How to Heal Your Wounded Soul After Trauma (4-Video Compilation)

If you want to recover from the wounds left by childhood trauma, you will find yourself in a confrontation between forces that feel like good and evil — and I mean that literally, not just as a figure of speech. Throughout my life there were moments when I distinctly sensed something malignant: an actual presence of evil. I felt it in certain places, around certain people, and even inside the frightening dreams that began when I was a child — nightmares that shook me deeply. There is no question that evil is at work when a parent assaults or abandons a child, when people are bullied, or when someone deliberately harms or destroys another human being. Do you not see that as evil? The definition fits. Merriam‑Webster describes an evil person as profoundly immoral and wicked, one who causes harm and is associated with misfortune — which sounds a lot like abuse and neglect. As a noun, “evil” denotes wrongdoing and the experience of suffering, sorrow, distress, and calamity. Crucially for how I experience it, evil can be seen as a cosmic force — something pervasive and pernicious. I often call it the nefarious force because it behaves as if it has a will of its own: it spreads, it resurfaces like stubborn weeds when you try to eradicate it, and it is contagious. Harm inflicted on you can embed like a seed that later germinates in your life, and this is a central reason why trauma can become generational: a parent hurts a child, that child carries the damage, and later that tiny seed can grow into actions that harm others, including their own offspring.
Trauma breeds sickness, depression, addiction, confusion, broken thinking, financial collapse, and fractured relationships. It wrecks things. If trauma is left unaddressed, it’s likely to be handed down. Thankfully, goodness exists too. Every person carries an internal struggle: one part that rages, judges, abandons, and belittles, and another that loves, nurtures, recognizes beauty even in difficult people, and sometimes sacrifices for the sake of others. Evil exists — and so does good. The fight happens within each of us. If you lose resolve, moral direction, or the ability to keep going, the darkness you absorbed in childhood can begin to spill out through your choices and hurt other people. I have done that. My past poorly informed relationship decisions caused pain to others and to myself. Trauma makes hard times bewildering; when you are living through it, it often feels like things are happening to you rather than being shaped in part by you. You might erupt in a conflict with a loved one and say cruel things — a common pattern for people who witnessed similar dynamics as children. When those behaviors come from you, they can seem external and unstoppable, which is why I call that malign influence nefarious. It sometimes disguises itself as righteousness or a deserved reaction, and your perception can be skewed by the old wounds. Maybe you feel too depleted to resist doing what you know is wrong. Then, before you realize it, the contagion has infected everything: relationships, emotional stability, financial capacity, physical health. Trauma acts like a virus — when you are vulnerable, it can take over; when you are strong, you can hold it back.
Your commitment to healing — your self-regulation, the clarity that helps you distinguish trauma-driven thoughts and behaviors from healed responses — functions as a moral immune system. When that ugly thread from early injury tries to run through your life, you can expel it or, better yet, neutralize it. Healing makes your life inhospitable to evil. You become resilient so that past experiences remain memories rather than becoming the patterns that govern your behavior. Many people don’t realize that among men incarcerated for violent felonies, roughly two-thirds suffered some form of victimization before age twelve. I am not offering that as an excuse for wrongdoing, only noting a correlation: many had been physically or sexually abused or neglected. Traumatic acts are like a contagion — one destructive action might not immediately ruin your life, but repeated harm can overwhelm your defenses until everything collapses. For these incarcerated men, physical abuse is the most common trauma; sexual abuse damages on multiple levels — physically, spiritually, emotionally — disrupting hormones and natural instincts. Surprisingly, neglect is often the most damaging, correlating strongly with complex PTSD. Something evil happened to you. It wounded you. Sometimes the people around you normalized it, lied about it, or gaslit you, but the harm was real.
Fortunately, goodness is more potent than evil. Through years of working with people who — like me — carry childhood trauma, I’ve come to see that those with childhood PTSD often possess an extraordinary capacity for good. There are days when everything is bleak, yet we still find ways to do something constructive in the world. Not always, not every day, and it’s hard to parse whether those acts of goodness are always deliberate choices or occasional luck. But the way many of us take the harm we endured and keep turning our lives toward repair — surprising others and ourselves with our achievements — feels miraculous. This proves that goodness exists and can outmatch evil. I share this to give you hope and to express my conviction that whatever happened, there is a small, persistent flame of goodness inside you that cannot be extinguished. That light is meant to move quietly but powerfully through you and into the world.
It’s easy to fall back into trauma-driven thinking and actions. We do it sometimes, then we get back up and keep trying. Understanding this and being willing to let that inner light grow — even when it seems pointless — matters. Keep directing effort toward goodness, whether you can see the next right step or not. Healing means taking one step after another, one kind act after another. Over time you will realize you are walking toward good. Every time you do, it’s a meaningful victory for the universe: people have committed terrible deeds and then other people have created something restorative that undoes those harms. Human consciousness is vulnerable to descending into atrocity — history contains genocides and monstrous acts that any of us could, under certain circumstances, have been capable of. But through healing, we interrupt that chain. The evil thread that tries to weave through generations can stop with you. This is neither easy nor automatic. We all have the potential to be as terrible as the worst people who ever lived if we had their genetics, upbringing, and indoctrination. Most of us likely will never become murderers, but many of us have been haters: the same impulse that fuels road rage, political vitriol, gossip, or online attacks is connected to the same murderous drive; if you allow it to escalate, it can carry you toward the worst possible acts. I often observe that traumatized people can be drawn to extreme, hateful rhetoric because it feels like a solution: an intoxicating sense of righteousness, a belief in one’s own moral superiority. That is grandiosity and hate. When you are depressed, hatred may feel energizing — it seems to raise you out of numbness and gives a cause to act against “those people,” even “at any cost.” This is where trauma’s aftermath spills into the world: people act out of internalized rage. Hate and acting out are not healing.
If you want to recover, be cautious about tearing others down. Avoid jumping into bitter public feuds. If you feel compelled to expose someone’s wrongs — whether a known person or a stranger — check the facts and examine your motives before you speak. Don’t act in ways that require lying; don’t maintain stubbornness when an apology, a kind word, or letting go is what is needed. Stand up for those who can’t defend themselves — people not in the room when someone maligns them, those who lack power in the face of a large online attack. Choose boundaries over hostility when what you need is to set limits. Healing is the remedy. When you heal your trauma, you heal yourself, you protect your future relationships, you restore potential and purpose, and you let your inner light grow. By “light” I mean the energy and love you contribute through small acts (and sometimes big ones). That light radiates outward, touching people everywhere — in a very real sense affecting all who have lived and will live. Your light is the truest part of you; it has not abandoned you. Nurture it, bask in it, develop it, share it. That is how goodness triumphs: by making healing a sacred priority. You may not yet know exactly how to heal, which is why being connected to others matters — to the people in the comment section, this community, my team, and the programs I offer. Those lights together shine more brightly; we support one another. When someone starts sliding, the group can help pull them back toward the good. Goodness wins, but it requires our effort. We have to aim for it.
People often ask how long healing will take, or why they must keep working when it seems no one else does. Technically, no one has to do this work — many people do not — but everyone can. I hope you choose to, because nothing is more important than undoing the evil done to you. I like to imagine healing like grass. Picture blades of grass trapped for a season under a black tarp: the grass doesn’t die completely, but it cannot grow. It looks dead — yellow, thin, full of small pests. Then one day you lift the tarp. The sun reaches the blades; water falls. Before long the grass recovers, turning green, strong, and abundant — what it was always meant to be. You are like that grass; you are built to heal. You need sun and water. Think of water as the practical tools you use to name and release what hurt you — to free yourself from hateful or despairing thoughts and the grinding loneliness that can push you toward your worst acts. For me, the tools are the daily practices I teach: writing out fears and resentments, meditating, self-reflection. Many of you practice them with me; if you haven’t, they are available in the links I refer to. The sun represents the loving atmosphere that supports recovery: warmth, companionship, encouragement. With some luck you’ll find people walking this path with you. That’s the kind of community we’ve built here and in the programs I offer (links are in the description). You need tools and support. If you once believed that nothing good would happen again, with tools and loving support you will inevitably begin to push up green shoots like the grass — almost automatically. The plant doesn’t need to understand how; it simply grows because that is its nature.
When evil intervenes, it causes calamity and disruption. Goodness, however, often works in quieter ways — like a river gently flowing. You can resist it, cling to the bank, and fear the changes it brings, or you can slowly allow the current of goodness to carry you, shifting your life in subtle, positive directions. It’s normal for people scarred by trauma to feel wary about healing because change can be unpredictable. You might worry you’ll lose the little hope you have left. But typically it doesn’t go that way. Goodness is subtle; you can stop cooperating with it, and sometimes I myself have panicked when everything changed too quickly and pulled away from my tools and supports. We all do that sometimes. Yet when you decide that not healing isn’t what you want, you can re-enter the current and let it guide you toward greater goodness and fulfillment.
To be demoralized means to be drained of the qualities that make you resilient: mental clarity, drive, the impulse to do good. When demoralized, you lose the ability to value what is good. You stop recognizing what is right. You may come to believe goodness is merely subjective or rude to claim as absolute. If you accept that, life becomes hollow and pointless — no wonder demoralization takes hold. From that place it’s hard to imagine your actions matter. Trauma can bring you there. One of the saddest things I observe in my work is how many people have concluded that healing is impossible. I see it in comments: “It’s too late for me,” or “No one cared for me; I’m just bait for narcissists, so I should avoid people.” These are cries of the demoralized. Their belief that goodness exists in themselves or the world has been shut down. Their cynicism is painful and makes them resistant to hopeful messages. They may watch a hopeful video — a hopeful action — but then close off, refusing help. That is a self-fulfilling prophecy: if you can’t let help in, healing becomes far more difficult. So when we work to heal trauma, a major task is reversing demoralization — reawakening the intuitive connection to what is true and good. Truth does not change with mood. We know evil exists and we know goodness exists, and the majority of people spend their days cooperating and helping one another. Demoralization tries to convince you otherwise. This warped thinking is dangerous: demoralized communities fracture, people turn on each other, fear and blame multiply, and they become easy to manipulate. If the thought “Other people are the problem” springs to mind as you hear this, that’s exactly the trap demoralization sets: it wants you to externalize blame and ignore what you can change in yourself.
Throughout history groups and whole nations have succumbed to demoralization and later recovered — a process we might call remoralization: reclaiming the lived sense that goodness is possible and that, if we cultivate our innate goodness, we can make it real. In healing childhood PTSD, I believe recovery begins by fixing your attention on what could be rather than endlessly rehearsing the past. Yes, you may need acknowledgment and conversation about what happened, but the focus shifts to vision and action. If you lack a vision, trauma will keep you spinning in circles. Change comes from addressing what is holding you back now. It is not your fault you were abused, neglected, or bullied. But eventually you must accept that nobody else is coming to fix that for you. Even if every external problem vanished, the injury already happened; the work of repair falls to you, beginning exactly where you are. That is a good place to start.
Some people will be angry with this — unsubscribe, rage in comments, shut the video off — and that’s fine. I’ll still be here when the glimmer of good returns and you want to try again. Hope is available even when you feel discouraged; its appearance is a powerful sign that your essential self is still alive. There is a well of strength and light within you that is meant to shine now. That inner light dissolves cynicism and dilutes hopelessness. Hope grows.
If you’re wondering what to do first: think of demoralization as a heavy cloak that presses you down. It shows up as avoidance, anger, indifference, overwhelm, isolation, escapism, and blame. You might defend these responses as necessary, but they became problematic because of trauma. You can’t simply wish them away or rely on experts who offer only platitudes. The concrete change that helped me was action. I’d read and talk about problems for years, but action made the difference. I spent long seasons demoralized; what changed first was not my circumstances but me. If you can’t stand blunt talk about doing the work, then this approach may not suit you. I’ll be straightforward about signs of demoralization and the opposite actions you can take — a method I call “contrary action.” You may not yet know where you’ll end up, but if you want to turn away from what’s harming you, begin by doing the opposite of your current harmful pattern.
Here are the seven signs again with the contrary actions you can use to remoralize: first, avoidance. Trauma makes people avoid triggers and commitments. The remedy is to show up: clarify what you must do, the people you need to remain connected to, and the day-to-day tasks that keep life moving — paying a bill, apologizing, returning a call, spending a whole evening with a loved one without screen distractions. Make a list, prioritize, and follow through. I make a new list every Sunday. Second, anger. Many with complex PTSD have excess anger that hurts others. The opposite action is to release the resentful thoughts that keep you in a chokehold. My daily practice techniques are designed to help you let go of anxious and angry thinking; they’re simple but powerful when practiced regularly. Clearing that mental clutter gives you a calmer, clearer mind — a feeling you will want to return to again and again.
Third, indifference. Numbness can be a defense against repeated criticism, ostracism, or humiliation. You learn to claim “I don’t care” as armor. It’s a lie and a cry of pain. Of course you care. You don’t need that false shield anymore. I used to wear my indifference like a cigarette dangling from my mouth; I smoked two packs a day for sixteen years, using it as a visible sign that I didn’t care. But underneath I was sad and furious. Renouncing that armor was essential. For me, renunciation came first: “I renounce this behavior.” That commitment let me begin doing the contrary action — twice-daily practice that gradually drained the anger and fear. It took years to trust the practice, but it worked. I stopped smoking and have stayed smoke-free for decades.
Fourth, overwhelm. This remains one of my biggest challenges. When I allow demoralization in, life’s richness can feel like drowning. My cure is to slow down, make lists, and do one thing at a time. Tools like simple task boards help me see what matters and avoid frantic multitasking. When overwhelm rises, renounce it: “I renounce overwhelm,” pause, imagine a different approach, and act deliberately. You will finish things more efficiently and feel calmer.
Fifth, isolation. This is the most universal trauma wound here. It’s a defensive reaction to feeling triggered around others and erodes the ability to connect. Avoiding people cripples healing, so the contrary action is intentional, measured connection: a little at a time — calm yourself, then connect, repeat. I teach this method in my connection programs; the process is like titration from medicine: small doses, then a little more. Sixth, escapism. People try to flee present pain through fantasy, substances, quitting, magical rationalizations, or moral relativism: “It’s all fine,” or “He hurts me but he’s wounded, I must stay.” Such thinking corrodes your sense of what is healthy and damages others. The opposite action is to confront reality compassionately and choose responsible responses instead of justifying destructive behavior.
Finally, number seven, blame. Demoralization thrives on shifting responsibility outward. Healing requires sober self-examination: in any problem, ask, “What part of this did I create?” That question is magical because it pinpoints what you can change. You can’t alter the past or other people, but you can change your decisions, words, and attitudes. Often adjusting one small thing produces cascading improvements. Initially I swung to the other extreme and blamed myself for everything — not as self-punishment but out of relief at finding leverage and control. Over time I learned not all things were my fault, but the parts I could change had tremendous power to transform my life.
Childhood trauma damages connection, moral clarity, and discernment. In the absence of those, fear, anger, resentment, and blame take hold. Everyone suffers when someone becomes cut off from what is good. If you are ready to heal and to become a source of hope for others, ask yourself: are you willing to renounce these negative habits? You don’t have to know the whole path to begin. Take the first contrary action you can see and act on it. Walking in a fog, you need only make out one step — take it. You don’t have to understand root causes or the entire roadmap. Start where you are. Your life matters; your experiences can be used for good. As you heal, you gain focus and energy to do that work.
If you’ve followed my blog, videos, or courses, you’re likely moving deeper and braver into the hard parts of your history. You may be more honest with yourself about how childhood PTSD affects you and how your behaviors born of trauma sabotage you. Changing this is hard. Many with childhood PTSD remain stuck; some issues fade with age, but many do not; unattended wounds can calcify into odd or bitter personality traits. You might know someone older who never addressed their issues and became strange, mean, hyperjudgmental, or paranoid — which only increases isolation. A few people stumble into spontaneous healing or meet a transformative person who softens them, but for most of us, change occurs only when we commit to rigorous, honest curiosity about what we are doing and courageous action to alter it. Even when I go full-tilt into change, there are things I could not immediately shift. Smoking is my example: the last cigarette I smoked was on May 26, 1997 — and quitting felt miraculous. I know without doubt I could not have done it without a force beyond my will. If you find that claim implausible, you can still focus on the practical techniques I teach; they work on their own. But my own change included a spiritual dimension that mattered deeply.
I was a heavy smoker for sixteen years, often at two packs a day — forty cigarettes — sometimes more. I wanted to quit and had tried dozens of times, but cravings and despair would pull me back. My mother smoked during pregnancy; the first nicotine buzz had felt comfortingly womb-like. Smoking regulated my moods, acting as a crude anti‑depressant, easing anxiety and anger, and creating distance from others. Quitting produced such miserable depression that relapse seemed the only sane option. I smoked through illness, during my mother’s dying days of lung cancer, even while handling harsh chemicals. I hid it behind constant tooth- and hand-washing, but the smell lingered in hair and clothes. Smoking likely contributed to respiratory sensitivity and may have played a role in my developing Graves’ disease, which required radioactive iodine treatment. Even when doctors told me to stop for treatment, I couldn’t. I was physically spent, spiritually low, and utterly alone. Yet in a turning point, I spent a night with my stepdad in Tucson before entering a week‑long silent retreat. My stepdad had cared for my mother and his mother through terminal lung cancers and had survived his own cancer. I felt ashamed to subject him to my smoking, and that shame nudged me toward change.
At the retreat, though I arrived with a skeptical, even judgmental attitude toward prayer, the combination of silence, structured practice, and being present created a profound emotional shift. I found myself writing my fears and resentments — a practice I now teach as a primary re-regulating technique — and meditating twice daily. I also began to pray in a new, vulnerable way: pleading, “Please stop me from smoking,” and at day’s end, giving thanks for one smoke-free day. That first week felt different than previous brief quits. I stayed with the practices, spent another week with my stepdad recovering, then drove home through the Eastern Sierra, a landscape I love. I continued writing, meditating, and praying. I also stopped drinking because alcohol triggered smoking. Months passed, then years, and those practices became a sustainable path that helped me pay off debt and meet someone with whom I had two children. After eight years smoke-free, I cautiously tested alcohol without smoking and found it possible. The astonishing truth is that since that summer when I quit, I have not even had a single slip or craving. That outcome has no good scientific explanation. Even when I used nicotine patches, gum, hypnosis, and classes before, nothing held. But after that retreat and the spiritual surrender that accompanied disciplined practice, the craving vanished. That possibility reshaped my life: if such change could happen for me, then other transformations are possible too.
So is spiritual experience necessary for healing childhood PTSD, or are practical techniques sufficient? I cannot decide that for you. The techniques I teach are practical and secular in application and were informed by books, mentors, and both spiritual and religious influences. They work on their own, but I wouldn’t be where I am without the spiritual experience I had. Regardless of your beliefs, the core practices — writing out fears and resentments, meditating, doing the daily work — are potent. If you are doing the practical work and feel stuck, and if there’s even a tiny part of you open to a power beyond yourself, it’s worth asking for help in that form too.
I have a special assignment for anyone feeling empty, depressed, hopeless, or convinced there is no good left. This next exercise is a guided relaxation and memory tour focused on recalling goodness. You can close your eyes and listen, or just think along as you sit comfortably. The aim is to bring to mind positive experiences and people who brought goodness into your life; you can set traumatic memories aside for now. If you prefer, do this while seated; do not close your eyes if you are driving. In a moment I’ll prompt you to recall a variety of helpful memories, and I will pause so you have time to reflect. If one example doesn’t fit your life, remain present and follow along with other prompts. If you want to stop at any point, that’s fine.
Begin by settling in and acknowledging your body: even with its aches or flaws, appreciate that your body lets you breathe, move, touch, and be in the world. It allows you to express yourself and to perceive through sight, hearing, taste, and smell. That alone is a blessing. Notice the space where you sit — the room, the bench, the car — and appreciate the people who built or maintained that space, who labored long days to create shelter and comfort. They brought some good into your world simply by building this place.
Now recall specific people who have given you goodness. Think of someone who comforted you when you were sick, grieving, or hurt — the calm touch, the reassurance that let you rest and heal. Hold that memory and give gratitude to the person who brought that care. Remember someone who introduced you to a work of art — a book, a song, a painting — that opened your imagination and beauty; appreciate their generosity. Reflect on someone who praised your natural talents — the encouragement that helped you see your strengths and feel validated. Think of someone who pulled you out of danger, stepped between you and harm, or taught you how to protect yourself; honor their intervention. Consider a person who taught you a practical skill that helped you earn a living — driving, computer use, cooking, repair, caregiving — and appreciate how that practical help multiplied into survival and flourishing.
Remember someone who modeled moral decency — teachers, neighbors, characters, or friends who showed honor, courage, and kindness. Think of those who helped you organize your life, cleaned up a mess, or offered shelter when you were overwhelmed. Hold in your mind anyone who defended you against unfair accusations, who introduced you to the wonders of nature, who helped someone you loved stop drinking or using drugs, who cooked a memorable meal or made holidays feel special. Each of those actions brought good into the world. Recall someone who helped mediate a conflict or brought you back into relationship; think of someone who invited you in when you were lonely and offered a place at their table. Consider the person who spoke a kind word in a moment of shame and helped you feel you could turn things around. Remember those who encouraged you to see purpose in your life.
If you haven’t personally experienced some of these blessings, know you can be the person who gives them to others. Being on the receiving end or the giving end both generate goodness that reflects back to you. As you hold these memories, imagine a council of kindly presences who have been with you — people who offered timely aid, even when you didn’t realize you needed it. Let that reality in: though your life has had deep hurts, there have also been acts of kindness and moments of care that lifted you. Let those in. Because they existed, you can become one of the people who brings good into the world. As you continue to heal, you will have more room in your heart to notice what the world needs and to let goodness flow through you.
So, let this be an invitation: begin where you are, take one contrary action, renounce a small negative pattern, practice the techniques that help you release resentments and regain clarity, and seek support where it’s available. Do this consistently, and you will see the subtle, steady change that moves you from being wounded to being a source of light. The journey is neither quick nor easy for most of us, but it is possible. Your life is important, and your recovery matters not only for you but for the generations who follow. Allow your light to shine and use your experience for good.