I Learned to Watch for Her Skin to Quiver

On reconnecting to our bodies after trauma.

Bella, asleep in my comfy chair.

I had a moment last week.

Jeannine Ouellette

published my essay on her Substack and a flurry of new subscribers arrived—welcome everyone—and thank you! I’m also welcoming a new paid subscriber,

Amy Oscar

, and want to shout out one of my biggest supporters and champions, who is also a paid subscriber,

TheUltraContemplative

. I wouldn’t be here doing this without all of you.

It was a beautiful week, full of love and support and exposure for my writing—AND for this community we’re building, where we talk about, as Jeannine puts it, “the part that burns,” as well as the things that soothe.

Did you know if you hit the heart at the bottom/top of this email it helps others discover Hello Beautifuls?

With love,

Jocelyn
xo

I Learned to Watch for Her Skin to Quiver

On reconnecting to our bodies after trauma.

A small gray bird has been flinging itself against my windows for three days and its feathers are ragged from the effort. Sometimes, instead of fighting its reflection, it clutches the edge of the screen with tiny talons, peering in, pecking on the glass, catching its breath for another attack. I want to let it in, to hold it and say, “You are safe. You are here with me and you can rest."

When my dog died three years ago, my mother suggested I rescue a foster. She thought it might help heal my broken heart. She said, "All the love you've been giving to Caly all these years is stuck with nowhere to go. It's choking you." As if we could simply cough grief up and out of our constricted throats.

But I fostered a dog anyway. And I called her Bella.

When I first met Bella, she had heartworm and mange, scars on her legs where hair no longer grew, each rib and vertebrae a speed bump pushing against the pavement of her skin.

One morning, on our walk, a woman came jogging towards us. Bella mistook this for an attack and hooked her sharp, small white teeth into the woman's left leg, leaving a shallow puncture. 

My heart raced. My face felt hot. I took off my t-shirt and gave it to the woman to stop the bleeding. Feverish, I wondered if they killed dogs for biting in Texas. The woman asked for my information. Stripped, my throat tight and full with fear, I gave it all to her. She offered my t-shirt back to me, spotted with blood.  

I learned to give Bella a wide berth with people, bicycles, runners, other dogs. I learned to watch for the skin to quiver on her back from fear or anxiety or both. I learned to watch how she was holding her mouth, to sense the changes in her breathing, in the tension of her muscles. I watched, and I adjusted my behavior, her surroundings, accordingly, telling her, “You are safe. You are here with me and you can rest."

This April, I started seeing a chiropractor trained not just in bones, but also the nervous system and subtle energies of the body. I asked her how this treatment had changed her, and she said, "Instead of reacting to life, my body guides me."

I lie on her table as she touches my neck lightly, her fingertips whispering to my bones where my spine meets my skull, gently resting her hands between my shoulder blades, noticing where my muscles do not yield. She listens to my breathing and she invites my body to stop fighting its own reflection, stop seeing threats where they do not exist. 

She invites my body to say to me, "Now. Now you are safe. You are here with me and you can rest."

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