There’s a tension I live with almost daily—one that sits right at the crossroads of my roles as a therapist, a teacher, and a human who’s deeply uncomfortable letting nonsense go unchecked.
I’ve always had a strong radar for ideas that don’t hold up under scrutiny. Vague, untested, or pseudoscientific claims—especially when wrapped in feel-good language—tend to light that radar up like a Christmas tree. And I’ll be honest: I don’t just notice them. I bristle. Not because I enjoy being contrary, but because I believe there’s something unjust about letting shaky ideas become frameworks for how people understand themselves.
In therapeutic circles, this shows up a lot. Take the verbiage in many somatic focused models that suggest that trauma is “trapped” or “stored” in the body. These metaphors have gained traction for their emotional resonance, and I understand why—they offer a clear visual for an otherwise complex, often overwhelming internal experience. But as a clinician, I’m cautious of the deeper message they send.
Because here’s the thing: we don’t need to believe that trauma is some indelible residue lodged in our cells in order to make sense of our responses. Polyvagal theory, at its core, offers a much more grounded idea—that our nervous system is adaptive. It learns from our environment how to respond to danger, even if the danger is no longer present. What we often call a “trauma response” is, clinically speaking, a learned survival strategy that once kept us safe. Yet I see many clinicians who claim to be dedicated learners of Polyvagal theory continue to use terminology which is not consistent with its teachings.
Let’s say a 28-year-old gets into her first heated argument with her new partner. He raises his voice, and suddenly she shuts down—emotionally, physically, relationally. What’s happening here isn’t mysterious or evidence of some invisible toxin from childhood leaking into her system. It’s a freeze response—her nervous system’s way of trying to stay safe.
This response isn’t random; it’s adaptive. Her body is detecting a familiar cue of danger—raised voices—and is reverting to the strategy it learned in childhood, when her father’s yelling made home feel unsafe. Back then, shutting down, going still, and withdrawing may have been the smartest survival move available. And that’s what the freeze response is at its core: a strategy. It’s the same instinct you see in animals who “play dead” or freeze in the headlights. The underlying logic is evolutionary: Maybe if I stay completely still, this predator will lose interest or pass me by.
So when this woman shuts down during conflict, it’s not because something is “stuck” in her body. It’s because her body remembers what used to work. Her nervous system is doing its best to keep her safe—it just hasn’t updated the context yet.
This distinction matters.
Because when we tell people that trauma is trapped inside them—stuck, buried, seeping through their nervous system like some kind of psychic mold—we risk reinforcing a much darker belief: there is something inherently wrong with you. You are unclean. You need to be purged. You carry a kind of invisible yuckiness that only some external process or expert can rid you of.
This idea is echoed in many well-known quotes from respected figures in the trauma field:
“Trauma is… …the imprint left by [an] experience on mind, brain, and body.” —Bessel van der Kolk
“Trauma is what happens inside you as a result of what happens to you.” —Gabor Maté
“We need to begin healing the trauma that lives in our bodies.” —Resmaa Menakem
Each of these authors has made important and deeply meaningful contributions to the understanding of trauma. Their work has helped countless people feel seen, validated, and empowered to begin healing. I respect that deeply. But I also believe we need to step back and ask: What are the unintended consequences of this language?
When taken literally—which it often is—this language suggests that trauma is a kind of psychic contaminant lodged in the body, leaking harm until it is somehow released or cleansed. And for many clients I work with, this doesn’t just sound like a metaphor—it feels like a diagnosis: There’s something inside me that makes me bad.
That belief is tragically familiar for clients who’ve been raised in shame-based religious systems. For them, the language of “stored trauma” echoes the doctrine that they were born into sin—fundamentally stained and in need of constant purification. We’ve swapped theological terms for clinical ones, but the emotional logic remains: You are yucky inside. You need to be fixed.
I also see a striking parallel in how many individuals with eating disorders describe their bodies. For them, fat is not simply a nutritional substance—it becomes symbolic of something unwanted, disgusting, invasive. The goal becomes to purge it, to cleanse themselves of the shame it represents. And I can’t help but notice how often this same emotional framework shows up in a different costume—especially among wellness influencers and self-help personalities. Many of these attractive, seemingly high-functioning individuals are already fixated on restrictive food plans, juice cleanses, and elimination diets. And now, with the rise of pop trauma discourse, they’re turning that same purging energy inward: not just cleansing their bodies of gluten or toxins, but of trauma—as if what happened to them years ago has left behind a metaphysical residue that must be flushed out.
It’s the same story in new clothes: I am yucky.
Because of what I ate.
Because of what a religious leader told me I was.
Because of what happened to me when I was little.
But you are not yucky. You are not polluted. You do not need to be purged. And if you need to be healed, it is to be healed first and foremost of the idea that you are yucky.
Your nervous system is not a haunted house full of ghosts waiting to be exorcised. It’s an adaptive system doing its best to keep you safe. Yes, some of its habits may no longer serve you—and yes, there’s deep work to be done to help it relearn—but none of that means there is something festering inside you. You don’t need to be cleansed. You need to be met with understanding.
My goal as a clinician is to help people break free from these destructive self-perceptions. Your nervous system is not your enemy. It’s doing its best to work in your favor, even if some of its responses are outdated or overly reactive. We may need to adjust those patterns so you can remain the conscious operator of your own responses—but there is nothing that needs to be exorcised, released, or purged in order for that to happen.
Healing doesn’t require us to believe we’re carrying a sickness.
And truthfully, I think people deserve models of healing that respect both their biology and their dignity. That’s why I keep asking questions. That’s why I stay skeptical of metaphors that feel good but subtly harm. That’s why I believe we need language that honors what the body has learned—without convincing people they’re damaged goods.
Truth isn’t the opposite of compassion. It’s what sets it free.