Encountering Jesus in the Storm (Introduction)
the neuroscience of emotional storms in the wake of trauma and disconnection in attachment relationships.
Introduction
As a trauma survivor, I am quite familiar with emotional storms. They are most often triggered whenever I am reminded of the relationships I’ve lost as a result of the trauma. Waves of shame, fear, and grief come crashing into my heart as my thoughts swirl with what I or others did to cause the disconnection between us. I can spend hours, days even, feeling lost at sea in the dark, stuck between swells of rumination about how I am going to repair the relationships. Yet, I’m never actually able to because the kind of trauma we have suffered can’t be fixed by my effort alone.
I have been given two choices in this system of relationships: say nothing more about the trauma that has been done (and continues to be done) and go along with things as they are (denial), or accept that I am the problem (scapegoating) and get out. Every counselor, pastor, priest, or spiritual director I have ever consulted has told me that to enter back into this relational system, or into relationship with any individual that is a part of the system, without mutual accountability and responsibility would cause myself, my marriage, and my ministry harm. To which, I have agreed and found to be true—the hard way. However, the effects of being disconnected (estranged) from my loved ones as a result of my decision to separate myself from this system of relationships are so overwhelmingly painful that they too end up causing me, my marriage, and my ministry harm.
Over the years, I have attempted to mitigate the harm by trying varying degrees of contact: “in contact”, “limited contact”, and “no contact.” I have also tried to alleviate the harm with trauma therapy, 12-Step recovery for codependency, EMDR, deliverance ministry, spiritual direction, medication, exercise regimens, yoga, life coaching, certifications, master’s degrees in counseling and theology, moving to a monastery to live like a monk, spiritual formation programs, Bible studies, retreats, and pilgrimages. I have reasoned, maybe the problem, or at least part of the problem, is my responsibility, so I’ll do my part while also figuring out how to help them, and eventually, we can move forward together.
However, I have never been able to find serenity with any degree of contact, and no amount of healing myself has ever been enough to elicit a desire in them to work on our relationship together. Every offer to go to therapy and every mention of programs for recovery have been rebuffed or ignored. Even the faintest mention of my boundaries just to maintain some semblance of contact has been refused. As holidays and major life events pass, the silence is deafening. Each birthday is another day of grieving the death of someone still alive. Days like these are when I am most likely to end up in a storm, beaten by waves of the pain of disconnection, battered by shame whispering, “This is your fault,” and exhausted by fear, rumination, and grief. After 15 years of this, with the accumulation of other recent trauma and big life transitions, I have started to feel like I am drowning. My soul cries, “Where are you, God? Why is this happening? How do I make it stop?”
Over these last 15 years, I have dedicated countless hours to trauma research and recovery to try to answer these questions. What I have learned is that there is a science behind emotional storms in the wake of trauma, and our attempts to control them are more biological than one might be aware.
Our brains are wired to keep us safe and to protect us from harm. Disconnection from those we love signals to our brain that we are in danger—particularly if the disconnection is from one of our primary attachment figures (our family or anyone on whom we rely for security, i.e. identity, self-worth, protection, provision). Then, our autonomic nervous system (ANS), which is divided into the sympathetic nervous system (SNS) and the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS), responds to the perceived danger through different pathways—fight, flight, fawn, freeze, or shutdown.
When fight-or-flight instincts take over, adrenaline, cortisol, and norepinephrine are triggered by the nervous system to mobilize the mind and body to find safety and to move towards it—immediately. This might look like arguing (fight) or leaving abruptly to avoid arguing (flight).
The fawn response is a relational survival strategy that blends anxiety with appeasing or performing behaviors. The goal is to avoid or dissolve conflict at all costs. This can look like saying and doing (or not saying and doing) what an attachment figure wants even when it is not aligned with one’s own values, beliefs, needs, or wants.
When the nervous system preps the body for fight-flight-or-fawn, and there is no possibility of preventing, escaping, or avoiding harm, the body can go into a freeze state. This feels like having one foot on the gas pedal and the brake at the same time. It presents as being hyper-aware of everything, but unable to move, speak, or express emotions freely.
Finally, in situations that are perceived to be even more threatening, combined with an overwhelming sense of helplessness, the nervous system downshifts into immobilization or shutdown. This is akin to an animal “playing dead”, and might look like going numb, not being able to speak at all, or “going through the motions” while dissociating (things appear and feel fuzzy, detached, or not real) from reality and self.
Trauma causes disconnection. In both hyperarousal (fight, flight, or fawn) and hypoarousal (freeze or shutdown), the parts of the brain (mainly the prefrontal cortex) that enable us to perceive our circumstances clearly and feel emotionally connected to ourselves, others, and God go offline. This means it is biologically impossible for the brain to reason and consider nuanced details about our circumstances. In hyperarousal or hypoarousal, the brain can only think in black and white (safe or not safe).
It also means that the brain turns off the emotional systems related to connection and we lose our felt sense of empathy, compassion, patience, gentleness, curiosity, trust, joy, affection, hope, belonging, creativity, courage, desire, vulnerability, playfulness, and spiritual attunement. Without access to these emotions or our felt sense of connection to God, self, and others, the only reactions our brain shows us are fight, flight, freeze, fawn, or shutdown.
Furthermore, in the wake of an event that caused the trauma, we are left with the memory of the event on top of any actual harm, loss, or disconnection in relationship that we have suffered. Many people can say or think, “Get over it”, or “That happened ages ago”, but trauma is not necessarily the event itself; it is something that happens inside the body to the nervous system in response to the event. An event becomes traumatic when it causes such harm (emotional overwhelm) to the brain and body that it rewires our neurological pathways, and makes us slaves to the fear response center of our brain. Until the memory of the trauma is “resolved” or “processed”, our nervous system will react to any reminders of the trauma in the same way it did when it first occurred. Without intervention, the brain and the body will endlessly seek to resolve the traumatic memory and to restore connection through ruminations, searching for meaning, reenactments of the trauma, nightmares, etc.
Thus, our nervous system will always be vulnerable to being tossed back and forth by the waves of shame, fear, and grief until it connects with someone who is with us in the storm, strong enough to rescue us from fear, able to rewire the chaos in our nervous system, and willing to guide us back to safety and connection.
In the following posts, I will be sharing a guided contemplation of Jesus walking on water in the storm. These posts were inspired during my recent prayer retreat through the Ignatian Exercises. During my retreat, I was encouraged to be open to “Ignatian repetition”—if the Holy Spirit prompts me to return to a moment in prayer or contemplation that was meaningful, emotionally charged, confusing, or resistant to glean deeper meaning or to experience further healing or transformation. Jesus walking on water in the storm was one of those passages for me.
Since my retreat, I have been drawn back to this passage morning, day, and night. I have even woken up in the middle of the night feeling as if I am in the boat with the disciples or sinking beneath the waves like Peter did. I have cried, “Where are you, God? Why is this happening? How do I make it stop?” and I have seen and heard Jesus respond in ways that have helped me perceive my circumstances clearly and feel connected to God, myself, and others in the midst of the storm. Now, I invite you to get into the boat with me. Let’s encounter Jesus in the storm together.