trauma recovery

A Quiet Turning

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

There are moments
when I feel it rising —
a quiet tug toward old thoughts,
familiar patterns that once promised safety
but only ever gave me silence and shame.

It doesn’t shout.
It whispers.
You’re too much.
You’re not enough.
You’ll never get it right.

And for a moment,
I believe it again.
Not because it’s true —
but because it’s been loud for so long.

I carry those echoes
into rooms where I smile.
Into the spaces where I show up,
even when I feel unsteady.

But lately, I’m learning
to pause before the story runs away with me.
To ask:
What am I feeling?
Where is this coming from?
And what’s the truth I know beneath the noise?

I remember:
I am loved.
I am not a burden.
I am not the sum of my worst days.

And from that place —
even if it’s just a small step forward —
I respond differently.
More gently.
More freely.

This is what healing sounds like sometimes.
Not loud or linear —
just a quiet turning toward peace
when the pull of the past returns.

And I carry this quiet work of healing into the way I love — gently, intentionally, even on the hardest days.

Rest — You Don’t Have to Run Anymore

/ Baylee Snelling / Leave a comment

Rest — You Don’t Have to Run Anymore

I didn’t know how heavy shame could feel —
until it sat across my shoulders like a weight I couldn’t name.

Today in therapy, I tried to describe it.
What came out wasn’t polished. It wasn’t pretty.
It was real.

It felt like I was fully submerged in sinking sand,
trying to run.
Not walk — run.
As if urgency could save me from the pressure pressing down.

And then —
once my hands found a rhythm,
once the tapping steadied something inside me,
I saw myself.

Running.
But not forward.

Running from myself.

Running from the pressure I’ve placed on my own shoulders.
From the expectations I’ve created in my own mind.
From the shame I’ve added to my own story
because I keep measuring myself against a version of me I can’t seem to become.

And here’s what surprised me:
Saying it out loud didn’t make me feel weaker.
It made me feel awake.

I’ve been adding weight to the load — not because I’m wrong or bad —
but because I’ve been afraid that naming the pain would mean I’ve failed.

But what if it means I’m healing?

What if seeing the running is the first step to slowing down?

What if the girl I’ve been running from —
the one still buried in the sinking sand —
is the one who needs me to stop,
kneel,
and softly say:

Rest—
You don’t have to run anymore.