Storms Don't Last Forever

The nightmares are back again. I wake up in a sweat, heart pounding, body frozen. It takes me a few minutes to remember where I am. That I’m safe. That the danger isn’t here anymore.

But my body doesn’t know that. Not really.

The dreams don’t even always make sense. Sometimes they’re twisted versions of memories. Other times it’s just the feeling—panic, helplessness, fear—looping over and over like it never ended.

Every time this happens, I’m reminded that trauma doesn’t vanish just because time has passed. It lives in my nervous system, my sleep, my muscles. It shows up uninvited.

I remember when I first got diagnosed with CPTSD. It was like something finally clicked into place—and shattered at the same time. Part of me felt relief: Oh. That’s what this is. I’m not just broken.

But another part of me felt grief. Because it confirmed just how much I had been through.

That it was trauma.

That the pain was real.

That it wasn’t all in my head.

It’s strange how a diagnosis can feel like both a permission slip and a scar. Permission to stop blaming myself. But also a scar I carry—proof that I’ve lived through things people should never have to.

The nightmares make it hard to rest. But even in the middle of them, I try to remind myself:

I survived.

I’m still here.

And every time I wake up and choose to face another day, I’m reclaiming something. Even when the healing feels slow. Even when it feels like im going backwards. Even when it hurts.