Not everyone can wiggle their hips in a way that defies gravity when it comes to hula hooping. It takes desire, practice, failing, and trying again.
As a kid, I watched a hula hoop competition and told myself I’d beat the top time—maybe not that day, but in my own backyard, barefoot in freshly cut grass, with Mount Rainier in the background.
And I did. With gyrating hips, I hula-hooped fast and slow at will. When I got tired, I’d slow down just enough to keep the rhythm. I’d pretend a competition was underway, timing myself, knowing that if the spotlight ever found me, it’d be stamina and longevity that won the crown.
I’ve still never entered a hula hoop competition. But whenever I see one lying around, I pick it up and give it a whirl—just in case.
That “just in case” feeling reminds me of how I felt recently when I stepped into a woman’s story—how trauma, chaos, survival, and the beliefs formed in crisis wove together like an invisible thread. And underneath it all? Resilience. Care. The tenacity to survive.
But years ago, trauma felt bigger than me. It blew out the candles and made the drapes billow like an exorcism was underway. I’d picture the person in front of me as a young child—hiding, terrified, watching life speed past at 150 mph, bracing for the inevitable crash.
And because the monsters creating that image shook me to the core, I looked away. The terrifying truth about humanity was too much, threatening to swallow me whole.
That’s when I decided to face it.
I spent thousands of dollars and countless hours in classes, trainings, and real-life trenches—learning trauma’s patterns like the back of my hand. As my detective friend once said to his captain after struggling with cases of sexual exploitation: “Give me more of them.”
I get that now.
Working with trauma has been trial by fire. But the more I’ve been burned, the more I understand the nature of trauma—its messiness, brutality, senselessness- has its own patterns and rhythms one can sway to.
Since the people I work with dive headfirst into that space, I too must go.
Together, we sift through the wreckage. Maybe what happened to them wasn’t meaningful. Maybe it didn’t make them stronger, or wiser, or better. Maybe it was just fucked up.
And we’re here now. In this room, in this moment, we’re not alone.
And that—that is enough.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 