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.
Why Community Matters in Healing
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.”
The Tree of Life: Stories as Medicine
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.”
Surf, Salt, and Solidarity
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.
Traditional Wisdom Meets Modern Healing
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.
The Work of Repair
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.”
What We Can Learn
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.
Anyone with ADHD or OCD will tell you, overthinking isn’t some quirky personality trait; it’s a full-contact sport. My brain is like a hamster on a cocaine bender in a wheel made of existential dread. Once it gets spinning? Good luck stopping it.
I’ve overanalyzed texts, tone of voice, facial expressions, past convos, future convos, and whether or not the barista actually wished me a good day or was just being polite. If overthinking burned calories, I’d be shredded.
But because I like to function (and not spiral into a puddle of what-ifs every time I misread a text), I’ve cobbled together a little overthinking survival kit. Not foolproof. Not therapist-approved. But it’s kept me afloat.
1. Puzzle Games
Word puzzles. Moving blocks into tiny spaces. Anything that demands just enough brainpower to hold my attention without tipping into frustration. When I’m doing a puzzle, my mind finally has something useful to chew on instead of gnawing on my own self-esteem.
There’s something weirdly soothing about finding the right fit, solving the next word, and clicking the piece into place. It gives my brain the satisfying illusion of control and resolution, which is all it really wants.
2. The “Fuck It” Timer
This one’s weirdly effective. I set a timer for 20 minutes and give myself permission to obsess the hell out of whatever I’m spiralling about.
I go full doom mode. Google things I probably shouldn’t. Rant in my notes app. Make imaginary arguments in the shower.
And when the timer goes off? That’s it. My brain had its tantrum. Time to rejoin humanity.
3. Walking My Dog in Nature
It’s not just the fresh air or the trees. It’s the rhythm. The leash in my hand. My dog sniffing the same patch of grass like it’s a holy relic. It’s ordinary, grounding, and so gloriously not about me.
Sometimes we walk in silence. Sometimes I talk to him like he’s my therapist with four legs. Either way, being outside with him resets something in me. It reminds me I have a body, a world, a life beyond my noisy head. It’s one of the most grounding ADHD coping tools I have.
4. Writing It Out (Usually in Poem Form)
When the mental noise is too loud to ignore, I write. Not a to-do list or a journal entry. I write poems. It’s like turning the chaos into something beautiful, or at least something shaped.
The structure, the rhythm, the hunt for the right word; it all forces my brain into focus. By the time I’m done, whatever had its claws in me has usually loosened its grip. It’s how I calm an anxious mind when nothing else is working.
5. One Person Who Gets It
Not someone who will fix it. Not someone who will say “just let it go.” Just someone who will go, “Yep. That sucks. I do that too.”
Sometimes we don’t need a solution. We just need to not feel like a lone freak in a sea of normal.
None of this is magic. My brain still spirals. But now I don’t spiral alone. I have tools. I have touchstones. I have a way back.
So if your mind is a loud, relentless bastard sometimes too? Welcome. You’re not broken. You’re just thinking real hard in a world that rarely makes sense.
If you don’t have someone to vent to, I’ve set up a Facebook group for people to safely come and let off steam, share their stories, and talk to the ether without judgment. Join the Kate & Ginger Mental Health Circle on Facebook
Some mornings, everything feels heavy. My body aches. My mind spins. The noise of the world — the pressure, the pain, the never-ending to-do lists — builds up. And then I take my dog, Bugsy, and we walk along the river.
It’s nothing dramatic. No intense cardio. No Instagram-worthy workout gear. Just me, my dog, and the steady rhythm of our steps on a dirt path.
But something happens out there.
The air shifts. The water moves. The world softens.
There’s a kind of quiet that only nature offers — a peaceful hush that holds you. And when I walk with Bugsy, I feel it settle into my bones. My breath deepens. My shoulders relax. My mind lets go, bit by bit. I’m not thinking — I’m just being. And somehow, that resets everything.
It’s movement, yes. But it’s also medicine.
Not the kind that comes in a bottle, but the kind that comes with birdsong, wind in the trees, and a dog who’s just happy to sniff everything.
I come back from those walks feeling more like myself. My sleep improves. My thoughts are clearer. My body — even with MS — feels a little looser, a little more alive. There’s something deeply healing about that kind of movement. No pressure. No performance. Just presence.
And it turns out, there’s science behind why this feels so good. Walking, particularly in natural settings, offers numerous physical and mental health benefits.
The Science Behind Nature Walks:
Research shows that walking in nature, often referred to as “green exercise,” can have a significant impact on reducing stress. A 2010 study published in Environmental Science & Technology found that people who walked in parks experienced lower cortisol levels and improved mood compared to those who walked in urban settings. This is why I always feel a sense of calm after my river walks.
In addition to stress relief, spending time in nature can help lower blood pressure and improve cardiovascular health. The simple act of walking without pressure to perform or achieve allows the body to find a natural rhythm. For those with chronic conditions like MS, this low-impact movement can help reduce muscle stiffness and improve joint mobility, making the body feel more alive.
Furthermore, walking in natural environments has been shown to boost serotonin levels, the “feel-good” neurotransmitter that’s linked to enhanced mood and mental clarity. Studies indicate that even a 20-minute walk outdoors can improve cognitive function and boost mood. The connection with nature also helps regulate our circadian rhythms, contributing to better sleep, which explains why I sleep so well after these riverside walks.
So, if you’re feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or disconnected — try a walk. No destination needed. No fitness tracker required. Just you, the open air, and maybe a four-legged friend.
Sometimes, the simplest movements carry the most profound healing.
Sources:
Thorp, A. A., et al. (2012).Physical activity and cardiovascular disease: The importance of the “free-living” context. Australian & New Zealand Journal of Public Health, 36(4), 343–349. This study discusses how walking and other forms of physical activity, especially those integrated into daily routines (like walking in nature), can have profound benefits for cardiovascular health, including lowering blood pressure. Link to study
Barton, J., & Pretty, J. (2010).What is the best dose of nature and green exercise for improving mental health? Environmental Science & Technology, 44(10), 3947–3952. This study explores how different “doses” of nature, including walking, can improve mental health by reducing stress and boosting mood. Link to study
Van den Berg, A. E., & Custers, M. (2011).Gardening and health: A review of the evidence and implications for the management of stress. Journal of Environmental Psychology, 31(3), 186-196. This article reviews evidence on the health benefits of engaging with nature, including walking, and discusses its potential for reducing stress and improving overall well-being. Link to study
Brown, D. K., Barton, J. L., & Gladwell, V. F. (2013).Viewing nature scenes positively affects recovery of autonomic function following acute mental stress. Environmental Science & Technology, 47(18), 10611-10617. This study shows how exposure to natural environments can positively affect the recovery of autonomic function after mental stress, supporting the claim that walking in nature can enhance mental clarity and emotional well-being. Link to study
You’ve just heard the words. Maybe you were in a sterile office with a doctor who looked serious. Maybe you were alone. Maybe someone was sitting next to you, holding your hand—but the moment still felt isolating. However it happened, one truth remains:
Your life just changed.
A diagnosis can drop like an anvil. Whether it’s multiple sclerosis (like mine), lupus, cancer, fibromyalgia, Parkinson’s, or anything else that doesn’t have a quick fix—it shakes you. It doesn’t just change your body. It changes your future, your plans, your sense of self.
How I Found Out—and Why I Felt Relieved
I remember sitting in that neurologist’s office. He didn’t ease me into it. He just said it: “It’s Multiple Sclerosis.”
And weirdly? I appreciated that. No tiptoeing, no sugar-coating. Just the facts. And after years of being dismissed, ignored, and misdiagnosed, finally being heard was a kind of relief.
I know that sounds strange. But maybe you’ve been there too—feeling your body betray you while doctor after doctor says, “There’s nothing wrong.” Maybe you’ve been told to “lose weight” or “just relax,” even while something inside you screams that something’s not right.
That first moment—being told what’s actually going on? It hurts. But it also validates everything you knew in your gut.
The Emotional Whirlwind After a Diagnosis
You don’t have to be brave today. You don’t need to find a silver lining or start fighting. You just have to breathe.
Cry. Sit in silence. Watch dumb dog videos. Scream into a pillow. All of it’s allowed. Because you’re grieving. And that grief is real and valid.
Grief for the version of you who didn’t know. Grief for your body, for the future you imagined. Grief for the control that slipped through your fingers.
What Chronic Illness Took—and What It Gave
For me, MS has taken plenty. I can’t sing anymore. I used to love dancing—can’t do that either. Fatigue is a constant shadow. Pain, spasms, brain fog—they don’t care about my to-do list.
But strangely, this illness has given me things too. It taught me to set boundaries. To trust myself. To question everything. To listen—really listen—to my body.
I’ve become stronger than I ever thought I could be. Not because I wanted to, but because I had no choice.
Living With an Invisible Illness
Here’s the part that’ll really test you: You might still be doubted.
Even now, people see me park in a disabled spot and give me looks. “You don’t look sick,” they say.
Some “friends” even say they don’t believe me. And those people? I’ve cut them out.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You don’t have to look sick to be sick. Invisible illnesses are real. And so is your right to protect your energy.
To the Newly Diagnosed: You’re Still You
You might feel like your body is foreign now. Like you’ve lost something essential. But let me tell you something very important:
You are still whole. You are still worthy. You are still you.
This diagnosis is not the end of your story. It’s a messy, complicated plot twist—but you’re still the author.
And when you’re ready—when you’ve had time to sit with it, grieve it, rage at it—there’s a whole world of people out here who understand. People living with invisible illnesses, chronic pain, hard diagnoses.
We are your people.
We’re not inspirational quotes or toxic positivity. We’re the ones who get it. The ones who live in bodies that fight back—but souls that refuse to quit.
Final Thoughts: How to Cope After a Diagnosis
Write. Journal. Let the chaos spill out onto paper.
Find a support system—online or in person.
Follow accounts that make you laugh.
Listen to your body (it’s not the enemy—it’s the messenger).
Don’t waste energy explaining your pain to people who don’t care.
Grieve the life you thought you’d have.
Then start creating a new one.
And if you’re reading this today—fresh off the heels of that diagnosis—I want to say this loud and clear:
You are not alone. You are not broken. You are still here. And you’re going to be okay. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.
Healing isn’t a neat, Pinterest-worthy process. It’s messy, unpredictable, and at times it feels like you’re going backwards. You think you’re doing better, then boom—something knocks the wind out of you, and you’re right back in that heavy place. No one really talks about that part.
There’s this glossy narrative floating around about “overcoming trauma”—as if healing is just a matter of ticking a few boxes, drinking green juice, lighting a candle, and suddenly you’re whole again. But in reality, healing is gritty work. It’s slow and it’s quiet and most of it happens behind closed doors, in the dark corners of the soul where nobody claps for you.
For me, the hardest part has been the loneliness. Even when you’re surrounded by people who care, no one else can actually crawl inside your skin and do the work for you. And when the people around you don’t quite get it—or worse, think you should be over it by now—it can make you feel even more alone. It’s not just about processing pain; it’s grieving the version of you that never got to exist. The version that didn’t get hurt. The version that felt safe in the world.
Trauma changes you. That’s not a failure—it’s just a fact. And coming to terms with that truth is its own kind of heartbreak.
And then there’s the body—oh, the body keeps score whether we want it to or not. Trauma doesn’t just live in your memories; it takes up residence in your muscles, your immune system, your sleep, your skin, your everything. I developed Multiple Sclerosis, and I believe my body finally said, “Enough.” Years of tension, unprocessed fear, self-betrayal… it adds up.
There’s also this strange guilt that creeps in when healing doesn’t follow the tidy timeline society seems to expect. We’re conditioned to believe that recovery should be linear—fast, visible, “productive.” But healing doesn’t care about your calendar. Some days you’re meditating and eating your veggies, and other days you’re crying in your car and ghosting everyone. Both days count.
And then there are the triggers—the tiny landmines that can blow a hole in your progress without warning. A smell, a song, a stupid Facebook memory. Suddenly, you’re not here anymore—you’re there, again. It’s jarring. But here’s the thing: being triggered isn’t proof you’ve failed. It’s proof you’re still healing. It’s part of learning how to live with what happened without letting it define you.
One of the strangest side effects of healing is that you might outgrow people. As you start setting boundaries and prioritising your peace, some relationships fall apart. It hurts—especially when those people once felt like your home—but it’s a necessary kind of grief. Not everyone is meant to walk with you through your healing. Some were only ever there to survive the storm, not rebuild after it.
And then there’s the fear of feeling too much. When you finally let yourself feel, it can feel like opening a floodgate. Anger, sadness, shame, rage—all the things you’ve tried so hard to outrun come rushing in. It’s overwhelming, yes. But it’s also where the magic begins. Because the only way out is through. Feeling doesn’t mean you’re falling apart—it means you’re finally listening.
Truth is, healing doesn’t mean going back to who you were before the trauma. That version of you is gone. But that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It just means you’re building someone new—someone wiser, stronger, more self-aware. Someone with roots, not just wounds.
Relearning how to trust yourself after trauma is no small feat. But it’s possible. With time, with gentleness, with truth. And maybe that’s the most powerful part of healing—not the big, dramatic breakthroughs, but the quiet decision to keep going. To get up, again and again, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
So if you’re in the thick of it, please know: you’re not doing it wrong. It’s just that healing is hard. And you’re doing it anyway. That’s the victory.
