The effects of unresolved trauma can be devastating. It can

Host:
The city was wrapped in a thick, grey fog, the kind that muffled every sound and blurred every line between memory and reality. A dim streetlight flickered outside the window of a small, worn café, its neon sign half alive, half dying. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of coffee, rain, and loneliness.

Jack sat near the window, his face partially lit by the amber glow of a candle. His hands, scarred and strong, held a cup that had long since gone cold. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes dark and tired, yet alive with a kind of tender fire that refused to fade.

The night was quiet, except for the soft hum of rain against the glass — the kind of silence that asks to be broken.

Jeeny:
“Peter Levine once said something that’s been haunting me, Jack. He said, ‘The effects of unresolved trauma can be devastating. It can affect our habits and outlook on life, leading to addictions and poor decision-making. It can take a toll on our family life and interpersonal relationships. It can trigger real physical pain, symptoms, and disease. And it can lead to a range of self-destructive behaviors.’”

Host:
Her voice was soft, but it cut through the room like a knife through fog.

Jack:
“Trauma,” he said, his tone measured, almost clinical, “is just another word people use when they can’t handle what life throws at them. Everyone’s been hurt, Jeeny. But some get up, some don’t. It’s not trauma that destroys you — it’s weakness.”

Jeeny:
“Is that what you really think? That pain is a choice?”

Jack:
“It’s a reaction. A habit, like anything else. You can train yourself out of it. People have been through wars, torture, starvation, and still managed to live normal lives. Look at Viktor Frankl — he survived the camps and wrote Man’s Search for Meaning. He didn’t let trauma define him.”

Host:
Jeeny’s fingers tightened around her cup, her reflection trembling in the coffee’s surface. The rain intensified, drumming against the window like a heartbeat.

Jeeny:
“You’re using an exception to deny the rule, Jack. For every Viktor Frankl, there are thousands who never make it out of their own minds. Trauma isn’t about strength — it’s about what stays when the danger is gone. You can’t ‘train’ a nervous system that’s been wired for fear. It’s not weakness; it’s biology.”

Jack:
“Biology can be rewired. That’s what therapy, discipline, and time are for. People use trauma as an excuse to avoid responsibility. They hide behind their scars so they don’t have to change.”

Jeeny:
“You call it an excuse; I call it survival. Do you know what unresolved trauma really does, Jack? It changes how a person sees the world. It’s like wearing a mask you didn’t choose. You don’t just see pain — you expect it. You search for it in every shadow, every touch, every word. And then, slowly, you start to become the very thing that hurt you.”

Host:
Jack’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening. The flame from the candle flickered, casting shifting patterns across his face — half light, half darkness.

Jack:
“That’s poetry, not truth. You’re romanticizing suffering. People aren’t broken because of trauma; they’re broken because they let it win. Look at addicts, for instance. You think their pain is some ghost from the past? No, Jeeny. It’s choice — every bottle, every needle, every lie they tell themselves. They’re not haunted; they’re hiding.”

Jeeny:
“And what if they’re hiding because no one ever taught them how to feel safe? What if the bottle or the needle is the only language they know for comfort? Do you really think a child who’s been beaten, neglected, or betrayed grows up and just decides to destroy themselves? Trauma isn’t a ghost, Jack — it’s a program. It runs your choices until you face it.”

Host:
The clock above the counter ticked, each second a reminder of how long they’d both been running — from something, or toward something. The rain softened, the city’s noise creeping back in like a memory that refuses to die.

Jack:
“You talk as if trauma’s some living thing, Jeeny. Like it’s alive, waiting to attack. But it’s just memory, that’s all. You can’t let memory dictate your future.”

Jeeny:
“But memory is the body’s truth. You can’t just erase it. Peter Levine wrote about how the body remembers what the mind tries to forget. Soldiers flinch at fireworks, victims wake up in panic years after they’re safe. You think that’s choice? That’s trauma speaking the only way it can.”

Jack:
“And yet, some of those same soldiers go on to build, to lead, to heal others. You can’t just keep saying trauma controls everything. At some point, willpower has to mean something.”

Jeeny:
“It does. But willpower doesn’t work against unseen wounds. You can’t fight what you don’t understand. And most people — they don’t even know their pain has a name. They just live it. Every day. In their relationships, their habits, their fears. They call it fate, or bad luck, but it’s trauma — unresolved, unspoken, alive.”

Host:
A moment of silence stretched between them, thick and fragile. Outside, a taxi splashed through a puddle, its headlights cutting across the window, illuminating their faces like a brief flashback — one face carved from logic, the other from empathy.

Jack:
“I used to think like you,” he said, his voice lower now, almost cracked. “When my father died, I told myself it was just life. That I had to move on, be strong. But years later, I’d still wake up angry, lost, drinking too much, pushing people away. Maybe… maybe that was trauma. Or maybe it was just me being a damn coward.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe it was both,” she whispered. “Trauma doesn’t ask permission, Jack. It just lives inside you until you’re ready to face it. You weren’t a coward — you were just hurting. And no one ever showed you how to heal.”

Host:
The air in the café seemed to soften, the light from the candle now a steady glow. Jack’s shoulders lowered, his breath slowed, as if some weight had finally loosened inside his chest.

Jack:
“So, what then? What are we supposed to do with all that… pain?”

Jeeny:
“We don’t fight it. We listen to it. We let it teach us what still hurts, and we forgive the parts of ourselves that had to survive. That’s how we break the cycle — not by denying trauma, but by understanding it.”

Jack:
“And if it never goes away?”

Jeeny:
“Then we learn to live beside it — like an old scar. It doesn’t mean we’re still bleeding, Jack. It means we healed, and the mark is just the story that remains.”

Host:
The rain had stopped. The fog was lifting, revealing the city lights — muted, but alive again. Jack looked at Jeeny, and for the first time that night, his eyes softened — grey melting into something almost warm.

He raised his cup, now cold, and smiled — just a little, but it was real.

Jack:
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe trauma isn’t about weakness or strength. Maybe it’s about what we do with what stays.”

Jeeny:
“Exactly,” she said, smiling back. “We can’t always choose what happened, but we can choose how to remember.”

Host:
The camera would have pulled back, now, if this were a film — two souls, framed in the soft afterlight of a storm, steam rising from the streets like the ghost of everything they’d just said.

The world outside still carried its pain, its noise, its unresolved echoes — but inside that small café, for a moment, there was only stillness, truth, and the quiet grace of two people remembering what it means to heal.