About this site

I write anonymously. I'm not ashamed of what's here but some truths need space to breathe away from the roles I hold, the name I carry and the professional life I've built.

By most external measures, I've done well. I lead and I'm trusted with significant responsibility. I built something from very little without the credentials people assume you need. From the outside, it looks like a success story. From the inside, it's more complicated.

I'm a survivor of complex trauma. CPTSD, if you want the clinical term. The kind that doesn't come from a single event but from years of living in an environment where safety and harm wore the same face. Where the people who were supposed to protect me were also the people who hurt me.

I've been in therapy for over a decade. Not continuously though. There were breaks, false starts, therapists who weren't right, years when I thought I was done. I wasn't done and I'm still not. The work continues. This blog is part of that work. Many of the pieces you'll find here were written across that decade. They are fragments, reflections, attempts to understand what was happening to me. I'm sharing them now, gathered together in one place.

Sun, Interrupted is where I process what I'm learning: about trauma, about the body, about the strange ways we adapt to survive and the even stranger work of unlearning those adaptations once we're safe.

I write for myself, first. To make sense of things. To hold them outside my head where I can look at them.

But I also write for you.

Maybe you're someone who's been through something similar. Maybe you're earlier in the journey, or further along, or stuck somewhere in the middle wondering if it ever gets easier. Maybe you're a person I know - or knew - or am still learning to know. Maybe you found this by accident and something here made you stay.

Whoever you are: you're welcome here.

I won't pretend to have answers. I'm not a therapist. I'm not offering advice. What I'm offering is what I have: my own experience, handled as carefully as I can manage, in the hope that something here might be useful to someone else.

The title comes from the way trauma works, at least for me. There's a light that's meant to be there. A warmth, a wholeness, a self that exists before the damage. Trauma interrupts it. Blocks it. Sometimes for years.

But interrupted isn't the same as extinguished.

The sun is still there. The work is finding your way back to it.

If something here resonates, I'm glad. If you want to reach out, you can. If you'd rather just read and go, that's fine too.

Thank you for being here.