Leilani M Norman

Category: Trauma

  • The Freeze Response

    The Freeze Response

    When the Body Goes Still: Understanding the Freeze Response

    There is a particular kind of stuckness that may not look like stuckness from the outside. A person is sitting across from someone — a partner, a colleague, a parent — and something inside goes quiet. Not calm-quiet. Another kind. Thoughts slow. Words that should be easy to find are suddenly far away. The body feels both heavy and somehow not quite one’s own. Later, the moment gets replayed, and the question arises: why didn’t I say the thing I meant to say, leave when I wanted to leave, feel what I thought I should have felt?

    If this is familiar, consider this: the body was not failing. It was protecting.

    What freeze actually is

    When the nervous system encounters a threat it cannot fight and cannot escape, it has one more card to play. It goes still. Heart rate slows. Breath gets shallow. Muscles hold. Sometimes there is a sense of watching oneself from a small distance, as if the moment were happening to someone else.

    This is called the freeze response, and it is one of the oldest survival strategies we have — older than language, older than reason, shared with most of the animal kingdom. When a mouse cannot outrun the cat, it goes limp. The cat, expecting a struggle, often loses interest. The mouse, if it survives, eventually shakes off the stillness and continues on.

    Humans do this too. They just usually don’t have the language for it.

    Why it shows up later, in places that seem safe

    Here is the part that can feel confusing and sometimes shameful. The freeze response does not always stay in the past. Once the nervous system learns that stillness is the safest option in a moment of overwhelm, it remembers. So a person might find themselves going quiet and far away in a difficult conversation that is, by any reasonable measure, not dangerous. They might lose their words in a meeting. They might notice the body going numb during intimacy, or during conflict, or while reading a text message.

    This is not a character flaw. It is not weakness. It is a nervous system doing exactly what it learned to do — trying to keep the person safe using the tool that once worked. The problem is not the response. The problem is that the response no longer fits the situation.

    What begins to help

    The instinct, when freezing begins, is often to push through. Force the words. Force the movement. Force the feeling. This rarely works, because the part of the self that has gone still is not being stubborn — it is being protective. It needs evidence that the present moment is different from the moment it is bracing against.

    A few things that tend to help, gently:

    Small movement before big movement. When a large action feels impossible, the smallest one is usually available. Moving one finger. Shifting the gaze. Pressing the feet into the floor and noticing the pressure. The nervous system reads these micro-movements as signals that the person is here, now, and not trapped.

    Orienting to the room. Look around. Let the eyes land on three specific things and describe them in some detail — the color of a book spine, the particular light on a wall, the pattern in the rug. This sounds almost too simple to matter, yet it does. Detailed looking pulls attention back into the present.

    Longer exhales. The out-breath is the part of breathing that calms the body. A slow count of five on the way out, whenever it can be managed, begins to tell the nervous system that the threat has passed.

    The part that froze is not the whole self. When freeze happens, it can feel as though the whole self has gone offline. But there is also the part that noticed the freezing, the part that sought out help, the part that is reading this post. Those parts are present too. The frozen part does not have to be the only voice in the room.

    What is worth knowing

    For anyone who has lived through something hard — and most of us have, in one form or another — and whose body has learned to go still in the face of overwhelm: there is nothing broken here. What is being carried is an old, intelligent survival response that has outlived its usefulness in certain moments. That is a workable problem. It is not a verdict on who a person is.

    The goal of this work is not to eliminate the freeze response. It is to give the nervous system newer information — that in this moment, in this room, with this person, in this present self, there is more room to move than there used to be.

    Slowly, with care, the stillness begins to soften. And somewhere in there, the words come back.

    For readers who notice these patterns in themselves, this is the kind of work a trauma-informed clinician can help with.

    Painting by Leilani Norman

  • When Caregiving is Complicated

    When Caregiving is Complicated

    Caregiving is often talked about as an act of love or devotion. For many people, especially those caring for aging parents while also working or raising children, it’s a demanding but meaningful role. But for some caregivers, there’s an added layer that rarely gets named: caring for a parent who caused harm in childhood. In these cases, caregiving can stir up old wounds alongside the everyday stress of managing appointments, medications, and finances.

    Research over the past several years has shown that adult children who experienced abuse or neglect growing up often face unique emotional challenges when they become caregivers. Many report feeling trapped by a sense of obligation, even when the relationship has not felt safe or nurturing. Others struggle to set boundaries, fearing guilt or judgment if they limit contact or emotional involvement. These internal conflicts can make caregiving feel especially heavy and isolating.

    Studies also show clear mental health effects. Caregivers looking after parents who were abusive tend to report higher levels of depression and lower overall life satisfaction than caregivers without that history. Feeling emotionally distant from the parent is common—and while outsiders may see this as a problem, it often reflects self-protection. Research suggests that caregivers with greater self-acceptance and self-respect are somewhat protected from the worst emotional effects, even when the relationship remains strained.

    This matters because caregiving is incredibly common. More than 60 million Americans provide unpaid care to family members, friends, or chosen family. While support services such as respite care or caregiver groups exist, many people can’t access them due to time constraints, cost, or lack of awareness. For caregivers with trauma histories, support that ignores past harm can feel invalidating or even harmful, leaving them less likely to seek help at all.

    The takeaway is simple but important: caregiving is not a one-size-fits-all experience. For some people, providing care does not mean emotional closeness, forgiveness, or reconciliation. Trauma-informed support recognizes that caregivers can act responsibly and compassionately without sacrificing their own well-being. Naming this complexity matters. When caregiving support —whether from therapists, healthcare providers, or community programs— acknowledges trauma history, caregivers are more likely to feel less alone, less ashamed, and more entitled to care for themselves alongside the people they support.

    Sources informing this post include: Kong (2015, 2018); Kong & Moorman (2015); Kong et al. (2021, 2022); Goldberg & Kong (2022); AARP & National Alliance for Caregiving (2025).