Trauma doesn’t leave
just because you say relax.
Don’t talk to me like this is a choice,
like I’m holding tension for fun,
like my body didn’t learn this
the hard way.
You think calm is a switch.
You think if you say the right words
my pulse will forget
every moment it had to protect me
when no one else did.
My body didn’t overreact—
it adapted.
It learned danger before language,
learned survival before comfort,
learned that staying alert
was the only way to make it out alive.
So don’t tell me to relax
when my nervous system
was trained in chaos.
Don’t call it anxiety
when it’s memory
with nowhere else to go.
Trauma lives in muscle.
In breath that cuts short.
In sleep that never stays deep.
In the way I scan rooms
even when nothing is happening.
You want calm?
Then bring safety.
Real safety.
Consistent safety.
The kind that shows up
even when I’m difficult,
even when I’m shaking,
even when I don’t know
how to explain what’s wrong.
Until then,
don’t ask me to relax.
Ask what happened.
Ask what it took to survive.
Ask why my body learned
this language
before it ever learned peace.
Through the Fog 