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. But I promise: there is a real human being behind this keyboard. If the people I am writing about would find this, they would recognize themselves immediately which is another reason for keeping this anonymous. For now.

I’m doing more than well by most external measures. I lead and I'm trusted with significant responsibility. I built something from very little without the credentials people assume you need. While it looks like a success story from the outside but from the inside it's a little more complicated.

I'm a survivor of complex trauma. CPTSD, if you want the clinical term. Complex trauma 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 was in therapy - on and off - for over a decade. Breaks, false restarts and therapists who weren't right followed after I completed an intensive treatment program. The work continues but not in consulting rooms anymore. My writing is part of that work. Many of the pieces you'll find here were written across the last decade. They are based on fragments, my therapy notes, writing exercises, conversations and all my attempts to understand what was happening to me. I'm sharing them now, gathered together in one place. Some raw from the time, some reflected on years after.

Sun, Interrupted is where I process and share what I've learned and am still learning: about trauma, about the body, about myself, about others, about the strange ways we adapt to survive and the even stranger work of unlearning those adaptations once we're safe. About building my career while being submersed in treatment, about balancing leadership with high demands and how you show up for that and the people around you.

I always write for myself, first. To make sense of things. To hold whatever I am writing about outside my head where I can look at it.

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 and I'm not offering advice. What I am offering is what I have: my own experience, handled as carefully as I can manage, in hopes 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.