Lessons from the Inside
A Personal Reflection on Trauma Healing, Protective Parts, and Inner Knowing
When Everything Began to Shift
2020 was quite a year, as it was for so many.
For me, it marked the beginning of an unraveling. A reckoning with who I was, what I believed about myself, my marriage, and what I thought my future would look like. Like many others, that year shook my identity to its core and led me to make significant decisions that changed the direction of my life.
Over the next three years, I spent a lot of time in survival.
I was navigating the end of a 20-year relationship while raising two children and trying to rebuild a sense of safety for myself and for them. There was a lot to manage. A lot to hold. And for a long time, that became my focus—just getting through, taking care of what needed to be taken care of, and continuing to move forward.
Eventually, survival settled.
And when it did, I found myself in a different place—not in crisis, but not entirely grounded either. There was more space, but that space came with questions.
Who am I now?
What do I want moving forward?
What does this next chapter look like without the structure I had known for most of my adult life?
Around that same time, I had the opportunity to step into a therapeutic group intensive—not as a therapist or facilitator, but as a participant.
If I’m being honest, that felt vulnerable in a different way.
As a therapist, I am used to being the one who listens, who holds, who witnesses. In social settings, I often find myself more comfortable in that role as well—observing, taking in others’ experiences, staying a bit more contained.
Being in a space where I was the one being held felt unfamiliar.
Entering the Group Therapy Intensive Space
From the beginning, the environment felt different.
There was a pace to it that I wasn’t used to. Slower, more intentional. There was space to be with others and also space to be alone. My room felt grounding—somewhere I could step away and rest, which isn’t something that has come easily for me, especially as a single parent.
Each day, we gathered together as a group. We moved between writing, experiential work, and time outside. We shared meals. We walked. We had conversations that were both structured and open.
There was a rhythm to it that allowed my nervous system to start to settle. And still, I noticed something in myself. Even in a space that felt safe, I could feel a part of me holding back.
Noticing My Protective Parts
This wasn’t surprising when I really slowed down and paid attention.
From an Internal Family Systems (IFS) perspective, we all have protective parts. These are the parts of us that step in when something feels overwhelming or unsafe. They manage, organize, anticipate, and keep us functioning.
In my life, these parts have been strong.
They were the ones that helped me navigate the end of my marriage.
They helped me show up for my kids.
They helped me continue to lead professionally and keep everything moving.
They’ve done their job well.
But what I noticed in that space was that they didn’t know how to step back. Even when there was nothing to manage, they were still present—watching, monitoring, staying slightly guarded.
When We Began Talking About Grief
It wasn’t until we started writing about grief that something shifted.
Up until that point, I could feel myself participating, but still somewhat contained. Then we moved into exploring grief more directly, and it was like something opened.
I began to recognize just how much grief I had been carrying.
Grief about the end of a relationship that had been part of my entire adult life.
Grief about childhood experiences that still held weight.
Grief about raising a child with unique needs and how isolating that has felt at times.
It wasn’t one thing. It was layered.
And while I had cried before—alone, in therapy, in private spaces. I realized I had almost never cried like that in front of other people.
There was a belief underneath it that I hadn’t fully named before:
That I needed to be the one who was okay.
The one who had it together.
The one who could handle things.
Letting Myself Be Seen
In that space, something shifted.
I found myself crying in the presence of the group.
Not holding it back. Not trying to contain it.
Just letting it be there.
And what stood out to me was what didn’t happen.
No one rushed in to fix it.
No one tried to change it.
No one needed anything from me.
Everyone stayed in their own process. Some were writing, some were sitting quietly, some were moving through their own emotions. There was no pressure for me to perform or to explain. And in that, I felt something I hadn’t expected:
Relief.
A Different Experience of Support and Nervous System Safety
At one point, two of the facilitators asked if they could sit next to me. They sat on either side of me, arm to arm.
They didn’t say anything.
They just stayed.
And what I noticed in my body was a sense of safety.
Not because anything was being said or fixed—but because nothing was being demanded of me. I could feel what I was feeling without needing to manage it. At the same time, I became aware of something internal.
There was a steadiness inside of me.
A part of me that wasn’t overwhelmed.
A part that could stay present, even with the grief.
In IFS, we would call this Self-energy—the part of us that is calm, grounded, and capable of holding other parts.
And in that moment, it became clear:
The support I needed wasn’t something someone else could give me entirely. It was something I could access within myself.
What I Took Away From This Experience
There were a few things that became very clear to me during and after this experience.
1. Protective Parts Make Sense
Our protective parts are not a problem to be fixed. They are responses to what we’ve been through. They step in when something feels too much or not safe enough. They help us manage, keep going, and stay functional. In my case, those parts had been working hard for a long time. What I experienced in the group was that when the environment feels safe enough, those parts don’t have to work as hard.
They can begin to soften.
And when they soften, you start to notice what they’ve been holding.
2. We Can Be in Community Without Needing to Be Rescued
One of the most meaningful parts of this experience was being in a group where no one was trying to fix anyone else. We were together, but each of us was responsible for our own process. There was support, but it wasn’t about taking someone else’s pain away.
It was about being present with it. That felt important.
Because it reinforced something I believe deeply:
Healing doesn’t come from being saved.
It comes from being supported while staying connected to yourself.
3. The Body Needs Time and Space PRocess Trauma
In everyday life, it’s easy to stay in motion. There are responsibilities, expectations, and constant input from the outside world. And in that pace, it’s easy to disconnect from what’s happening internally. Being in this space allowed me to slow down enough to actually feel what was there.
Not just think about it—but feel it.
And when I did, I connected with a younger part of myself. A part that had been holding pain for a long time. A part that had been pushed aside because there wasn’t space for it.
In that environment, I was able to sit with her in a different way.
To acknowledge what she had been carrying. And to let that experience move through me instead of staying stuck.
4. Healing Is Individual, Even in a Group Setting
One of the things I appreciated most was seeing how different everyone’s experience was.
Some people were working through grief.
Others were processing anger.
Others were finding clarity or a sense of integration.
The structure was shared, but the experience was individual.
And that matters.
Because healing is not linear, and it doesn’t look the same for everyone.
Coming Back From the Experience
I didn’t leave the intensive feeling like everything was resolved. But I did leave feeling more connected. More aware of my own internal system. More understanding of the parts of me that have been working hard—and the parts that have been waiting.
What stood out most was this:
Healing doesn’t happen by pushing through. It happens when there is enough space, enough safety, and enough support to actually slow down and listen.
Final Reflection
This experience reinforced something that I believe both personally and professionally.
When people are given the right environment—one that is intentional, relational, and grounded in safety—they begin to access their own inner knowing.
They don’t need to be told what to feel or how to heal.
They need space to discover it.
If you find yourself in a place where things have settled, but questions are starting to come up…
This may be a growth edge
An invitation to turn inward.
To slow down enough to hear what’s been beneath the surface.
There may be parts of you ready to be met in a different way.
And when you create the space, your inner knowing will begin to guide what comes next.
About the Author
Rachael Dunkel-Dodier is a trauma therapist, addiction counselor, and co-founder of SACCA, an immersive healing practice based in Bozeman, Montana. She specializes in Internal Family Systems (IFS), EMDR, IFIO, and trauma-informed relational work with individuals, couples, families, and groups.