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The Empowering Story – Podcast
Where trauma recovery begins with voice, choice, and the body's own wisdom.
This is not just a podcast about surviving. It's about reclaiming. Rewriting. Returning home to yourself.
Hosted by The Empowering Story, each episode offers trauma-informed insight, embodied guidance, and powerful personal truths for those healing from sexual trauma. Whether through solo reflections or tender conversations with survivors and practitioners, we explore how safety, somatic awareness, and narrative reclamation can reshape your relationship with your story—and yourself.
We don't rush healing. We meet it gently. We ask different questions:
→ What does readiness feel like in your body?
→ How do we write ourselves back together, one breath at a time?
→ What if the truth isn't too much—but just waiting to be heard?
If you're searching for grounded wisdom, language for your inner world, and a community that honors your pace—this is your space.
🔗 Start your journey: https://theempoweringstory.com
Welcome to the Empowering Story Podcast. This is a space
where healing is allowed to take its own shape. Nothing here is
rushed. Nothing is measured. We listen to
what's already present and to what might be ready to move
in its own time. When was the last time you had absolutely nothing
to do? No appointments, no deadlines, no messages demanding your
attention, nothing that needed fixing, planning, or organizing.
For some people, that sounds like a wonderful afternoon; for others, it sounds
almost unbearable. We talk a great deal about the importance of slowing
down, disconnecting from technology, and making time for ourselves.
But what if slowing down doesn't feel peaceful? What if an empty afternoon
makes you anxious? What if you are completely exhausted, yet find yourself
looking for something else to do? And what if that response has something to
do with experiences that happened many years ago?
Welcome to The Empowering Story Podcast. I'm Nia, and
today I'm joined by Jean Dorff, founder of The Empowering Story, trauma
recovery coach, author, and someone who has spent more than 4
decades exploring the relationship between the body, movement,
and human expression. Our conversation today is about
rest, but not the kind of rest you usually read about in wellness
magazines. We're exploring why rest can feel difficult,
even threatening, for people who have experienced trauma, particularly
childhood abuse, and what it might take to develop a different
relationship with stillness. Jean, welcome!
Part 1: The Paradox of Rest. Jean,
I want to begin with a story from your article. You describe a woman who
deliberately cleared her entire weekend— no work, no
responsibilities, no obligations. Yet, by Saturday afternoon,
she had cleaned her apartment twice and started reorganizing a closet.
She considered the weekend a failure. You saw something entirely different.
What did you see? Hi, Mia, thanks for having me.
Let me answer your questions in the context of the article and the topic of
today. I saw someone doing what she had learned to do very
well. She had created this wonderful opportunity for herself to
rest. She had removed all the obligations, cleared her
calendar, and given herself permission to do nothing. At least,
intellectually, that's what she had done. But when the weekend arrived, she
couldn't settle. She started cleaning, organizing, finding things that
needed attention. And I think we need to be careful about how we interpret
that. We could say she couldn't relax, we could say she was avoiding
something, we could even say she was sabotaging her own weekend, but
those interpretations miss something important. Her activity may
have been helping her maintain a sense of predictability and control.
Given her history, that response was understandable. What interested
me wasn't the cleaning itself. It was the difference between what she
wanted to experience and what she actually found comfortable.
Are you saying she genuinely wanted to rest, but when the opportunity
arrived, rest itself became uncomfortable?
Exactly. And I think that's something many people will
recognize, even without a history of abuse. We have become
very good at keeping ourselves occupied. There's always another
email, another task, another notification, another problem to solve.
We fill the spaces in our lives almost automatically. But for some
people who have experienced trauma, there's another dimension. Being
occupied may have served an important purpose. It may have helped them
feel prepared, maintain control, or avoid situations in
which they felt vulnerable. And when you remove that activity, you don't
necessarily create peace. Sometimes you create
uncertainty. That's interesting, because we normally think of
being busy as stressful and having nothing to do as relaxing.
Yes, but those assumptions don't always hold. Being busy can
certainly be exhausting, yet being busy can also feel familiar.
And familiar is not necessarily the same as healthy, just as
unfamiliar isn't necessarily dangerous. That's one of the
distinctions we need to understand. For someone who has learned to
remain alert, an afternoon without structure can feel more
difficult than an afternoon filled with responsibilities. The
person may be physically tired, may desperately want rest, and may still
find it hard to settle. Those experiences can exist together.
Part 2: When Vigilance Becomes Familiar.
Let's explore that. Why might someone who experienced abuse during
childhood find it especially difficult to relax?
Think about what happens when a child grows up in an environment where safety
is unpredictable. Perhaps a parent or another adult can be affectionate
one moment and frightening the next. Perhaps the child learns to
recognize tiny changes in someone's voice, facial expression,
footsteps, or mood. Those observations can become important.
The child learns to pay attention, not in the ordinary sense of
being curious about the world, but in the sense of trying to anticipate what
might happen. And when that environment continues over time,
Vigilance can become a familiar way of moving through life. Now,
that doesn't mean every survivor develops hypervigilance;
trauma affects people differently. But for some survivors,
the habit of anticipating possible danger can continue
long after the original circumstances have changed, and that can
make rest surprisingly difficult. So,
because letting go of that vigilance could feel like letting go of protection,
Yes. And I want to emphasize that we're not necessarily
talking about a conscious decision. Someone might know perfectly well
that they're sitting safely in their own living room. They understand where they
are. They know the people who hurt them are not present. Yet they may
still feel restless, uneasy, or unable to settle. We
can understand that partly through the way past experiences influence our
responses to stress and perceived threat. The body can react
before we have had time to think everything through. And this is why
telling someone to just relax can be so ineffective. The person may
already want to relax, so the problem isn't a lack of understanding
or desire. There is a sentence in your article that stood out
to me. You describe hypervigilance as precision
awareness that outlived its context. That's an unusual way
of describing something most people would simply call a problem.
Because I don't want to reduce the person to a symptom. I
recognize that persistent vigilance can become exhausting and interfere
with everyday life, but I also want to understand where it came from.
Something that helped someone cope with an earlier environment may become less
useful later. That doesn't make the original response foolish or
defective. It means the circumstances have changed while some
learned responses may remain. If we approach those responses
only with frustration, we risk overlooking the role they once
played. And I think respecting that history is important.
We don't need to celebrate hypervigilance. We don't need to keep it.
But we can recognize that it developed for reasons.
Part 3: The Difference Between Capacity and Permission.
You make another distinction in the article between the capacity to rest and
the permission to rest. Please, explain what you mean by that.
Someone may have everything necessary to rest, A comfortable chair,
a quiet house, a free afternoon. There is no immediate
responsibility demanding their attention. In that sense, they
have the opportunity and physical capacity to rest, but
internally, resting may still feel uncomfortable. They may feel
guilty about doing nothing. They may feel restless. They
may start thinking about what they should be doing instead, or simply
notice that being still makes them uneasy. So I use the word permission,
Not permission from someone else, but the internal sense that
resting is something they can choose without needing to justify it
or remain constantly prepared. But isn't permission
essentially a decision? Can't someone simply say, I give myself permission
to rest? They can say it, certainly, and sometimes
that can be helpful, but saying something and experiencing it aren't always
the same. We can understand an idea intellectually without
immediately feeling comfortable with it. I can tell someone that they
deserve rest. They might agree completely. But
agreement doesn't automatically change their experience when they sit down.
That's why I pay attention to experience, not just explanation.
What happens when they actually pause? What do they notice?
What feels comfortable, what doesn't? And how much freedom do they have to respond
to that experience? Those questions tell us far more than whether
someone agrees that relaxation is good for them. So,
it's less about convincing someone that rest is safe, and more about allowing
them to discover what rest feels like under conditions they can choose.
That's how I approach it, and that word choose is essential. When
someone has experienced abuse, especially abuse in which their
autonomy and boundaries were violated, we should be very
careful about replacing one set of demands with another,
even when our intentions are good. We shouldn't turn rest into
something a person has to perform correctly; the individual needs room to
discover what works for them. If you're listening to this and
recognizing something of yourself, there's an important point worth holding
onto: finding it difficult to relax does not
necessarily mean you are doing something wrong. And being quiet
does not always mean that you are resting. For some people, stillness
feels peaceful; for others, movement, creativity, or
connection may provide a more comfortable beginning. After the
break, Jean and I are going to explore why 2 people who appear equally
calm can be having completely different internal experiences.
And we'll talk about how to begin making room for rest without turning
it into another obligation. You're listening to The Empowering Story
Podcast. Part 4: Quiet
Doesn't Always Mean Calm. Shawn, one of the most interesting
sections of your article concerns 2 clients. Both were sitting
quietly, both spoke softly. From the outside, they appeared very
similar. Yet, you describe their experiences as quite different.
Tell us more about that distinction. We often make assumptions
based on what we can see. If someone is sitting quietly, we
assume they're calm. If someone isn't talking much, we assume
they're comfortable with silence. But outward behavior doesn't always
tell us what's happening internally. One person may be quiet because they're
comfortable, present, and engaged. Another may appear
equally quiet while feeling numb, disconnected, or overwhelmed.
And a third person may be sitting perfectly still while their thoughts are
racing. These experiences are not interchangeable.
So when we talk about rest, we have to ask what the person is
actually experiencing. Shawn, how do you recognize that
difference? First, by not assuming we already know. That's
important. My experience as a dancer, choreographer, and
teacher has made me attentive to movement, rhythm, hesitation,
and changes in expression. And in my trauma coaching work, I
also notice how people express themselves through writing. Sometimes a
sentence becomes shorter, sometimes the rhythm changes.
Sometimes someone's language becomes more guarded, or their expression
becomes more open. These observations can invite questions. But
they aren't diagnoses. I can't determine someone's nervous
system state from the way they sit or from a few sentences they've written.
The person is still the most important source of information about their own
experience. That brings us back to something you often
emphasize: orientation before action.
Exactly. Before recommending an exercise or a technique, I want
to understand where the person is in that moment, What are they
experiencing? What feels manageable? What do they want?
What options are available? Because an activity that feels comforting
to one person may feel uncomfortable to another. Some people
enjoy closing their eyes and focusing on their breathing. For
others, that can increase anxiety. Some people prefer silence;
others find comfort in music, conversation, or gentle activity.
There isn't one universal way to rest. And that diversity is
something we should respect. Part 5:
Rest Doesn't Require Stillness. I imagine that comes
as a relief to people who have tried meditation or mindfulness
exercises and found them uncomfortable, because the usual advice
seems to be, sit still, breathe, clear your mind.
Yes, Nia, that is right, and I think we need to broaden our understanding of
rest. Rest doesn't always mean inactivity. Think about
someone gardening. They're moving, touching the soil, paying
attention to what they're doing. Or someone drawing, painting, or coloring.
They're engaged in an activity, yet that activity may allow them to
step away from constant demands. For someone else, it could be
walking or dancing. I know from my own background how
different movement can feel depending on what we're doing and why we're doing it.
Movement doesn't always have to be about performance, technique, or achievement.
Sometimes it's simply the pleasure of moving, and that can be deeply meaningful.
So, would you say it's possible to rest while being physically active?
Certainly. Although, we need to distinguish between physical
rest and other forms of rest. Someone who's physically exhausted
may genuinely need sleep or recovery from exertion.
But when we're talking about taking a break from constant demands, mental
effort, or emotional pressure, Gentle activity can sometimes provide
that break. I would ask a simple question: Does this
experience give you something, or does it keep asking something of you?
And even that isn't a rigid test. Sometimes we enjoy an
activity that requires concentration and effort. The point is
that we have some freedom in how we engage. There's something
appealing about that. It means a person doesn't need to learn how to sit perfectly
still before they can experience moments of rest.
Exactly. And it also means we can stop judging our own
experiences by how they look. A woman working quietly in her
garden may be experiencing a meaningful moment of peace.
Someone lying on a sofa may be overwhelmed by worry. We can't
determine the quality of rest from appearances alone.
Part 6: Small Experiences, Not Big Demands.
Let's make this practical. Suppose someone recognizes themselves
in what we've discussed. They're exhausted, they want to unplug,
but every time they try, they become uncomfortable. Jean, where would
you suggest they begin? I would begin with making the
experience smaller and with keeping it voluntary. We
tend to think that if something is good for us, we should do more of
it. If 10 minutes of relaxation might help, we
immediately plan 30. If disconnecting from technology is
beneficial, we decide to spend an entire weekend without our phone,
but that's not always helpful. For someone who finds rest
difficult, a smaller experience may be more manageable. Perhaps it's
just a minute or two. Perhaps they sit somewhere comfortable,
look around the room, notice the light coming through the window, or
listen to a familiar piece of music. There is no obligation to close
their eyes. No requirement to breathe in a particular way,
no demand to feel calm; they can simply notice their experience and
decide what to do next. And what if they don't feel
better? Then we don't call it a failure, that's important.
Maybe the activity wasn't comfortable, maybe the timing wasn't right,
maybe they would prefer walking instead of sitting. Or perhaps they're
dealing with something that needs more support than a simple rest practice can
provide. The experience gives us information; it doesn't have to
produce a particular outcome. In the article, you
discuss titration and pendulation, concepts used in somatic
experiencing. How do they relate to what you're describing?
Titration, in this context, means approaching experiences in
small, manageable amounts rather than overwhelming someone.
Pendulation describes moving attention between different sensations or
experiences. Including those that feel more activated and
those that feel more settled. These are concepts used within
somatic approaches to trauma. I find the underlying
principle useful: we don't necessarily have to enter an uncomfortable
experience all at once. We can explore gradually, with the
ability to stop or change direction. And I want to
emphasize that these aren't instructions to push through distress.
If something feels overwhelming or brings up panic, dissociation, or
traumatic memories, That's a reason to stop and consider appropriate
professional support. You also describe returning to
activity deliberately after a brief rest. Why is that important?
Because choice includes the ability to leave an experience. We
often talk about helping someone enter a calmer state, but I think
it matters just as much that they know they can decide when to stop.
They aren't trapped in an exercise; they don't have to continue until the coach,
therapist, or anyone else decides they've done enough. They have a say.
For someone whose experiences involved a loss of control or
autonomy, having that choice can be particularly meaningful,
and that's why I prefer small, reversible experiences.
Not because a few minutes automatically change the nervous system, but
because the individual can explore rest without making it a test of
endurance. Part 7:
Unplugging from More Than Technology. We've talked
extensively about rest, but I want to return to the word unplugging.
Usually, people associate that with phones, social media, and digital
devices. Are we talking about something broader?
Much broader. Of course, our devices play a role. We live in an
environment in which our attention is constantly being requested.
Messages arrive, notifications interrupt us.
There's always more information. And even when we have a quiet moment, we can fill
it immediately. But unplugging isn't necessarily about rejecting
technology. Technology can also provide connection,
comfort, access to support, and meaningful relationships. The
question is how we relate to it. Are we choosing where our attention goes?
Or are we responding almost automatically to every new
demand? And that applies beyond technology. Some people
feel they always need to be available to others. Some feel responsible for
solving every problem. Others feel uncomfortable when they're not
being useful or productive. So unplugging can also mean stepping
away from those expectations, even briefly.
That sounds like reclaiming attention. Yes,
Nia, and I would connect attention with choice. Where do I want to
place my attention right now? Do I want to respond to this message?
Do I want to finish this task? Or do I want to enjoy my
coffee, listen to music, spend time with someone, or simply
look out of the window? These sound like small questions, but
we shouldn't underestimate the significance of being able to make those choices,
especially for someone whose earlier experiences involved having
very little control over what happened to them. And
yet, we shouldn't turn unplugging into another performance target?
Precisely. I don't want someone listening to this podcast to
walk away thinking they now have to unplug for 20 minutes every morning.
Or that they should feel guilty if they still enjoy scrolling through their
phone that's just replacing one demand with another. I
would much rather someone became curious about their own relationship with
attention. What are they noticing? What do they enjoy?
When does technology help them feel connected? When does it leave them feeling
overwhelmed? And where might they want a little more room for something else?
Those are questions worth exploring. Precisely. I
don't want someone listening to this podcast to walk away thinking they now
have to unplug for 20 minutes every morning. Or that they should
feel guilty if they still enjoy scrolling through their phone—
that's just replacing one demand with another. I would much rather
someone became curious about their own relationship with attention,
What are they noticing? What do they enjoy? When does technology help
them feel connected? When does it leave them feeling overwhelmed, and where
might they want a little more room for something else? Those are
questions worth exploring. Yes. She told me about
sitting on her balcony with a cup of coffee. She had been there for approximately
10 minutes, and at some point she noticed that her shoulders had
relaxed. That was it. There wasn't a dramatic
breakthrough, She hadn't completed a complicated exercise; she
had simply been sitting there, drinking coffee, and enjoying a moment.
But she recognized that something about the experience was different, and it
meant a great deal to her. 10 minutes, Sean. That
sounds so ordinary. It does, Nia, and
that's precisely why I find it meaningful. We sometimes talk about
recovery as if it must always involve major insights or
extraordinary transformations. But life itself takes
place in ordinary moments— a conversation, a morning cup
of coffee, a walk, listening to music, being with
someone without worrying about what happens next. For someone who has
lived through abuse, being able to enjoy those moments without constant
vigilance may represent an important change— not necessarily a
permanent change, not proof that everything is resolved, but a
meaningful experience in its own right. You call that a quiet
act of authorship. Please tell us, what do you mean by that?
At The Empowering Story, much of my work concerns the relationship
between our experiences and the stories we carry about ourselves.
When someone has experienced abuse, particularly as a child, so
much of their early story may have been shaped by the actions and decisions of
other people. Things happened without their choosing. Their boundaries
may not have been respected, Their voice may not have been heard, and while
we cannot change those events, we can explore how the person
wants to live now. That includes the possibility of making
choices about ordinary experiences, how they spend their time,
what deserves their attention, what they enjoy, when they want to be
active, and when they want to rest. I call that authorship
because it concerns having a voice in the life we're living, and
sometimes, That becomes visible in something as simple as sitting on
a balcony and enjoying a cup of coffee.
Part 9: A Final Question. Shawn,
before we close, I'd like to ask you something. If someone has spent
years feeling that they always need to be prepared, alert, or useful,
what is the one thing you'd want them to take away from this conversation?
That rest does not have to become another thing they need to get right. And
perhaps something even more important. They don't have to begin with the
expectation that they should feel calm. They can begin with
curiosity. What feels comfortable to me? What gives me a moment
of relief from demands? Is there something I enjoy that doesn't need to become
an achievement? And can I allow myself to experience
it, even briefly? I think that's where we need to be very
careful in trauma recovery. We can become so focused on
healing, improving, processing, and changing, that
every experience begins to serve a purpose. Even rest
becomes part of a recovery plan. But people are entitled to
experiences that don't have to accomplish anything. A pleasant
moment doesn't need to become evidence of progress. Sometimes,
it can simply be a pleasant moment. And for me, that is
an important part of what we're working toward, not an endless process
of repairing ourselves. but having more freedom to participate in the
experience of living. So perhaps the question
isn't, how do I become better at relaxing?
Well, Nia, perhaps the better question is, where can I make a little more
room in my life for an experience that asks nothing of me? And
whatever the answer is, it belongs to the person discovering it.
We've spent this episode exploring a deceptively simple subject,
Rest. Something we all need, yet something that doesn't always come
easily. For people who have experienced trauma, particularly
abuse during childhood, slowing down can sometimes bring
discomfort rather than peace. And that deserves understanding,
not another demand to do better. As Jean reminds us, rest
doesn't need to look the same for everyone. It might be stillness. It might be
movement. It might be creativity, music,
conversation, coloring, or a few uninterrupted minutes with a cup of
coffee. And perhaps most importantly, it can remain a choice.
If this conversation resonates with you, you can read Jean's accompanying
article, When Rest Feels Like a Risk, at
theempoweringstory.com. You'll also find more
about his work, his writing, and the ways in which The Empowering Story
supports people exploring life beyond traumatic experiences.
This conversation is educational and is not a substitute for
individualized mental health care. If attempts to rest bring
up intense distress, traumatic memories, or dissociation,
consider reaching out to a qualified trauma-informed mental health
professional. I'm Nia. Until next time, remember,
you don't have to turn every moment of your life into something to accomplish.
Some moments are simply yours to experience. Thank you
for listening to the Empowering Story Podcast. This space will be
here when you return. I am Jean Dorff, and I want to
thank you for being here. It's, uh, an honor to share
this space with you. Until next time.