I’m Not Failing at Healing: What It Really Takes to Rewire a Trauma-Wired Body

They say healing takes time.
But no one talks about what else it takes.

It takes energy you don’t have. Support you no longer do. Money that doesn’t exist.
It takes silence when you live with chaos, rest when you’re a mother, and trust when your body is still waiting for the next blow.

And when talk therapy doesn’t fix the nausea, the flares, the migraines, or the panic attacks with no trigger—when you’ve done the inner work but your body keeps crashing—you start to wonder if you’re the problem.

And for a moment, I did.

But here’s the thing—I’m not the problem.
I’m surviving a body rewired by trauma.
I’m healing in a house that still holds echoes.
I’m not failing. I’m healing in hostile conditions.

I Did the Work. Why Am I Still Sick?

I’ve faced the memories.
I’ve been to therapy. I’ve journaled, EMDR’ed, breathed through the storms and forgiven people who’ll never apologize.
I’ve worked through the kind of pain you don’t get a medal for surviving—just scars and maybe some hard-earned self-awareness.

And yet my body still flares.
Still panics at rest. Still crashes when life gets too loud—or too good.
My nervous system never got the memo that it’s safe now.

Because it’s not always safe.
Not in my house. Not in my marriage.
Not in a healthcare system that still says “just anxiety” when I can’t stand without seeing stars.

Healing Isn’t a Solo Mission

What I’ve learned the hard way is this: healing is a team sport.
It takes co-regulation. Safe community. People who remind your body what peace feels like.

But trauma—and chronic illness—steal your village.

I lost people when I left my toxic relationship. I lost more when I got sick.
I’m not fun anymore. I cancel plans. I disappear when my nervous system hijacks me.
And when you need help just to survive the day, it’s easy to feel like a burden.
But here’s the truth I’m holding close: I’m not needy. I’m human. I’m healing.
And healing was never meant to be done alone.

What Is Helping Me Heal

No, therapy alone didn’t “fix” me.
But that doesn’t mean nothing’s working.

Here’s what is helping, even now, even with a shaky village and a body that forgets how to function:

Salt and electrolytes (because healing takes fuel, and sometimes that’s literally saltwater)
Cold packs and compression (when the dysautonomia hits)
Zofran (when my gut joins the protest)
My trauma-informed psychiatrist (because validation is medicine)
Heart rate and HRV tracking (to catch storms before they catch me)
Writing. Always writing.
Resting even when I feel guilty. Especially then.

Sometimes healing looks like lying in the dark with a migraine, whispering “I’m still here” under your breath like it’s a prayer.

Sometimes that is the healing.

When the Environment Is the Enemy

I’m still living in a house that keeps me sick.

It’s not just memories. It’s the tone of a voice I flinch at. The slam of a door. The subtle shifts in safety that my nervous system picks up on before I even realize I’ve stopped breathing.

How do you heal in a place your body doesn’t believe is safe?

Carefully. Strategically. One breath at a time.

Some people have the privilege of healing in nature retreats or quiet apartments or houses filled with love.
I have two daughters who rely on me. A body that rebels without warning. And a house that reminds me daily that I’ve survived—but not yet escaped.

I’m Not Failing—The System Is

If you’ve read this far, maybe you’ve felt it too.

That ache of doing everything right and still being told, “Your labs look fine.”
The whiplash of being dismissed by providers who’ve never heard the words polyvagal theory.
The heartbreak of advocating so hard for your own body that you forget how to simply live in it.

But you are not broken.
You are not dramatic.
You are not failing at healing.

You are healing in a system that wasn’t built for your body.
You are healing in an environment that still holds pain.
And you are doing it without the support that should be standard.

That’s not failure. That’s resilience no one taught you how to have.

To Anyone Else Who Feels Like They’re Failing

You’re not.

You are retraining a trauma-wired brain to recognize peace.
You are showing up for a nervous system that never learned safety.
You are surviving in conditions that would break most people—and still trying to get better.

If no one has told you lately:
I see you. You’re not too much. And you’re not alone.

🖊️ Jessica Valle is a trauma survivor, chronic illness warrior, and the author of Smoking in Garages and Fury & Grace. She writes to stay alive—and to help others do the same. Every book, share, or Ko-fi donation helps her fight for a future where healing doesn’t have to be a privilege.

Jessica Woodville | Memoir & Musings