We sit, as we always do, in a somewhat awkward space. I don’t know them. They don’t know me. They’re here at an Army hospital for a three-week intensive program designed to help them recover from PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) and TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury), and this is only day two. They’re still not sure what to expect, and because their daily schedule only lists our session as “training,” they have no idea why I’m here or what we’re going to discuss.

In the three years I’ve been doing this, I’ve learned that each group is different; some are energetic and affable, others are quiet and reserved. Today’s group is in the former category. Already the members are trading good-natured jokes, even with me, which helps us transition from awkward to relaxed. We settle in for the next two hours.

I explain that this session is going to be about spirituality, drawing more than a few raised eyebrows and nervous laughs. Nevertheless, I invite the group members to introduce themselves and describe how they identify spiritually. Today we have several Christians who identify as non-denominational, a Buddhist, and one or two who say they have “no religion.” It’s all good; all are welcome at this table.

I tell them that I have also lived with PTSD, though mine was not combat-related. I share the story of how I was sexually assaulted by a stranger when I was seven. And how the stranger threatened to kill me and my family if I reported the assault. And how I dusted myself off, walked home, and never told a soul about what I had endured; I just absorbed all that trauma into my little seven-year-old body. I describe the PTSD symptoms that finally began to emerge once I left home at age eighteen, and the many, many attempts to heal over the next three decades. I share my battles with depression, anxiety, rage, and night terrors. As I talk, I can see the soldiers leaning in. They are attentive. They are with me.

Hands of soldiers making prayer beads

Finally, I describe the breakthrough that occurred when I learned to be still. How being still helped me recognize God’s presence and understand that God had always been with me, even in the darkness. How in that still space with God I began to speak my truth: I told God about the assault and its aftermath not because God didn’t know what had happened to me, but because I needed to know God was listening and receiving my story in my own words. And how in that space of stillness and truth-telling God took my pain and transformed it. Though it happened slowly and oh-so-gradually, day by day I got closer to a place of peace.

We talk about the four areas of healing from pain and trauma – physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual – and how often it’s the spiritual piece that gets lost. To find wholeness, it’s critical to address all four areas, including the spiritual piece, no matter how they identify spiritually. Every trauma survivor needs to be able to ask God/the Divine/Spirit/the Universe why this happened, what meaning it carries, and how to find peace. Every survivor needs to be able to speak their truth and know they are being heard and offered a way out of the darkness.

And so we explore ways to be still. We make prayer beads – just one tool that may be useful when the soldiers are feeling overwhelmed by painful memories, or feelings of rage or depression. And we get to know each other. At the end of our time together, I give each soldier a copy of my book, Beads of Healing: Prayer, Trauma, and Spiritual Wholeness – a free gift courtesy of a local church.

Sometimes the soldiers want me to autograph the book, but often times they don’t. Today, one of the soldiers (I’ll call him Chad) asks me to sign his copy. “Sign it for my daughter,” he says, and gives me her name. As I write, he leans over to me and whispers, “She was raped.” I nod and smile, grateful that he’ll be able to share this with her.

The next day, Joan, the hospital program’s nurse case manager, calls me. “Chad was just in my office,” she reports. “He told me that his daughter was raped and has been really struggling to heal. She really wants her dad to help her, but he doesn’t know what to do or what she needs, and so she just keeps getting more and more frustrated. But he said that yesterday when you told your story of being assaulted and struggling with PTSD, he finally understood that his daughter has PTSD just like him. And that maybe he can take the things he’s learning in our program and share them with his daughter. And maybe they can heal together.”

I take a deep breath. “Wow,” is all I can say. I can’t get over what she is telling me. I am so deeply grateful and humbled and awed by God’s work.

And I’m reminded that this is the power of speaking our truth. When we share our stories of pain and trauma and healing, we create the space for others to share theirs. We create a space in which we are no longer alone, and have something to offer each other. We create a space where we understand we are not our condition – I am more than just a sexual assault survivor, and you are more than just a soldier with PTSD. We create a sacred space where God is listening, receiving, and transforming all of our pain until we can sit together in peace. This is how we heal together.

I envision Chad sharing his story of pain with his daughter, then inviting her to share hers. In that space, I pray she sees how much her father loves her, and how much he wants to support and share in her life.

May God bless Chad and his daughter on their shared healing journey.