Our Bodies Keep The Score

"The Body Keeps The Score". It’s the title of a world-renowned book by Bessel van der Kolk—a Boston-based Dutch-American psychiatrist, author, researcher, and educator. We often think of trauma as something that lives in our minds—memories, emotions, fears.

But long after the event itself, trauma lives on in your body, in the autonomic nervous system. It shows itself in subtle ways: chronic tension in the neck and shoulders, startling easily or feeling “on edge,” hyper-vigilance or unexplained fear, freezing (or fawning) in the face of conflict, difficulty regulating heart rate or temperature, hormonal imbalances…

For me, it wasn’t all that subtle. It was asthma—my lungs, my breath.

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For as long as I can remember, I have had asthma. It runs in my family—on Dad’s side. His mother died of a severe attack when he was seven, and one of his brothers had it badly. Looking back, I can understand the fear my own episodes must have triggered in him. What I didn’t know then was how fear and stress hormones—adrenaline, cortisol—can trigger or worsen asthma. All I knew was that during my marriage to André, my asthma got worse. Times of sheer panic triggered debilitating asthma attacks. A simple cold could result in a multi-week illness that would completely diminish my physical strength. 

I remember one particular episode after which I was so tired and weak by the time the wheezing eased that I couldn’t even carry a light grocery bag. Let alone do housework or prepare dinner. I would simply be on the floor, or in bed, on hands and knees for days—just trying to give my lungs some room to breathe.

Years later, I could see how these asthma attacks were a physical manifestation of the daily fear I lived in, and the inability to stand in my own strength. Once I took back control of my life, the asthma lessened–today I only keep a rescue inhaler for the odd time when my breathing feels restricted. Perhaps because of my asthma history, breath work became one of the more significant therapies I experienced—though not until years later.

As usual, André had been at the Navy base in Den Helder. The commute was simply too long, so he’d leave on Monday and come home on Friday. Like this Friday. For the past few days, I was battling one of my more severe asthma attacks. I was in the living room, on the couch, when I heard his keys rattle through the open window. He opened the door and walked in. “What’s for dinner?” His tone was stern. I could feel fear take hold of me. He didn’t acknowledge me when I tried to sit up straight. I could only utter single words between my wheezing breaths.

He was clearly angry and upset that there was no dinner waiting for him. “Why is the house such a mess? What have you been doing all day?” 

Would he hit me? Funny how he never did (hit me), but there was always the unspoken threat that he might. That he could.

We were going away for the weekend, with my family, to a vacation home–a farmhouse that belonged to friends of my parents, in the province of Drenthe. We’d drive up after dinner and meet my parents and sister there. 

André went out to get us some Chinese take-out, and I tried the best I could to pack a bag.

The two-hour drive was horrible. Each breath felt more difficult to catch than the one before. The car felt constricted—not enough air to take in. Desperate to give my lungs room, I arched my back and lifted my face toward the ceiling, straining for air.

Panic rose from deep in my belly, making it even harder to breathe. I couldn’t control it. Tears welled in my eyes. I felt so incredibly helpless, but I had no energy—or breath—left to cry.

I don’t remember anything else after that, until my memory returns in the farmhouse bedroom—panicked voices all around me, someone saying my lips and nails were blue. I remember the sting of the epinephrine injection, and the sudden, miraculous loosening in my chest. Air! I could breathe again. 

Still jittery from the meds, but feeling safe now, I could finally relax and rest. But as my body settled, my mind didn’t. André had pushed me too far this time. The seed was planted and a deep sense of awareness began to take hold. I was not safe and needed to be more vigilant. Stop waiting to be acknowledged. I needed to watch out for me.

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This piece is an excerpt from the memoir I’m currently writing, with the working title (subject to change):

The Woman I Had to Find: Healing What Was Never Mine to Carry.

I’m writing this book for women who—like me—live with the hidden, everyday aftermath of emotional, sexual, or physical abuse. Even after therapy, many may still find themselves selling their worth short—caught in cycles of self-doubt, shame, guilt, and self-sabotage.

If this sounds like you, consider joining my Inner Circle, a safe and sacred space for women—a place of connection and understanding. A community to come home to each month—to feel supported, to be heard, and to grow.