We were supposed to be writing fiction.
That’s what I told myself when I signed up for my fifth writing class at age 58. That was seven years ago. I was excited to use my imagination. Write someone else’s story. Escape into an artistic pursuit. Start something new that didn’t require me to relive anything. But from the first time I put pen to paper, every character I invented had my history, quirks, habits and fears. Every character I created, man, woman, child, carried my baggage. Turns out, my fiction had a real memoir problem.
Writing Prompts
The classes were mostly women. My age. My demographic. To get us thinking, to tell stories, we did prompt writing – where you’re given a sentence or image and told to write for an hour without editing or censoring yourself. Then we’d go around and read our pieces aloud. It’s a strange kind of intimacy – everyone revealing what they think they’re hiding.
One prompt always shows up when people try to write about feelings: Where were you on 9/11?
When it came up, I wrote, I remembered, I put to paper what had been in my head for years. When it was time for others to share, I didn’t brace myself for horrific experience. I just listened. They were in hair salons. At home. On the phone. Watching it on TV. Real memories. Honest reactions. Their bodies remembered. Their voices cracked. The stories were heavy with fear and loss. They lugged around that pain; it was their five pounds.
Then It Was My Turn
“By the time I got out of the subway, I’d been stuck underground for thirty minutes – pre-Wi-Fi, no news, just scattered rumors and panic. When the train finally groaned to a stop and the doors opened at Wall Street, I climbed the stairs into a different world. Ash floated through the air like a ticker–tape parade from hell. Credit cards, office memos, pieces of things I couldn’t identify. The air was thick and gray, already heavy with the settling dust of catastrophe.
I didn’t know what had happened, not really. I just knew I had to get to my building, do the next thing, and survive. So, I walked through it – through the floating debris of people’s lives – and got into the elevator. I pressed 21 like it was a normal Tuesday. And that’s when the smoke came. A burst of black rolled toward the windows like a wave. The towers were falling. I was sure, sure, that the weight of them would crush us. I assumed I was about to die.”
The room went still.
The Reality of Trauma
The building rocked and swayed and we lived. Many hours later I made it uptown to pick my daughter up from kindergarten. Months later, I couldn’t get out of bed. Couldn’t get downtown. Couldn’t find joy in anything.
You see, trauma isn’t a single event. It’s cumulative. Like the frog in the pot that doesn’t know he is being boiled alive. You get used to the discontent, the uncomfortableness, the numbness.
9/11 didn’t break me – it just stacked itself on top of everything that came before: a childhood of abuse and scarcity, of being told not to cry, not to complain, not to speak. Years of being on edge, ready for the next slap, the next silence, the next crisis. So, when the towers fell, it wasn’t just one terrifying moment – it was the moment that found all the others and called them forward.
It’s Called Battle Fatigue
That’s what battle fatigue feels like. Not quite PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder), not in the clinical sense. More like a low-grade fever of fear that never really breaks. A nervous system that runs hot. You look calm on the outside, but inside it’s code red, all day, every day.
You live in scan mode. You overprepare. You plan for disasters that don’t happen. You try to control everything because control feels like safety. But it’s exhausting – like carrying 20 pounds of invisible weight through a world that assumes you’re fine because you got dressed and answered emails.
Writing Through It All
And still – here’s what I’ve learned from that writing room:
While my 20 pounds are heavy, their five pounds aren’t nothing. It’s not equivalent. But it is equivalent to them. Their nervous systems are doing what mine does – trying to make sense of the world, trying to feel safe again. And that realization made me softer. Less alone.
Writing gave me somewhere to put the weight down. Not forever, but for a few minutes at a time. And that was enough to begin healing.
Now, when the fatigue creeps back in – because it still does – I pick up the pen. And every time I write, I remind myself: I’m not on that 21st floor anymore. I made it out. That moment started me down a road – one where I could finally see the patterns that no longer served me, revisit the childhood hurts, and become who I was meant to be.
What I learned was critical to my growth and understanding of who I am becoming and where I am headed. I get to decide what part of my story comes next.
Know the Difference between PTSD and Battle Fatigue
Both relate to psychological trauma. They come from different eras, and different understandings of human endurance. As the world becomes more attuned to the impact of trauma, PTSD has broadened to domestic violence, emotional abuse and personal loss – far beyond the battlefield.
Battle fatigue originally known as “combat stress reaction” was used during World War II and the Korean War. It was considered temporary, brought on by the stress of combat and expected to vanish when soldiers returned home.
PTSD, officially recognized in 1980 by the American Psychiatric Association, applies to anyone who’s experienced a traumatic event. According to the Mayo Clinic, it’s a mental health condition triggered by a terrifying event – either experiencing it or witnessing it. Symptoms may include flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety, and uncontrollable thoughts about the event.
Originally, battle fatigue symptoms were exhaustion, confusion, inability to sleep, tremors, and panic. PTSD by contrast, is marked by flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety, hypervigilance, emotional numbness, and avoidance of triggers.
So, What’s the Difference?
- Battle fatigue is like holding your breath because you were taught danger could come at any moment. PTSD is when you’ve forgotten how to exhale, even in a safe room.
- Battle fatigue is the bruise you get in the moment – ugly, and painful, but it fades. PTSD is the hairline fracture underneath that keeps aching every time the weather changes.
- Battle fatigue is like the flue you get from being in the storm of war – it hits hard and fast. PTSD is what happens when the storm never leaves you.
How I Overcame It
It took years – of therapy, self-reflection, and ultimately, courage. Sticking with it, I have found miraculous things can happen when I go to a place I have never been.
I would like to share the lessons that stick with me.
The Only Way Out Is Through
Leap. I have come to the undeniable truth. This alone is transformational. Take the chance. Move forward. Leap without looking. You have all you need. You can handle what comes. You are stronger thank you think – and you’ve already been doing it. I love the saying “I can put the toothpaste back in the tube.” I can’t go backwards so I walk with my head held up through it.
In My Everyday Life
Does a new name change the experience? Probably not. Understanding the pattern does. When I look back at my life – at the extraordinary moments I barely survived – I realize how brave I was while right in the thick of it.
Bullets flying at soldiers from all sides, no ability to turn it off. That kind of pressure doesn’t just tire you out – it rewires you. It defines you as you go through it.
Our Life Is Our Work
It doesn’t matter if you are an artist, a CEO, or a window washer. Going through my artistic process – trusting the writing, letting it show me what I didn’t know – is the true miracle.
The trauma I carry may never completely pass – although it does take up less space in my life now. While I still feel the echoes sometimes, I’ve also found joy and laughter again.
Getting Stronger Everyday
I found loads of info and data about stress being cumulative. I realized what we neglect to focus on is that healing and overcoming are cumulative too. The more you do it, the more you can do it. For those Harry Potter fans, Harry knows he can conjure the “patronus” (his protective charm) because in the past he saw it happen… so powerful.
Focus on what you do to move forward. To build your self-trust, to quiet your mind, to strengthen your resilience. That’s the practice.
What’s Next:
Take your leap into the complete unknown. Explore your deep past, fears, and history. Use them as a springboard to be a better self. Believe that healing isn’t about erasing the story.
It’s about learning how to carry it more lightly.
Let’s Have a Conversation:
What past events have shaped your today-identity? Have they been traumatic? What ways have you found for healing?
