How We Talk About Trauma
By: Zachary Barry, MSW
Gael is eight years old. He loves gummy worms, anything with monster trucks on them and his blue shoes. He insists on wearing these blue shoes everyday no matter how dirty they are or how much snow is outside. He says, “they make me faster than lightning” and if you saw him during recess, you would believe him. Gael is the first one to the swings, the last one to get caught during tag and laughs so hard at random times people start laughing with him.
If you did happen to see Gael at recess, you would probably just see a typical eight-year old who runs fast, laughs loud and gets a bit upset when someone beats him to be line leader. Nothing that would raise eyebrows for a boy his age. Teachers sometimes sigh when Gael doesn’t raise his hand to answer a question, or when he wanders around the classroom instead of sitting down. When he falls asleep in class, teachers often will just attribute that to how restless his legs are.
But what you don’t see is what happens at home before he ties up his favorite blue shoes. What isn’t visible is the way he counts the drips on the popcorn ceiling at night to drown out the crashes in the kitchen. Or how fast he runs to his hiding spot when things get loud, because loud always means danger. What you don’t see is how hungry he is in the morning because dinner didn’t happen again.
Gael doesn’t walk into school with a giant sign written in blue sharpie to announce what happened the night before. He comes in with his favorite blue sneakers, a goofy grin and a backpack full of invisible weight. To an untrained eye he is just a boy who can’t sit still, blurts out answers and gets frustrated at seemingly small things. But to others those restless legs, sudden bursts of anger and even that big laugh tell a different story.
It is these stories that tell us what trauma is, not some long, drawn-out scientific definition that incorporates the current neuroscience fad. When we do this, we lose track of ones lived experience and begin to place pathology over empathy. Treatment begins to take hold over healing, and we lose track of what is at stake- helping kids have good days.
That’s why when I talk about trauma and resilience I do so by painting a picture. Here is an example.
Snow Tracks
It is wintertime and there is a giant hill near you that all of the neighborhood uses. It’s not overly steep where it makes walking back up to challenging but not to flat where you could use your own ditch. You’ve got a sled, and the snow looks perfect for sledding. At first glance, it seems like everyone will have the same ride down. But the snow isn’t the same everywhere- some parts are packed hard, some soft, some icy, some slushy.
The first kids who sled down leave tracks. Some paths are smooth and some are bumpy. As more kids go down, those tracks get deeper, forming little grooves and ruts in the snow. Now, when you hop on your sled, you notice how your ride is influenced by those existing tracks. You veer left when you want to go right, speed up, and hit a bump you didn’t expect. Even if you try to lean a different way or put your legs out to slow down, the snow pushes you back into the grooves that are already there.
That’s like what happens with trauma. Early experiences- the hard moments, the scary moments like Gael had, the times someone didn’t feel safe leave “tracks” on a person’s nervous system. When they encounter similar situations later, those tracks guide how they respond. Some reactions feel automatic: running away, lashing out, or constantly fidgeting. They’re not choosing the path entirely; the tracks influence the ride.
And just like sledding, the good news is this- new experiences that flip expectations upside down, consistency, and positive relationships can flatten those grooves and create fresh tracks. Over time, the ride becomes smoother, more predictable, and even enjoyable. The old tracks might still be there, but they don’t have to control every turn.
Telling the stories of trauma and painting vivid pictures shapes not just how we interact with children, but also how we engage with one another. These stories hold fast, resisting the decay that time inevitably always produces in ways that fad definitions never can.
