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Friend,
I hope you will excuse an unusual Thanksgiving message, but it's unusual times. It's about my experience with secondary trauma from the last couple of months — so read this with whatever gentleness you need, and feel free to pause if anything hits too close to home.
I noticed something strongly amiss when I went to my daughter's friend’s birthday party. It was at a loud indoor gym with kids screaming with glee. The sound waves hit me and immediately I shrugged off the other parents and found a quiet corner.
I wanted to be alone. And in my alone thoughts I found myself wondering… "What would I do if Border Patrol came in right now? Which kids would they pull out first? And which parents could I rely on for help?"
Actually, wonder is not the right word. I did not idly speculate. I lived it in my body. My cells reacted and tensed.
They did not untense. And, for the most part, I had an awful time at that party.
That was when I knew that the months of constant activation had really gotten me. I'd been actively supporting multiple occupied cities from afar — with the relative safety of distance — and experienced my share of sleepless nights and aching panic. But Charlotte caught me different. I flanked my dear friends in Charlotte with training support, resources, connecting people from other cities.
At first I didn't know why this, of all things, finally caught me. But I recognized the symptoms of vicarious trauma — and knew it could take me out. The body isn’t rational, but it is wise.
Still, my first moves weren't great. I tried that ill-framed strategy of “take some time for myself” — which mostly left me eking out time to rewatch my favorite shows. With a bit of horror I watched myself repeatedly pull out my phone — while watching a show — and flick through videos of DIY home repair, comedians, and more Border Patrol kidnappings and outrageous arrests.
I have a bi-weekly support team of friends who are intended to support each other. I told them I was struggling, but I can't honestly remember why I didn't say more. I guess I was worried about admitting my condition even to myself. If I tell myself the story that I can keep going — doesn’t that help?
Amazingly, overloading on screens of kidnappings and lying to myself wasn't working.
The first move that did help was writing a note to my friends. I didn't actually attempt to describe my state — I just shared what I’m seeing, feeling, and the pressures on my work life.
“My heart is full. I'm definitely right on the edge of my capacity.” And I shared a taste of some of the horrors I was tracking.
This shift made me feel more seen. It’s the method suggested by Rebecca Solnit, who noted that “For a century, the human response to stress and danger has been defined as ‘fight or flight.’ A 2000 UCLA study by several psychologists noted that this research was based largely on studies of male rats and male human beings. But studying women led them to a third, often deployed option: gather for solidarity, support, advice.”
Trying tending-and-befriending opened a place inside of me. Now my friends knew more about me and so could ask more perceptive questions. I had practiced openness and found it easier to share with others about how I was. It opened more space for me to ask about others, too.
I should note, this also supported movement-building. Friends who hadn’t been tracking some of the harms of Border Patrol, told me they paid greater attention — because they felt a connection to it, too.
Some part of me knew that for me to be any use, I needed to stay in shape. Still, I minimized the harm inside me. “Others are experiencing real harms,” a voice whispered, “get over yourself.” That voice wasn’t one of tending-and-befriending, it was distancing, minimizing, and consistent with capitalism’s atomizing our experiences and pretending we are not deeply interconnected.
The psychology of terror as practiced by fascists and authoritarians is designed to spread everywhere. Writing now, it reminds me of research on the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa. That was the body headed by Rev. Desmond Tutu that listened to people across the country tell of the horrors perpetuated under the apartheid regime.
Rev. Tutu and others listened to people speak in intimate detail of watching people get brutalized — or participating in it. The stories and events were awful. So it is no surprise that all of the witnesses showed significant levels of trauma: such as sleeplessness, day-dreaming of awful things happening, avoidance of feelings and situations that trigger them, feeling worse about daily life activities, and feeling hyper-vigilant.
So, too, did the stenographers and container-holders like Rev. Tutu who listened for hour upon hour of testimony.
What surprised researchers was that the trauma symptoms were just as high (sometimes higher) among the people back in the capital, away from the testimony, who were collecting all the data, transcribing, and translating. They didn’t necessarily have the benefit of human connection — it was human tragedy at a distance.
Wherever we are in the system, the authoritarian's goal is the same: run our psychology into the ground. We all have to take our bodies and hearts seriously. We all have tending to do. Our empathy is to be honored. Our mirror neurons ripple with each other’s experiences.
And that empathy is a good thing. The body and mind attempt to find balance when a terrible thing has been done. The trauma responses are signals our body gives that we need to make meaning, release the fear and endorphins, and find solace the best we can.
Said another way: a trauma response is the body resisting treating abnormal things as normal.
After I wrote to friends, a space opened up. Friends asked questions, and I felt more seen. And in that, I began to notice the right side of my stomach clenched. While driving from event to event, I put my hand on that spot and breathed in. It felt tight. Stuck. Like a gummed-up gear.
My wife encouraged me to rage in the car. I yelled and felt a little better.
And I listened to music. I found a song that made me cry — and I let the tears flow. And I felt a little better.
But the stuckness was still there, and I thought, “I just need a break.” Even still, I knew that wasn’t sufficient. I knew I could take a break without addressing whatever had gotten stirred.
A trauma response, after all, isn’t a thought problem — it’s a signal from the body. The body keeps the score, and the body won’t be out-reasoned. I could talk myself in circles, but until I gave my body space to shake, shiver, mourn, or move, nothing was going to shift.
During a daylong training, I arrived thirty minutes before folks returned from lunch. My co-facilitator asked if I needed anything and I said: I think some time to just be quiet.
Sitting next to them, I sat in the silence listening to my body. My mind drifted, sometimes back into strategizing and planning. But I kept returning to that part inside me. I listened as my stomach told me how scared I was, and I literally shook and yawned, releasing some of it from inside.
It wasn’t stuck and gummy anymore — it was more slimy. Gross, but moving. Healing. As it moved I heard it remind me when it started: as a dear friend shared worry about their kid’s safety. Without getting too into the weeds of my personal trigger, visions of my daughter's kidnapping had gotten intertwined in the moment. I was constantly reliving that future fear.
Space, release, facing the fear, recognizing what parts of that fear were well grounded, and accepting the present moment as distinct from my future fears — all of that helped. I could feel the softening in my stomach. It needed to be tended-and-befriended.
I finished training that day, unaware that Border Patrol had announced they were leaving Charlotte. Yes, the inner work helped. As did the exterior work — the folks of Charlotte did an amazing job and gave many of us another shot of relief.
In hindsight, it makes sense: my body had been bracing for an ending that hadn’t yet come. Me bracing doesn’t help the future be less painful. So in my inner work I managed to give it the love, attention, and permission to settle, even knowing the future remains distinctly uncertain and scary.
I took away the reminders of what works: taking my own hurt seriously (knowing that it will help me be more available to others), finding friends to share with, listening to my own body, taking time to honor and release and joining in the fight.
Years ago I co-wrote with Pamela Haines some tips for Finding Steady Ground. These seem as good a starting point as I've found for me to keep in motion. I'm sharing with you in that spirit of support and love:
I will make a conscious decision about when and where I’ll get news — and what I’ll do afterwards.
I will make human-to-human connection with another person and make sure we stay in motion.
I will pray, meditate, or reflect on those I know who are being impacted by oppressive policies, and extend that love to all who may be suffering.
I will read, listen to, or share a story about how others have resisted injustice.
I will be aware of myself as one who creates.
I will take a conscious break from social media.
I will commit to sharing with others what’s helping me.
(You can read more about each at Finding Steady Ground.)
If this season has taught me anything, it’s that none of us are going to get through alone. We’re held — by friends, by movement, by the small practices that keep us human. This body of mine, reacting as fiercely as it did, was trying to protect me. And for that, I’m thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Warmly,
- Daniel Hunter, Choose Democracy
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