Chapter 7: Rebuilding Trust in the Present

In Chapter 6, we brought an intense memory up to the surface.

We talked about how, after something traumatic, our survival brain stays on guard—watching in case could happen again.

This is called ‘hyper-vigilance’: our survival brain's way of trying to help by keeping us ready, even when there’s nothing to fear.

Our nervous system keeps reacting to the present as if the past is still happening—or could happen again, without warning.

It keeps scanning for signs of that same kind of danger—and won't stand down until it knows we're safe enough, and strong enough to face what once overwhelmed us.

In other words, intense memories, the ones that still feel unresolved, are more than just snapshots of the past. They’re like survival blueprints etched into our nerves...

In daily life, they echo through us:

‘Stay alert. Don’t forget. Remember how bad it was? We can’t let that happen again.’

Sometimes those echos rise as thoughts—but more often, our survival system doesn’t use words. It gets our attention in other ways. It doesn't talk—it signals. Through the body. Through feelings.

It speaks through flashbacks, anxiety, nightmares, chronic tension and pain. Racing hearts, restless nights, aching limbs. Tight jaws. Shallow breathing. That knot in the gut we can’t explain. These are signs our alert system is burnt out—overwhelmed—and needing our attention.

To stop reacting like the past is still happening, we need to rebuild trust with our survival brain. Help it understand what really happened. Show it we’re safe now.

Writing helps our nervous system catch up to the truth: we made it through. We’re no longer in danger.

Now we bring our story into the present—so our body can stop preparing for a fight that’s already over.

Embodied Wholeness Storytelling

Step Eight: Re-write in First-Person 

We have a first draft. It’s time for the next step: bringing our words into the present.

Most of the time, we tell stories in past tense—not like they’re happening right now.

In this step, we’ll shift the story into present tense.

To do this, we place ourselves back in the moment and rewrite it as if it's happening right now.

Here’s a short example from the story I shared in the last chapter.

—

Past tense writing

It still bothers me how I confiscated weapons from Iraqi civilians who hadn’t committed any crimes. I remember one guy in particular. He was just another middle-aged Iraqi local passing through our checkpoint. I used my limited Arabic to ask him if he had any weapons in his car. He shook his head no. I asked him to open the glove compartment, he seemed confused and nervous. That’s when I noticed the barrel of a rifle sticking out from under the passenger seat. I remember thinking, ‘Ahh shit c’mon dude, why not just say something?’. The old man didn’t seem like a threat but I couldn’t take any chances. I pointed my rifle at him and called to my squad leader for backup. It was uncomfortable to watch him get increasingly worried because in my gut I didn't sense he was a "bad guy". He looked like he was a father. It didn't occur to me until later that I was possibly depriving him of a way to protect his family. I just couldn't risk him using that weapon against one of my team.

Rewritten into present tense (First-person view)

A car is pulling up to me at the checkpoint. Looks like another Iraqi local. Middle-aged, male. I lean my head 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 waiting for him to respond—wait, what is that? Is that a rifle barrel sticking 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 on to his work or 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!”.

That’s one example of how a past-tense memory can shift into present tense.

Your story will likely be longer—but not always.

Either way, we make the shift one line at a time:

turns into,

turns into,

turns into,

and so on...

Present-tense storytelling can unlock details that past-tense left behind.

As you rewrite your story, sentence by sentence, you may notice this shift sharpens your memory.

When I closed my eyes and stepped back into that moment, I remembered Arabic phrases I hadn’t thought of in years. I had to look them up. I also remembered small movements: leaning down, pointing to my rifle, scanning the car.

These details matter. The clearer the memory, the easier it is for our survival system to sort what’s past from what’s present.

Put another way: the more vividly we bring our story back to life, the more our body learns—that was a separate situation. We’re no longer there.

Not everything fits in the rewrite. Some parts got left out, like the thoughts I had after the event, not during. That’s okay. This writing is about what was real in the moment, not how we’ve judged it or made sense of it since.

The example I shared was a moral injury story. Your story might come from combat, sexual trauma, moral injury, or something else. Whatever it is, writing it in first person helps unpack the full experience.

We tell the story as if it’s happening—so our survival brain can learn it’s not.

And when those memories start to move, it helps to remember: these “trauma stories” are not who we are. They’re protective strategies that became beliefs. Beliefs formed in moments when we were overwhelmed—when our nervous system tried to understand chaos. These outdated stories helped us survive. But they’re not our identity.

If we don’t update these stories, our memories might stay stuck—like an image frozen in time—keeping us living in a reactive loop, believing the old threat is still here.

But as we rewrite them, we begin to sort the fragmented images of our past into whole pictures that make sense. This shifts how our nervous system sees the world.

That's why, when our story changes, our life changes too.

Return to the story you wrote in Chapter 6. Step back into that moment. Feel what it’s like to be there. Let the details come back to you in real time. Write it in First-Person, present tense.

Then, continue to Chapter 8: The Body Becomes the Storyteller

Note: You might've noticed that I use different terms to describe the part of us that stays on guard after trauma—survival brain, nervous system, alert system, etc. That’s on purpose. There's no single perfect name for this protective part of us, because it’s not just one thing. It’s a network of responses: physical, neurological, emotional, ancient.

Some people call it the fight-or-flight system. Others call it the limbic system, or the lizard brain. You may have your own name for it. What ultimately matters isn’t what we call it—it’s learning to notice how this part of us speaks, and what it needs in order to relax its guard and live fully in the present again.