I’ve always believed that life is just far too difficult to do alone. Not just the big, obvious stuff—like raising a child or recovering from loss—but the quiet, daily aches that wear us down. Healing, surviving, rebuilding… it takes a village. And more and more, that village is showing up in the form of community-based trauma therapy.
In South Africa, where many still carry the weight of generational trauma, structural violence, and social inequality, traditional one-on-one therapy isn’t always accessible—or culturally aligned. But healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed. When pain is spoken and met with compassion. When we remember we’re not alone.
Community-based trauma therapy recognizes that. It creates spaces—sometimes in community halls, sometimes on surfboards—where people can process trauma together. These models don’t just offer therapy. They offer belonging.
“Healing doesn’t only happen on a therapist’s couch. It happens when stories are witnessed.”
One powerful example is Phola, a psychosocial support organization in Orange Farm. Their approach is rooted in narrative therapy, using tools like the “Tree of Life” to help individuals reframe their stories—not as broken, but as brave. The method allows people to speak about their experiences metaphorically, making it safer to explore painful memories, especially in group settings. This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.
“This isn’t just storytelling—it’s survival alchemy.”
Another beautiful model is Waves for Change, which brings surf therapy to kids in under-resourced coastal communities. The ocean becomes a therapist of sorts—a place of play, trust-building, and emotional regulation. Trained surf mentors guide kids through structured sessions that blend movement with mental health support, reducing symptoms of trauma and anxiety over time.
In many communities, healing is not separate from culture—it’s deeply spiritual. Practices like ukuthwasa, an initiation process into traditional healing, emphasize connection to ancestors, purpose, and the unseen. While not every path involves becoming a sangoma, the broader lesson is this: healing is not just psychological. It’s communal. It’s sacred.
South African psychologist Dr. Pumla Gobodo-Madikizela speaks of a “reparative quest”—a collective effort to confront historical trauma and create new pathways forward. Her work reminds us that healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.
“Healing is not about forgetting what happened, but about holding it with care, together.”
These community-based approaches aren’t just inspiring, they’re instructive. They remind us that we are wired for connection, and that recovery doesn’t have to be a solitary act. Whether it’s sharing a story, holding space for someone else’s pain, or simply showing up, we all have the capacity to be part of each other’s healing.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s how we survive.
Eating low-carb doesn’t have to be expensive or complicated. With just a dozen well-chosen staples in your pantry and fridge, you can create nourishing, delicious meals without running to the shops all the time.
Here are the 12 must-have ingredients I always keep on hand to stay low-carb, healthy, and on budget.
They’re nature’s protein-packed powerhouse. Scramble, fry, boil, or bake into frittatas, eggs are the foundation of countless low-carb meals.
From mash to pizza crusts to creamy soups, cauliflower is endlessly versatile.
Protein-rich and shelf-stable. Mix into salads, lettuce wraps, or quick fishcakes.
Healthy fat for cooking, drizzling, and dressings. A little goes a long way. My personal favourite is the garlic infused olive oil.
Baby spinach, kale, or swiss chard, great for smoothies, omelettes, or quick sautés.
Great as a breakfast base, creamy sauce, or sour cream substitute. Choose unsweetened. I use it constantly for dips, dressings, and desserts.
Low-carb and high in fibre. Use to thicken smoothies, make overnight puddings, or add crunch to salads or desserts.
A good source of fat and protein. Keep a firm cheese for grating and a soft one for snacking or topping. Personally, I always have the herb Feta in my fridge. I blend it with yoghurt for dips or dressings, or I sprinkle it over my greens.
Coriander, smoked paprika, garlic, basil, and cinnamon are my go-tos. They transform simple meals into something special.
Cheap, low-carb, and long-lasting in the fridge. Use in stir-fries, slaws, or as a wrap alternative.
For sautéing, baking, and fat boosts. I even put a tablespoon of it in my bathwater for silky, gorgeously soft skin.
Sunflower Seeds or Pumpkin seeds, they’re affordable, nutrient-dense, and versatile (great for snacking, topping salads, or blending into sauces). I toast them for a few minutes in a dry pan and sprinkle with smoked paprika and garlic powder.
(South Africa)
With these staples in your kitchen, you’ll always have the building blocks of a healthy, low-carb lifestyle, without overspending or overthinking.
What staples do you always have on hand?
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This morning, before I’d even opened my eyes, I knew.
Not from a calendar reminder or a “you’re due for a flare-up” ping. Just the weight of my own body. Heavy. Cement-heavy. Fire-in-my-veins heavy.
Welcome to the delightful surprise party that is chronic illness. No RSVP needed. You just… wake up in it.
Some flares sneak up on me. Others kick the door down and announce themselves with full-body spasticity, shooting nerve shocks, and hands that feel like they’ve been beaten with hammers. Today it’s the latter.
My feet and calves are twitching like live wires, and my hands are stiff, aching, and protesting even this act of typing. Vision? Blurry. Pain? Electrical. Plans? Cancelled.
And here’s the kicker: I used to ignore this. I’d push through. Slam a Red Bull, down some coffee, and throw myself into work like I was invincible.
Spoiler: I’m not.
Rest used to mean feeling guilty. Lazy. Weak. I grew up in a culture of “hustle harder” and “push through the pain.” Rest was what you earned once everything else was done, except everything else was never done.
So I’d rest, sure. For twenty minutes. While scrolling. Or I’d lie in bed with my laptop, answering emails like a good little burnout-junkie.
Turns out, that’s not rest. That’s just horizontal productivity.
Rest is no longer a break; it’s a boundary. It’s a ceremony.
Here’s what’s within reach when I crash-land into a flare:
There was a moment, a real one, when I realised: rest is not a luxury. It’s not a nap. It’s not working from bed. It’s not multitasking with a heating pad on.
Rest is permission.
Permission to shut off. To stop proving yourself. To not be available to everyone all the time.
I finally saw what my body was begging me for: clear boundaries.
Not “I’ll just do this one last thing.”
Not “It’s fine, I can take that call.”
But a full switch-off, emotionally, physically, and mentally.
Friday to Monday. No clients. No guilt.
Just… recovery.
It would say:
“You call this rest?! Give me real rest or I’ll force it out of you.”
And honestly? Fair.
Because my body has forced it out of me before. Through flares. Through burnout. Through collapse.
If you’re living with chronic illness, or even just carrying too much life in your bones, you don’t need permission to rest. But I’ll give it anyway:
Let your rest be lush. Let it be soft. Let it be sacred.
Let it be enough.
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If this post helped you feel seen or reminded you to rest, consider buying me a tea. It helps support my work, and keeps this blog alive and well (even when I’m not).
It feels like fire in my veins. That kind of pain. The pain that makes you shake not from fear but from sheer bodily revolt. Electric shocks snap through me like I’ve been rigged up to a sadistic little taser and someone’s got a trigger-happy finger. It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m trying to hold back tears while typing this, because even typing feels like a bloody expedition.
This latest MS flare kicked off just after midnight Sunday, that weird, ghostly hour when the world is silent and your body chooses to riot. My fingers are stiff; they don’t want to move. My thoughts are flickering—like a dodgy lightbulb in a horror film.
And then it rains.
The irony is thick: the one day I am at my most broken, the sky follows suit. Not a gentle drizzle. No, today it’s an angry, theatrical downpour. Bugsy—my ride-or-die, neurotic rescue dog—decides the windscreen wipers are obviously murderers. Every time they swipe, he lunges at the dashboard like he’s in a high-stakes action film and sinks his teeth into the once-beautiful leather seats. We have to head back to our town today. When I’ve managed to gather the strength or energy, we’ll hit the winding farm roads, half-swallowed by floods. Note to self: get life jackets to keep in car. My hands will barely grip the steering wheel, thank fuck for power steering, and my muscles will spasm with each bump in the road. And this is Africa, we have nothing but bumps in the road.
In Afrikaans, we have a saying, “ek voel vere.” It literally means, “I feel feathers,” but what it actually translates to is: I don’t give a damn. Today, I voel vere for everything outside this pain. Bills, emails, deadlines, they can all burn. I have a battle to fight, an onslaught to defend myself against, and a body to survive.
But here’s the kicker: I’m generally a sunny person. Not toxically positive, but cheerful. It’s unsettling to feel like I’ve been spiritually mugged in a dark alley of my own nervous system.
Summer here hits 44° Celsius (that’s 111° Fahrenheit for my metric-challenged readers). That heat is its own private hell: it strangles your lungs, turns your brain to soup, and turns MS symptoms into a kind of demonic opera.
But winter? Oh, winter has its own weapons. Cold, wet air that drowns your lungs, drags bronchitis in like an uninvited guest. Sometimes even pneumonia.
Out of the frying pan, straight into the fucking fire.
Change is here. That counts. Even if it’s a shitstorm wrapped in fog. They say a change is as good as a holiday. Not sure who “they” are, but maybe they’ve been through something too.
Today, this is the best I can do: get through the drive. Hold Bugsy back from annihilating the car or me. Breathe through the fire in my limbs. And write it down, so tomorrow I don’t gaslight myself into thinking it wasn’t that bad.
If you’re in your own flare, of pain, grief, rage, consider this a hand squeezed in solidarity.
Hold on. Even feather-light resistance counts.
If this piece held your hand for a moment or made you feel a little less alone in your own firestorm, consider fueling my next journal entry with a warm cuppa. Bugsy and I run on caffeine and courage.