Chapter 10: Giving Voice to the Warrior’s Body
In the last two chapters, we saw that the body carries a story, not just the mind. We started reclaiming it by listening with sensory recall.
Now we’ll fold those details into our written story.
If we’re doing this work, we’re already carrying ourselves like warriors. The goal isn’t to fix anything or erase what happened. The goal is to help our body finish what it started.
We're not just retelling the story. We’re giving voice to the version our body has carried in silence.
Format for this step
Earlier, we used handwriting to let details surface slowly. For this step, switch to a digital document so edits are easy.
- Open a new doc on your phone or laptop and copy over the handwritten story. (Speech-to-text can speed this up.)
- Keep the document double-spaced.
- Work on one section at a time, with your Chapter 9 notes beside you.
- Choose what to keep. Keep the sensory details that draw you in, show an important change, or help you feel the moment in your body as you read it back. Not every sensory detail needs to be included. If a detail doesn’t bring you deeper into the moment or affect what you feel, leave it out for now. When in doubt, keep it. At this stage, more sensory detail is better than less.
- Weave in the details. Place each kept detail into the sentence where it belongs.
Here’s one way that looks in practice.
Example
Draft from Chapter 7 (first-person)
A car is pulling up to me at the checkpoint. Looks like another Iraqi local. Middle-aged. Male. I lean my head down to the passenger side window, point to my M4, and ask, “Ayu 'aslihatin?” <any weapons?>. He shakes his head no. I point to the glove compartment and say, “Aiftah hadha” <open this>. He seems confused. My eyes scan around while I wait for him to respond. Wait, what is that? Is that a rifle barrel poking out from under the passenger seat? Ahh shit, c’mon dude, why not just say something? A voice in my head says, "He’s not a threat. He looks like he's a father. Let him go to his family." Another voice says, "What if I’m wrong? What if he shoots someone on my team?" I notice he looks worried. I raise my rifle, point it at him and shout down the road to my squad leader, "Need some help here!"
My notes after asking the Eight Questions (things I remembered):
- Smell: the afternoon air was hot and dusty
- See: he stared straight ahead
- Thoughts: I remember thinking I had power over him, and that he didn’t seem like a threat, he seemed like a dad. I also worried about what would happen if I was wrong.
- Body Inside: my heart started pounding when I saw the rifle tip. His body was trembling. My arms tingled.
- Body Surface: flak jacket pressing into me. Shirt was sweaty.
Revised Draft (after weaving in the sensory details)
A car pulls up to me at the checkpoint. The afternoon air is so hot it smells hot. Looks like another Iraqi local. Middle-aged. Male. My flak jacket presses into my uniform. My brown undershirt is soaked with sweat. I lean toward the passenger side window and point to my M4. “Ayu 'aslihatin?” I ask. He shakes his head no, eyes locked forward, staring through the windshield. I point to the glove compartment. “Aiftah hadha.” He seems confused. My eyes scan the tiny car, waiting for him to respond... Wait, what is that? Is that the tip of a rifle poking out from under the passenger seat? Ahh shit. It is. My heart starts pounding. C’mon dude, why not just say something? I notice a faint trembling in his rigid body. Tingles crawl up my arms. He’s afraid of me. The power I have over this old man hits me all at once. A voice in my head says, "He’s not a threat. He’s probably a father. Let him go home to his family." Another voice says, "What if I’m wrong? What if he shoots someone on my team?" His face tightens. He looks worried. I raise my M4 and point it at him. Dammit, this feels wrong. But what choice do I have? I turn my head down the road and shout, “Need some help here!”
Why sensory details matter
When I stepped back into that memory and asked the Eight Questions, new details came up naturally. Those details draw me back into the scene just enough to feel it clearly and safely, so I can understand it more fully.
Remember, the goal here isn’t to embellish or “tell a good story.” It’s to describe what really happened, as true to life as we can.
Keeping the focus on how our body remembers it.
This helps our survival brain make sense of what happened. It’s no longer too much or too fast. Now we can digest those old emotions and nervous system signals, one bite at a time.
The more sensory detail we add, the more vividly the memory comes to life, and the more our nervous system can reframe its relationship to that moment from a place of safety now.
I’m reminded of something Dr. Bessel van der Kolk wrote in The Body Keeps the Score:
The trauma that started “out there” is now played out on the battlefield of their own bodies, usually without a conscious connection between what happened back then and what is going on right now inside. The challenge is not so much learning to accept the terrible things that have happened, but learning how to gain mastery over one’s internal sensations and emotions. Sensing, naming, and identifying what is going on inside is the first step to recovery.
Like I wrote earlier, our nervous system is like the black box on a plane. It doesn’t just record the crash; it remembers the terrain, the weather, and the moment before the storm.
We pulled the black box from the wreckage in the last chapter. That's when we started sensing, naming, and identifying what had been going on inside.
This step gives the body’s record a voice.
It also completes What Happened?
Let’s keep at it. Set a short timer and start weaving those sensory details into your story. Weaving is a warrior skill when you’re mending the torn fabric of a story.
If you notice tension rising in your body or feel overwhelmed, soften your jaw and drop your shoulders. Ask, "Is my breathing deep and slow?" Check in with your support teammate if you need to. Then keep writing. Stay with it until the timer goes off. Stay raw.
We’re building the full story now, one piece at a time. The body’s version is finally part of it. Nothing left behind.
When your new version matches what your body remembers, move on to Chapter 11: Two Antidotes to Pain