Recently, an experience within a community space I admire, and respect deeply compelled me to reflect on what trauma-informed care should look like. It came unexpectedly, from a trusted source, and I felt deeply triggered. I recognised something of my own trauma responses, which I have long lived with and know within my bones. Understanding how the framing and holding of the space had contributed took longer to unpack.
It prompted me to examine my own practice around holding spaces for my communities of women, to consider what I needed in that moment and to listen to others who reached out with concerns of their own.
I want to acknowledge that we are all human and get things wrong at times. Remaining open to feedback is part of the responsibility we take on when others place their trust in us. Having “done the work” does not place any of us beyond the need for curiosity, reflection and accountability. This is essential especially when we feel challenged ourselves.
With so many people offering spiritual guidance and healing practices, it can be difficult to assess whom we can trust with our vulnerability. When we are hurting, hearing “I have something that will fix this” can be deeply relieving. We may be exhausted, hopeful or desperate for relief. A practitioner has a responsibility to recognise that vulnerability and be honest about what they can offer, including the limits of their practice. Relevant training, experience and accountability deserve careful consideration. We should feel able to ask what someone’s qualifications mean, how they work and what support is available if something becomes difficult. Their willingness to answer those questions openly is part of how trust develops.
So, what does it truly mean when one describes offering trauma informed spaces? Being trauma informed should be a daily pillar of practice. It is a measure of understanding around the clinical psychology of how the brain and body responds to trauma and how it can impact an individual to respond in everyday life to any stimulus. It acknowledges that deep care and compassion needs to guide the practice, that learning needs to be embedded and that the practice of holding space for another is tender, individual and responsive. How someone responds when a participant hesitates, declines, becomes distressed or questions them is very telling. Their response may tell us more than the language on their website.
Now I don’t want to go into a deep psychology teaching session – because frankly I am not a psychologist, but I can offer a sense of what to expect with someone trained to deliver trauma-informed practice.
An invitation needs a real option to refuse. Consent involves more than asking once. Consent is understood to be fluctuating, specific and always open to a different decision. Consent is informed, not inferred. Do you feel safe enough to suddenly change your mind, stop halfway, keep your eyes open, decline touch or leave without having to explain yourself? A gentle voice can still exert pressure, especially within a group. How does that gentle voice chime with your gut feeling? Understanding trauma means that for many, a freeze or fawn response may have kept them safe before and is a learnt behaviour. How could someone noticing that response gently to check for authentic engagement?
Triggers deserve curiosity, without becoming a verdict. Feeling triggered doesn’t automatically mean that someone has harmed us; calling something “a trigger” must never become a way of dismissing actual harm. There is room here to ask two questions: What is this bringing up in me? And what is happening here, right now?
A practitioner who responds with “your triggers are your responsibility” can leave a person feeling unheard and alone with their distress. They may want to understand what has arisen in them, or they may need to stop, step away or seek support elsewhere. They do not owe a practitioner an explanation of their trauma to have that choice respected.
Fundamentally though, I believe the responsibility is shared, although it is not identical. We can gradually learn to recognise our responses, communicate our needs and seek support. Practitioners hold the responsibility for their conduct, their boundaries and how they respond to our distress. Being overwhelmed by a trigger should never be treated as evidence that someone has ‘failed’ at healing or managing themselves in the moment.
Holding space asks practitioners to make room for the emotions whilst remaining attentive to the person’s consent, wishes and capacity. That includes respecting quiet, privacy and the need to pause. It also asks practitioners to recognise their own limits and notice when their responses are affecting their ability to offer steady support.
Spiritual language can be a comfort but sometimes it can close a conversation down too soon. I have heard it said: “Everything happens for a reason,” “you attracted/ manifested this” or “you just need to release it” and this can leave someone feeling responsible for their suffering. Meaning making may emerge in time for that person and it belongs to the person living the experience. A practitioner needs to carefully understand that at times, language is incredibly powerful and their intentions can be misinterpreted. They need to remain curious to how they are landing with the person they working with.
Intensity of experience is not proof of healing. Tears, shaking, catharsis or a powerful group experience do not, on their own, tell us whether something was helpful. Lived experience may bring empathy and insight to a practitioner’s work, alongside the need for training, boundaries and ongoing reflection. Quiet, choice, steadiness and the freedom to pause deserve a strong place in our understanding of healing too.
There is also something tender to consider about the continual search for healing. Another course, another ceremony, another practice can carry the hope that we will finally feel better. Over time, we may begin to experience ourselves as perpetually unfinished, with something else to uncover or resolve before we can fully live. I think it is worth asking how these practices support our everyday lives, our relationships and our ability to trust ourselves. Can we also give ourselves permission to pause, enjoy what is here and allow life to unfold without continually working on ourselves?
Trustworthy practitioners have limits they can name. What does trustworthy practice look like? Relevant training, clear explanations, consent, appropriate boundaries, realistic claims, accountability and knowing when to refer someone elsewhere. Warmth and charisma are far less important if questions or refusals are unwelcome. Holding someone includes knowing when we cannot provide what they need. A yoga teacher, circle facilitator or spiritual practitioner can offer something valuable without being equipped to treat trauma. Honesty about that distinction is part of trauma-informed care.
There is also a particularly tender tension to explore: how do practitioners support someone without making ourselves the authority on their healing? Being needed can feel rewarding. It asks something of the person holding the space to remain attentive to their own motives, welcome disagreement and support someone’s independence. This is where many go wrong and leave people behind. A question always prominent in my mind when I am working is: Does the way I hold someone make it easier for them to hear themselves—and trust that they are allowed to choose their own path to healing?
Namaste
