The Sacred Threshold: Celebrating Samhain

~ Ella Hicks

Tonight, the veil thins.

I’ve known since childhood that the world as we see it is not as it truly is. I was blessed with gifts that showed me what others couldn’t see, that whispered truths the visible world tried to hide. I learned early that what was being presented to me was not the only path forward. That nature held both the masculine and the feminine in perfect balance, and that the divine lived there, not in buildings or dogma, but in the earth, the trees, the endless rhythm of the sea.

This truth was known long before the Abrahamic religions began, before the movement that removed the sacred feminine from the entire equation. But as we see in nature, we cannot separate the feminine and leave her behind, for she is our mother. She is the soil, the harvest, the dark season of rest. She is the cycle itself.

Samhain marks the third and final harvest, and the end of the light half of the year and the beginning of the dark. Not darkness as emptiness, but as the fertile void where all things rest before they’re reborn.

This is the season of going inward. Of letting the external world fall away so we can tend to what lives beneath. The seeds we’ll plant in spring are dreaming themselves into being right now, in the quiet, in the dark, in the unseen places where transformation begins.

Our Celtic ancestors knew this deeply. They marked this threshold as sacred, the turning of the year when the boundary between worlds dissolved. They understood that death and life are not opposites, they’re partners in an endless cycle. That what appears to end is only changing form. That the veil between worlds grows thin not to frighten us, but to remind us: we are never alone.

Those who came before us are still here, walking beside us, whispering guidance through our intuition, our dreams, our inexplicable knowing. I feel them most strongly near the sea, my front yard, my church. The water is a conduit to the divine, and tonight that connection pulses with presence.

Samhain is not about the modern commercial holiday, it’s about memory and continuity. It’s about honoring the dead not as distant figures frozen in time, but as living presences woven into our very being. Their blood runs through our veins. Their resilience lives in our bones. Their unfinished work becomes ours to carry forward.

Tonight, I’ve set an altar to honor this final harvest. Wormwood and mugwort, bay leaf and thyme, rosemary and sage, hibiscus and more. Herbs grown, tended, and gathered with intention. And alongside them, space for my grandmothers, especially those of my maternal line. All the women who came before. All the ones whose names I know and the countless ones I don’t.

We speak their names. We light candles to guide them home. We remember that we are the answered prayers of ancestors who never stopped believing in a future they would never see.

And as we enter the dark half of the year, we do what they taught us: we rest, we reflect, we turn inward. We trust that in the darkness, something new is always being born.

The veil is thin.
The ancestors are close.
And we are exactly where we’re meant to be.

The Beautiful Ache of Letting Go

~ Ella Hicks

A mother’s story of survival, healing, and the sacred art of letting go.

As a mother, there’s a quote I’ve clung to for years:
“There are two lasting bequests we can give our children.
One is roots. The other is wings.”
— Hodding Carter Jr.

I’ve thought about those words often, especially this week. My eldest child just moved across the ocean to live in Europe. He has no return date, and his life is now an adventure. The last two days have been filled with pride, excitement, and utter heartbreak. It feels as if he ripped my heart out of my chest and took it with him on that plane.

I have never experienced this depth of emotion. It hit me like a wave, and tears that couldn’t flow for decades have finally been unleashed. It’s the ache only a mother can understand. There is a strange paradox of wanting your child to soar, even as every part of you wants to keep them close.

But this isn’t just any story about a child leaving home. Raising a child in abuse is very different from raising a child in safety. You are not just parenting, you are surviving. You are trying to keep both of you alive.

In our case, we had to flee, disappear, and assume new identities, not once, but twice. Staying alive means staying out of the never ending hunt. There were years of fear, exhaustion, and the constant weight of looking over our shoulders. It wasn’t the childhood I wanted for my children, but it was the only way to keep them safe. Safe meant they were alive.

And yet, in spite of all of it, my son has become everything I hoped for and more. He is the best of me walking around in size 11 shoes — kind, curious, creative, and whole. Proof that healing can take root even in depleted soil. We didn’t just survive; we grew wings.

When you raise a child in trauma, you learn that love is only half the battle. Healing is the rest. Our children don’t just learn from our words, they absorb our energy. Their nervous systems regulate by watching ours. The most powerful gift you can ever give them isn’t perfection; it’s your own healing.

So to every mother still fighting to raise children while healing herself: keep going. I know how hard it is to hold their pain and your own at once. But your courage becomes their compass. Your resilience becomes their road map home. Trust that, in the end, your children will rise next to you.

Today, I share this hope with you because I am living this truth, and it is certainly something to celebrate.

Ella xx

Founder, Rebel Thriver

What Happens When the World Turns Away?

~ Ella Hicks

The hidden truths of domestic violence and the cost of silence.

Abusers don’t arrive with warning labels. No red horns. No cape. They come disguised as everything you thought you ever wanted. That is the hardest truth about domestic abuse. It does not announce itself. It hides in kindness, in charm, in morality — in the very qualities that make outsiders admire them while the victim begins to doubt herself.

At first it feels intoxicating. A flood of late night love messages. Constant attention. Lavish gifts. Promises of the future you once dreamed of. All of it becomes a blinder to the truth. These relationships often get serious very quickly, making it nearly impossible to hold onto healthy boundaries. The abuser studies what you need and feeds it back to you as confirmation. This has a name: love bombing.

It looks like generosity and grand gestures before trust has had time to grow. It sounds like forever talk from someone you barely know. Your nervous system reads the intensity as safety because acceptance like this can feel like home. You feel seen, heard, and held — possibly for the first time in your life. That is what makes it so powerful. But it is not love. It is conditioning. It is bait in the trap.

Once the hook is in, the mask begins to slip. Control creeps in quietly at first. A jealous comment disguised as concern. A demand dressed up as protection. The cycle of abuse has begun, and it follows a pattern so many survivors come to know: tension, explosion, honeymoon.

Tension builds in small, relentless ways. Criticism. The silent treatment. The constant need to walk on eggshells to ward off the inevitable. Your body learns to scan for danger in every word and gesture. Then the explosion comes. It may be a night of insults meant to strip your worth. It may be a shove, a slap, or worse. Whatever form it takes, the explosion is designed to catch you off guard and break you down.

And then, the honeymoon. Apologies. Tears. Promises of change. Begging. The relief is palpable. For a moment, you want to believe he can return to the man you first met. This rhythm is deliberate. It conditions your nervous system to live in hyper vigilance while clinging to the rare scraps of kindness. The cycle itself becomes a cage — one built not of bars, but of hope. And hope is what keeps you tethered to the source of harm.

Living inside this cycle of emotional upheaval rewires the body. The nervous system is built to protect us, but when it is forced to stay on constant high alert, it becomes dysregulated. Your body forgets how to return to a baseline of calm. The heart begins to pound without understanding the trigger. Every creak in the floorboards feels like a warning. The body braces for blows that may never come. Sleep is fractured. Even silence begins to sound like danger.

Over time, the flood of stress hormones carves new neural pathways in the brain, and survival becomes the body’s only language. The chemistry of abuse begins to mimic the chemistry of addiction.

This is why survivors often describe the bond with an abuser as impossible to break. The body craves not the abuse itself, but the temporary relief that comes in the honeymoon phase. Like a drug, it offers a rush of dopamine that feels like intense relief after deprivation. That craving is not a weakness. It is the body trying to make sense of chaos. It is biology responding exactly as it has been trained to do.

Even after escape, the damage does not simply reset. Recovery from domestic abuse is not a single event. It is a process as complex as substance recovery — with its own withdrawals, its own triggers, and the slow, patient work of teaching the body how to feel safe again.

The emotional, physical, and psychological toll does not stop with her. A mother who lives in constant fear can’t help but pass that fear to her children. When her nervous system is on high alert, theirs will be too. Babies learn safety through their mother’s gaze. The tone of her voice. The rhythm of her breath. When those cues are disrupted by abuse, a child’s sense of self and safety is shaken. They grow in sandy soil. Soil that never stops shifting.

A child who can’t trust the world to be safe cannot thrive. Instead, they adapt. Some withdraw into silence. Some lash out in anger. Some learn to tiptoe the same way their mother tiptoes, measuring every word against the possibility of eruption. Abuse fractures families. It teaches even the smallest ones to live in survival mode. To please. To disappear. This is the generational ripple of trauma from domestic violence. It does not stay contained in one person. It alters nervous systems. It shapes futures. It plants fear where the roots of safety should have been.

“Why doesn’t she just leave?”

This is the question asked most often, and it is the one that cuts the deepest. In simple terms, it is ignorance. It places the burden on the victim instead of the abuser, as though leaving were simple, as though safety were waiting just outside the door. But leaving is never simple. In fact, it is the most lethal time in an abusive relationship. Not only do women lose their lives inside abuse, but many lose them in the desperate attempt to escape it.

And for the record, women do try to leave. On average, it takes eight or nine attempts before she finds her way out—if she is so lucky. A trauma bond is a very real psychological phenomenon. The nervous system, conditioned by cycles of abuse and reconciliation, clings to the hope of the honeymoon phase the way an addict clings to the next fix. Add to that the threats of poverty, homelessness, losing children, or retaliation, and the so-called “choice” to leave becomes a dark labyrinth that feels impossible to even try to navigate.

For mothers, every step is measured not only for herself but for the children she must protect. Can you imagine anything more terrifying than trying to escape with small children? Now imagine what happens when they are caught.

So when someone asks, “Why didn’t she just leave?” the only answer is that she was already surviving in the most impossible circumstances. And even when she does leave, the story does not end. Abuse has a long reach. It does not vanish when the door slams shut or when divorce papers are signed. In fact, many women discover a whole new layer of danger after they leave. It has a name: post-separation abuse. The threats, the stalking, the attempts to control through the children or the courts — all of it is part of the same cycle of abuse. Leaving does not guarantee safety. For many, it is just the beginning of another phase of survival.

Post-separation abuse is devastating not only because of the external threats but because of what is happening inside her body. A nervous system that has lived in chaos does not know how to return to calm. Even when the abuser is gone, her body keeps waiting for the next explosion. Sleep is fractured. Trust feels impossible. Even joy can feel unsafe.

Recovering from domestic abuse mirrors recovery from addiction. The body craves what it has been trained to expect, not the violence itself, but the fleeting relief that comes in the honeymoon phase. That moment of forgiveness or reconciliation is like a hit of dopamine, a temporary high after deprivation. The brain learns to chase it long after the relationship is over. This is not a weakness. It is human neurobiology. Trauma carves its pathways deep, and healing requires rewiring them, step by fragile step.

This is why recovery is not an event but a process. It carries withdrawals, triggers, and the slow, patient work of teaching the body how to feel safe again. Without support, the risk of returning to the abuser or finding herself in another abusive relationship remains painfully high. Safety is not just leaving. Safety is learning how to live again.

Domestic violence is endemic. One in three women will experience it in her lifetime, and that number only reflects those who report. Most never do. Abuse thrives in silence. It thrives in a patriarchal culture that still tells women to sit down and be quiet, to endure, to forgive. A culture that insists the highest compliment a woman can earn is to be selfless.

Abuse thrives when neighbors hear the screams and turn up the television. It thrives when the justice system minimizes abuse (“just a little fight with the wife”), when funding for shelters is slashed, when headlines sensationalize the tragedy but ignore the pattern.

When an extreme case makes the news, people become outraged, but within days the outrage fades. The world forgets. Survivors do not have that luxury. Every silenced woman, every child who grows up afraid, carries the weight of that forgetting. Silence protects the abuser. Silence ensures the cycle continues. We cannot afford to look away. Domestic violence is not contained behind closed doors. It is a collective wound that touches every community and every generation.

Elie Wiesel, a Holocaust survivor, carried the memory of what happens when the world stays silent. His words were born of a greater atrocity, but they hold true here: “Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

What do survivors need from us?

They need us to stand with them. To speak. To donate. To advocate. To hold space for the women who are still trapped inside it, for those clawing their way out, and for those trying to rebuild a life from the floor up. Survival is solitary, but healing is collective. Together we can break the silence. Together we can dismantle the systems that embolden abusers. Together we can show every survivor that she has worth.

Ella xx

Thread by Fragile Thread

~ Ella Hicks

It came to pass that I found myself a refugee in my own land. I no longer recognized the landscapes around me, nor my reflection in the mirror. I lived in constant fear for my children’s lives, and the uncertain future ahead. Domestic violence was a landscape I had no map for. The fear was suffocating, rewriting the very rhythm of my heart.

The long dark nights were not generous to me. How can you rest when terrified? The phone was always under my pillow, unlocked and ready to call 911. So many nights I held my sleeping children close and prayed for wings to fly us away, as I braced against the headboard in paralyzing fear. Would the lock on the bedroom door hold?

And then one day the clouds parted, and an escape route appeared. I stepped through that door and I ran—from my home, my career, my friends, and even my identity. And just like that, poof—we were gone, erased from the life we once knew. There was no safe place for us. Every night brought more questions, and in the morning, survival always felt like a fragile proposal.

Even 20 years later, that terror hasn’t left my body. Safety feels temporary. Plans feel impossible. Roots feel dangerous. Living in intense danger rewires your nervous system. My children were under four years old when we fled, and I had to teach them things no child should ever know. They learned to scan their surroundings for hidden threats. They were taught to scream loudly and make a disturbance if their father tried to take them. So much innocence was lost, and I carry that ache with me every day.

One day, another survivor gave me a gift of perspective. She turned to me and said, “Don’t call yourself a victim, honey. Victims are the women who don’t make it out alive.” That one sentence shifted everything for me. It took six years, but I finally found a small trembling voice to speak out with. It was clear that no one was coming to save us. Sometimes you have to be your own hero.

In 2012, I launched this blog with a simple post, and named it Rebel Thriver. Since then, my path has been one of deep healing. I have excavated layers of generational trauma and studied its impact on the brain and nervous system. I have mentored, coached, and held space for thousands of women from around the world. And most importantly, I have guided my children into adulthood. What I have discovered is that even in the aftermath of complete devastation, the human spirit has the power to rise.

And now, when I see families displaced from their homes, I don’t just see strangers—I see myself. I see mothers tucking their children into bed with danger pressing up against the door. I feel their fear rushing through my veins, as if I am standing there with them. I understand what it means when safety is not a promise, but a fragile illusion.

Displacement is not only about borders; it is about the soul.

It is about losing the ground beneath your feet and still finding a way to rise.

We must not look away. When we turn away from suffering, we unravel what makes us human. But when we bear witness, when we choose compassion, we stitch the world back together—thread by fragile thread.

Ella xx

Your Metamorphosis Is Sacred

~ Ella Hicks

Not everyone will understand what you’ve survived.
They didn’t see the fear, the shame, or the breaking down
that brought you to your knees under a moonless night.

They don’t know what it felt like to live inside the storm,
or the way your body remembers what your voice could not say.
They didn’t feel the weight of silence pressing against your chest,
or the courage it took just to keep breathing when you wanted to disappear.

Survival Leaves No Witnesses

The hardest truth about surviving is that it often leaves no witnesses.
To the outside world, you may look “fine.” You may even look “strong.”
But the fragments you carried in secret tell another story.

It’s the story of a woman who stitched herself back together
with trembling hands and invisible thread.
The story of someone who learned to move through life
while holding the rubble of her former world in her palms.

And because they didn’t see that journey,
they may never understand the cost of your healing.

Healing Is Not Meant to Be Understood by Everyone

Here’s what I need you to know:
your metamorphosis is sacred.

It is not for their approval.
It is not for their comprehension.

You don’t owe anyone an explanation.
You don’t exist to convince them that your story is real.
You are not required to shrink your truth so they can be comfortable.

Your healing is not theirs to measure.
It is yours to claim.

Becoming

Healing is not about returning to who you once were.
It’s about rebirthing yourself into the woman you were always meant to be—
the one who lived inside you before the world tried to silence her,
before the shame, the fear, the breaking down.

You are not broken.
You are becoming.
You are unbecoming everything the world told you to be
so you can finally rise into everything you are.

A Final Word

If you feel misunderstood, unseen, or dismissed on your healing journey,
remember this: you’re not here to convince them.

You’re here to live fully.
To stand in your sovereignty.
To honor the sacred work you’ve done.

Because your metamorphosis is not small.
It is sacred.

Protect it.
Honor it.
And never forget—
you don’t owe anyone an explanation for your survival, your becoming, or your light.

Ella xx

The Art of Waiting

~ Ella Hicks

“I have done nothing all summer but to wait for myself to be myself again.” — Georgia O’Keeffe


As this season draws to a close,
I find myself reflecting on the power of waiting.
I think about how healing often unfolds in silence.
It happens in slowness and unseen places.
What follows is not an explanation or a roadmap,
but a prayer I needed to write for myself.

I. The Courage to Wait

There is a wisdom in waiting that our culture does not honor.
We live in a world obsessed with productivity, speed, and achievement.
Rest is mistaken for laziness, and silence is confused with absence.

All summer, I waited.
For the quiet to soften me.
For the storms inside to pass.
For the woman I lost along the way to rise and meet me again.

And she is coming—
slowly, fiercely, wholly—
like a wildflower breaking through stone,
like the horizon pulling light back into itself.

This is what healing often asks of us:
to trust the invisible underground work,
and the gestation that can’t be hurried.
Seeds must split in the dark before they bloom in the light.
Similarly, we must surrender to seasons of waiting.
Only then can we rise whole again.

II. The Feminine Rhythm

In the feminine soul, healing does not move in straight lines.
It circles and spirals.
It withdraws before it returns.
It rests before it creates.

This rhythm is not weakness—it is ancient wisdom.
The body knows how to heal.
The spirit knows how to return.
Our task is not to force it, but to allow it.
To trust that our becoming is not delayed;
it is ripening.

III. The Dawn Always Comes

We don’t always heal by doing more.
Sometimes we heal by waiting.
By letting silence do its work.
By trusting that the parts of us we thought were gone
are only gathering strength to return.

If you’ve been waiting for yourself, know this:
she is still here.
She is still coming back.

And when she rises,
it will be with roots deeper,
branches stronger,
and a light no storm can take away.

So breathe.
Wait.
Trust.

For the dawn always comes.

Ella xx

Beyond the Title: What Dying for Sex Teaches Us About Trauma, Intimacy, and Reclamation

~ Ella Hicks

When I first heard the title, Dying for Sex (Hulu), I assumed I knew what I was walking into. Something provocative. Maybe irreverent. At best, an exploration of pleasure at the edge of mortality. But what I found was something far more sacred—a story of childhood sexual abuse, disconnection from the body, friendship that becomes a lifeline, and one woman’s wild, awkward, holy attempt to reclaim herself before the clock ran out.

This isn’t a story about sex. It’s a story about survival, intimacy, friendship, and the long, complicated journey of coming home to yourself.

I didn’t expect to be gutted by a show called Dying for Sex, but I was. The truth is, it wasn’t about sex. Not really. “Molly’s” story is one woman’s true story about living—and dying—with cancer.

Molly’s breast cancer had gone into remission, but ultimately, it returned. It had spread to her bones, liver, and brain. Stage IV. Terminal. She had been married for 13 years at this point. Her husband loved her, but had begun to see her only through the lens of a caretaker. He couldn’t fully see the woman she still was—a woman who craved not just safety, but desire. So she left him.

What she longed for was true embodiment in the presence of another. To be met without flinching. Without pity. Without being reduced to her illness or her past. Her treatment regimen had an unexpected side effect: it drastically increased her libido. But she wasn’t dying for sex—she was dying for safety, for intimacy, for a chance to feel something she’d been denied her whole life: real connection, acceptance, and love.

One of the main threads running through her story is the abuse she endured at age seven by her mother’s boyfriend. The wounds of sexual abuse don’t just fade—they shape-shift. Into shame. Into silence. Into a lifelong negotiation between your mind, your body, and your self-worth.

That guilt is heavy. And Molly carried it. Survivors know it well—the lie that you “participated.” That you could’ve stopped it. That your body’s response made you complicit. It’s a wound that defies logic. It damages not only your relationship with yourself, but also with the people you love—like her mother.

Molly’s story isn’t just bold—it’s legendary. She didn’t heal in the traditional sense. She didn’t transcend her pain. But she made room for herself inside it. For survivors like me—and like so many of us—that kind of reclamation is holy. Because in the middle of breaking down, she broke open. And in the shadow of death, she was reborn.

What makes her story even more powerful is her willingness to keep reaching across the divide. In time, she made peace—not just with her past, but with her mother. Not through a grand reconciliation, but through a series of quiet understandings. As she forgave herself, space opened to see her mother not only as someone who failed her, but as a woman shaped by her own silences and fears.

Forgiveness didn’t mean forgetting. It meant loosening pain’s grip. Releasing the knot in her chest so she could breathe again. Love again. Live out what was left of her life in peace.

Molly’s healing wasn’t about sex. It was about finding herself in the wreckage of a childhood where her body became a battleground and trust became collateral damage.

I know the stranglehold of that trauma personally. It doesn’t just haunt your memories—it hijacks your body, your sense of self, your relationships. Decades later, it can show up in the most intimate places where trust should live, but fear has built its home.

Through all of this—her unraveling, her ache, her awkward fumbling toward connection—there was Nikki. Her best friend and anchor. The mirror without judgment. The witness who didn’t try to fix her. When Molly asked, “Can I die with you?” I wept. That’s the power of sisterhood.

True sisterhood is sacred. It says: You don’t have to do this alone. I’ve got you—through the dying of old selves, old beliefs, and lifelong shame. That kind of friendship is church. It’s resurrection. It’s medicine.

Nikki didn’t just show up—she stayed. Through the awkwardness. The unraveling. The raw truths. She bore witness. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t rush. She held space, even when it felt impossible.

That’s what sisterhood looks like. Not performance, but presence. A hand held while you fall apart. A mirror that reminds you who you are when you can’t see clearly.

Molly’s bravery was hers. But Nikki’s presence made it possible. That kind of unwavering friendship doesn’t just support healing—it is healing. In a world where survivors are often invisible, to be truly seen by another woman—without judgment, without shame—is a lifeline. A return to self.

Molly’s story isn’t tidy. It’s raw and at times absurd—just like life. Healing is rarely elegant, and that’s the beauty of this story. Molly didn’t wait to be polished. She stepped toward truth—messy as it was—and made it hers.

For those of us haunted by our past, disconnected from our bodies, desperate to come home to ourselves, Dying for Sex is more than a story. It’s a map. Not a perfect one. But a courageous, deeply human one. At its heart? A woman who dared to return to herself before her body gave out.

And she didn’t return to emptiness. She returned to wholeness. In the end, Molly found what she was searching for: love, safety, and a real, embodied connection—with herself, and with someone else.

Healing didn’t erase the past. But it opened a door to a future she never believed she could touch.

Not perfect. Not painless. But real. And all hers.

May we all be that brave.
May we all have a Nikki.

For so many of us—especially those whose bodies were never safe places to live—healing is not linear. It’s messy. And sometimes, life gives you a deadline.

Dying for Sex reminds us that it’s never too late. To reach for yourself. To speak the truth. To be witnessed in your rawest humanity.

Even in the unraveling—you are worthy.
Of love. Of friendship. Of being held.

Coming home to yourself, no matter how long it takes, is the bravest journey of all.

Before We Were Daughters — The Women Who Carried Us

~ Ella Hicks

Mother’s Day can be tender ground. For some, it is a celebration. For others, a reminder of what was lost, what never was, or what could never be.

But before we were daughters, we were souls carried in the wombs of women who carried the stories of those who came before them. Even if the relationship has frayed or been severed, the roots still run deep.

We come from a lineage of grandmothers and great-grandmothers we may never know — women whose names we do not speak but whose stories echo in our bones. They are the unseen threads that tether us to something greater, to the sacred and the ancient.

Today, let us honor the first home we ever knew. Let us honor the women who carried us, whether in love, in pain, or in silence. And let us honor the unseen mothers in our lineage who left us legacies that may never be spoken but are felt in the marrow of our being.

Happy Mother’s Day to every woman — to those who birthed, to those who raised, to those who mother in their own ways. 

You are seen.
You are loved.
You are part of a vast, unbroken chain.

Ella xx


This Is Post Traumatic Growth

~ rebelthriver2

Trauma leaves lasting imprints on our lives, shaping how we see the world, others, and ourselves. The aftermath can feel overwhelming, as if we are left picking up the pieces of a life we no longer recognize. But within the wreckage, growth is possible.

Post-traumatic growth is the process by which survivors not only heal but transform, discovering new strengths, perspectives, and opportunities they may never have considered before. It is not about erasing pain, but about finding meaning beyond it—emerging from the shadows with a renewed sense of self.

The Hidden Strength Within Trauma

At first, survival is the only focus. The body and mind work to process the shock, the loss, the enormity of what has happened. But over time, survivors may notice something new stirring within them—a strength they never knew they had.

  • Resilience takes root. The realization dawns: I made it through. The challenges that once seemed insurmountable now serve as proof of inner strength.
  • Life feels more precious. Trauma often shifts our perspective, deepening our appreciation for what truly matters—love, presence, connection.
  • New doors open. What once felt limiting no longer holds power. Survivors may explore new paths, careers, hobbies, or passions.
  • Relationships evolve. Adversity fosters empathy and deeper connections, helping survivors build meaningful relationships rooted in authenticity and trust.
  • Spirituality shifts. Whether through faith, personal reflection, or connection with nature, many find themselves searching for—and often discovering—new meaning in life.

Yet, recognizing this growth is not always easy. Moving forward takes time, intention, and the right tools.

Steps Toward Growth After Trauma

Though each survivor’s path is unique, there are common ways to nurture personal growth in the wake of trauma.

  • Mindfulness and Breathwork – Practices like meditation, deep breathing, and yoga can help regulate emotions and bring awareness to the present moment.
  • Self-Compassion – Healing requires patience. Treating ourselves with the same kindness we would offer a loved one allows for deeper emotional recovery.
  • Creative Expression – Writing, painting, music, and other creative outlets provide ways to process emotions that words alone may not capture.
  • Nature and Grounding Practices – Spending time outdoors, walking barefoot on the earth, or simply feeling the warmth of the sun can be profoundly healing.
  • Therapeutic Support – Trauma-focused therapy, cognitive behavioral techniques, and body-based approaches like trauma-sensitive yoga help survivors process and move through pain.
  • Building Connection – Seeking support from trusted friends, family, or survivor communities can reduce isolation and provide validation.
  • Reframing the Narrative – Growth often comes from seeing trauma not as an ending but as a transformation—an opportunity to redefine priorities and reclaim personal power.

The Journey is Yours

Healing is not about returning to who we were before trauma. It is about becoming someone new—someone who carries their past with wisdom, not weight.

Post-traumatic growth does not mean we forget the darkness, nor does it mean we are grateful for the pain. But it does mean that in the process of healing, we can find strength, purpose, and the courage to emerge from the shadows—free, untethered, and fully alive.

Emerging from Trauma: The Power of Post-Traumatic Growth

Trauma leaves lasting imprints on our lives, shaping how we see the world, others, and ourselves. The aftermath can feel overwhelming, as if we are left picking up the pieces of a life we no longer recognize. But within the wreckage, growth is possible.

Post-traumatic growth is the process by which survivors not only heal but transform, discovering new strengths, perspectives, and opportunities they may never have considered before. It is not about erasing pain, but about finding meaning beyond it—emerging from the shadows with a renewed sense of self.

The Hidden Strength Within Trauma

At first, survival is the only focus. The body and mind work to process the shock, the loss, the enormity of what has happened. But over time, survivors may notice something new stirring within them—a strength they never knew they had.

  • Resilience takes root. The realization dawns: I made it through. The challenges that once seemed insurmountable now serve as proof of inner strength.
  • Life feels more precious. Trauma often shifts our perspective, deepening our appreciation for what truly matters—love, presence, connection.
  • New doors open. What once felt limiting no longer holds power. Survivors may explore new paths, careers, hobbies, or passions.
  • Relationships evolve. Adversity fosters empathy and deeper connections, helping survivors build meaningful relationships rooted in authenticity and trust.
  • Spirituality shifts. Whether through faith, personal reflection, or connection with nature, many find themselves searching for—and often discovering—new meaning in life.

Yet, recognizing this growth is not always easy. Moving forward takes time, intention, and the right tools.

Steps Toward Growth After Trauma

Though each survivor’s path is unique, there are common ways to nurture personal growth in the wake of trauma.

  • Mindfulness and Breathwork – Practices like meditation, deep breathing, and yoga can help regulate emotions and bring awareness to the present moment.
  • Self-Compassion – Healing requires patience. Treating ourselves with the same kindness we would offer a loved one allows for deeper emotional recovery.
  • Creative Expression – Writing, painting, music, and other creative outlets provide ways to process emotions that words alone may not capture.
  • Nature and Grounding Practices – Spending time outdoors, walking barefoot on the earth, or simply feeling the warmth of the sun can be profoundly healing.
  • Therapeutic Support – Trauma-focused therapy, cognitive behavioral techniques, and body-based approaches like trauma-sensitive yoga help survivors process and move through pain.
  • Building Connection – Seeking support from trusted friends, family, or survivor communities can reduce isolation and provide validation.
  • Reframing the Narrative – Growth often comes from seeing trauma not as an ending but as a transformation—an opportunity to redefine priorities and reclaim personal power.

The Journey is Yours

Healing is not about returning to who we were before trauma. It is about becoming someone new—someone who carries their past with wisdom, not weight.

Post-traumatic growth does not mean we forget the darkness, nor does it mean we are grateful for the pain. But it does mean that in the process of healing, we can find strength, purpose, and the courage to emerge from the shadows—free, untethered, and fully alive.

By: Jacqui Fox

Breaking the Cycle: Empowering Generations to Heal

~ Ella Hicks ~ Leave a comment


When I see women stepping away (decentering) from the patriarchy or millennials distancing themselves from their parents, I recognize the same thing happening: a powerful, quiet shift that says, “Please, treat me like a human. I’m done carrying the emotional weight for a connection when you won’t show up in ways that respect me.” It’s happening in romantic relationships, and it’s happening within families. One person is trying to dominate the other, and the other is saying, “No more.”

This shift is not just about distancing; it’s about reclaiming our right to be seen and respected as equals. It’s about recognizing that relationships, whether romantic or familial, must be built on mutual respect, not power struggles. If you want a real connection with me, there are no power dynamics at play. We show up with joy, a willingness to understand each other, and a shared love. Our feelings matter—whether we agree or disagree. No one gets to control another person’s time, space, or emotions.

I choose when I give access to myself, moment by moment. No one is entitled to it just because of who they are to me. This is the basic foundation for healthy, authentic relationships. But trauma makes these boundaries hard to honor. When we’re disconnected from ourselves—emotionally and physically—we can’t fully connect with others. And so, we resort to unhealthy ways of holding on—through loyalty or financial control, things that mask the real work of connection.

Healing begins when you reclaim your own identity. When you are honest with yourself, trust yourself, feel your emotions, and take care of yourself as an adult, you begin the process of building a personal foundation that is unshakeable.

The generations that came before us dealt with a lot of dysfunction, power struggles, and a loss of autonomy (especially for women). Abuse was accepted for women and children, at home, school, and the workplace. And one thing our world has never been in short supply of is war. Generations of men (and women) went to war, returned broken, and passed down their pain. That trauma lingers, shaping how we relate to one another.

It doesn’t take a massive event to cause trauma. In fact, trauma isn’t something that happens to you—it’s how your nervous system processes a traumatic event. Sometimes, it’s the smallest moments that leave the deepest marks, especially for children. But healing is possible, and it’s necessary. We are at a time where healing is essential to how we show up in our relationships. We can no longer build connections in the absence of boundaries. We have to heal to truly relate—and it starts with healing what was broken.


My Personal Insight: A Legacy of Healing

Raising my sons has been one of my greatest acts of healing. I’ve spent much of my life breaking free from the patterns I inherited from my parents—many of which they inherited from their own parents. My father, who I know loves me, is controlling and emotionally distant. My mother, though loving, has been subjugated to him my entire life. When I married at the age of 28, my partner brought his own history of intense trauma into our relationship, ultimately trying to control and diminish me.

I had to unlearn everything I was taught, not just for my own sake, but for my children as well.

I never wanted my sons to experience the same cycle of power and control that I did. I was determined to break the cycle and protect them from that. But healing is not something that happens overnight. It’s been an intense process, and I’ve learned that this journey of healing is just as much for them as it is for me.

My own healing only truly began after I escaped my abusive marriage. It has taken time—years, in fact—for me to identify the patterns of dysfunction I was caught in—and I’m still healing. I know that my trauma—the way I was raised and the relationships I’ve had—has shaped my responses and my approach to raising them. I don’t want our home to feel rigid or oppressive, so I’ve tried to create a space where they can heal themselves, without pressure or judgment. Even though I tried to protect them from the trauma I experienced, they still felt its echoes. Perhaps they wonder why I reacted in certain ways or why some patterns feel familiar. They too carry their own trauma—different from each other, stemming from their time with their abusive father. These wounds run deep within them, and only they can bring them into the light, where healing can begin.

In the absence of a father, my sons have gotten to know my father, their only grandfather, very well. A good man with many strengths, but he was raised in a time and in ways that didn’t allow him to be emotionally available or aware. The trauma he experienced carried over into his relationship with me, and in turn, it affected how I was able to show up for them at times. This legacy is real, and recognizing it is the first step to healing. Watching my mother become subservient to him and their religious dogma only deepened the dysfunction. This was her story, passed down from her mother: a man ruling over a woman—unhappy and unfulfilled—looking for escape or a better way. Even though I rejected and hated what I saw growing up, it still felt familiar when I met the man who would become my husband. That’s what happens with trauma—it feels like home, even when it’s unhealthy. It’s not a comfort, but a deep-seated familiarity that can be hard to shake, even when it’s harmful.

I understand that trauma can feel like a bond, even if it’s destructive, and it’s hard to break free from that. It is rooted in generations past and it lives in our very bones and flows in our blood. This is why it’s so important to see how dominance in relationships operates. It’s not always loud or violent, and it doesn’t always look like someone who is just too controlling or manipulative. We may interpret it as “care” or “concern,” but it’s really about control. Whether it’s a parent controlling who you see, where you go, who you worship, how you think, or a partner making you feel less than, it all comes from the same place: fear and control.

I’ve been a devoted student on my journey of healing, not just for me, but for them. I want my sons to know that they have the power to do the same. They are not bound by the patterns of the past. They are capable of building relationships based on love, equality, and understanding. They are worthy of all the love that comes from a place of respect—not control—and they must offer the same to others worthy of them. I can guide them, but the work of healing belongs to them alone.
I’ll always be here to walk beside them, but the real journey is theirs to take.

A pivotal piece of writing that has helped guide my parenting, more than almost anything else, is by Khalil Gibran, On Children:

“Your children are not your children. They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you. You may give them your love but not your thoughts, For they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams. You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you. For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday. You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far. Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness; For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.”

When they enter future relationships, I hope they do so with the wisdom of knowing that love is never about control. It’s about two people coming together with respect and shared growth.

Another piece by Gibran that has guided me in my own life is, On Marriage:

“…let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.”

Ultimately, as they heal, so too will the world around them. Their healing is not just for their own sake; it has the power to shift the very fabric of their relationships, their communities, and future generations. By doing the work to heal, they will light the path for others to follow. They have the power to change the course of their lives—and in doing so, help heal the world.