather than time-traveling or spaced out. I’m not dogmatic about being present every second; I enjoy daydreaming and “time traveling” too. Occasionally I forget the day of the week — that’s dysregulation. You could call almost anything a symptom if you wanted to, but the key is degrees. A sign that you’re regulated enough is that you feel willing to go on — that willingness is blessing number one. Another marker is agency: when you feel awful but you know what to do and taking that action helps, that’s meaningful healing. It doesn’t mean you feel good all the time, but you have tools and you know the drill. And sometimes you’ll choose not to use them — you might know you should go outside and move or eat some protein and still decide not to. That’s your agency too. Being frozen sometimes is an appealing escape, and it might be okay briefly, though eventually it becomes tiresome and painful and you’ll move again. The impulse to start moving before things spiral out of control shows healing. Many of us have experienced underfunctioning — missing deadlines, letting people down, risking financial stability or relationships — knowing what to do but lacking the power to do it. Ancient philosophy called that condition “aeidia” — knowing the right thing but lacking the capacity to act. That’s why, in the closing I borrowed from 12-step programs, we pray for knowledge of what to do next and the power to carry it out. You want both. In a secular version we ask to know our right next steps and to have the clarity and strength to follow through. Without both, we’d still fail to floss our teeth, even though we know we should. It’s okay to have dysregulated days and more regulated ones; we’re always working on it. Even with the awareness of dysregulation — which I talk about extensively in my book Reeregulated — our nervous systems glitch in patterned ways after early trauma. These glitches can affect immunity, focus, coordination, emotional control; emotions can be too intense and harm relationships or lead to impulsive choices. Sometimes after a big emotional surge things go flat and you feel indifferent. That numbness is also dysregulation making itself known. We practice because it helps us stay steadier and come out of whatever state dysregulation takes. It’s a nervous-system state triggered by stimuli — and “trigger” here simply means something that makes you lose your equilibrium. I still get dysregulated by criticism. I’ve chosen the somewhat absurd career move of posting videos on YouTube, and the comment section occasionally brings harsh words that really unsettle me. Believe it or not, I read the comments daily, and sometimes a hurtful remark will derail me. It’s not worth getting dysregulated over, but it gives me practice. Over time I’ve learned to take criticism onto the metaphorical front porch: hear what I want to hear, learn what matters, and stop taking every remark personally. Thirty years ago a stinging comment could leave me feeling like I couldn’t go on. For many people, a hurtful remark feels like a threat to the nervous system. You can strengthen your system, but it takes practice and a decision to work on it instead of clinging to helplessness. For example, someone once commented on a video about setting boundaries, saying, “When will you admit that nobody should be allowed to have children?” That comment triggered me hard. I lashed out: “So government orphanages is the plan?” I tried to point out that I’ve considered the alternatives and that you can’t control everything. That irritation cost me ten minutes until I could write a few lines, stop reacting, and refocus my energy where it matters. In the channel I often delete hateful comments because I don’t want to expose others to them; real life doesn’t let you curate interactions that way. That’s another reason we cultivate the daily practice. So yes, Cindy, that answers your question. I do remember periods when I felt very traumatized and dysregulated, and some of those spans were extended. One distinctly bounded, intensely traumatic episode I can name with certainty: someone I dated took his own life and I was the one who found him. I don’t want to go into detail because it’s triggering, but it happened. I hadn’t been in therapy much then because I thought I was already making progress with the daily practice, but that event was so devastating I sought help. I was getting worse in talk therapy and I needed strategies for coping, because I had to drive past the house where I found him and that setting would send me into adrenaline-fueled panic. I had stopped writing when I met that person, which partly explains how I ended up in such a relationship. For exactly 18 months I was stuck in a loop: stressed, absent, crying every day, and isolating myself. I pushed everyone away — what I now think of as my “terrible alone years.” I kept talking about it and rehashing it until one day I searched online and saw that after a traumatic event you may have PTSD. The advice read: exercise, get your heart rate up for 45 minutes. So I started moving — running around a park in a tired, weepy way, alternating running with walking, crying, drinking water — and afterward I felt a lot better. I remember thinking, “Why didn’t someone tell me this?” There’s far more knowledge now than when this happened back in 2006. Fast-forward to 2025: when you’re panicking and looping, moving your body is an excellent first-line intervention. If you can do it outdoors, that’s even better; and doing synchronized activities with others can help. Writing about it is useful too. I also read advice saying to cut back on alcohol and sugar. I wasn’t a heavy drinker, but when I drank back then I would end up crying and feeling overwhelmed. Now I can have a drink without dissolving into tears because the huge reservoir of sadness is no longer right under the surface. Sugar, I learned, also makes emotional regulation harder, as I discovered in 2006. I didn’t learn the term “dysregulation” until around 2014 and didn’t know about CPTSD at the time, so I pieced things together from Dr. Google. When I went to a doctor because I couldn’t sleep and looked exhausted, she suggested medication. I was reluctant to change my brain chemistry because the daily practice had previously pulled me out of a severe depression. I was glad to discover non-medical options: moving, drinking water, avoiding things that worsen your state like sugar and alcohol. For people who need stronger coping mechanisms, thank goodness those exist; I used cigarettes at one point to hold myself together, and after doing the daily practice for three years I was able to quit. Whatever helps you survive for now is valid, while you continue to release fears and resentments and practice sensible habits that strengthen clarity. As your mind clears, you learn to differentiate what is other people’s responsibility from what is yours — that realization restores agency, and with agency you can set boundaries. Boundary-setting is progressive: early on you might just assert limits, and eventually you cultivate a graciousness that says, “If something triggers me, I don’t have to defend myself relentlessly; I’d rather try to bring harmony than keep battling.” That’s the next developmental stage, one I enjoy much of the time these days, though not all the time. The point of the daily practice is not only to feel better but to function again: to rebuild an internal system that can process information, experiences, and emotions reliably. That gives you safety — you know what to do when things happen. You’re not constantly attempting to control or avoid others, although you can choose to avoid or request changes when necessary. You might say, “Could you please not do that around me?” and you can set time limits around situations that are hard for you, or avoid topics that spark arguments. Those small moves make everyday life less overwhelming — grocery shopping, which used to set me off when people blocked aisles with carts, no longer spirals me into rage. I have more inner peace and I pick my battles for what truly matters. Sometimes you must show up and stand up for something; sometimes you won’t. She’s further back on the shelf now, you remember, but there’s that image of St. Dna — the patron saint for people with neurological injuries and survivors of sexual abuse. She carries lilies and a sword. She decides what to give you: protection or a bouquet of lilies. She will defend herself and fight back if needed; I think she’s a fitting patron for us. She was a real person from Ireland who lived centuries ago and was martyred at fifteen, and now she watches over us. Thank you, everyone. That was generous with your time and energy. Thank you for the thoughtful question; I appreciate it. I love these calls because they dive deep and we don’t always get to every question, but learning through stories and lived experience is powerful. We’re at the top of the hour, so thank you all for showing up, for asking questions on a recorded call that will help others who watch later, and to everyone viewing the recording — we appreciate you too. Thank you for being here.