There’s a tree outside my window with bark that’s been damaged, stripped away in a ragged vertical line, exposing the pale wood beneath. But around that wound, the bark has grown thick and textured, folding over itself in waves. The tree didn’t heal by covering the wound. It healed by growing around it.
When we write about difficult experiences, we often feel pressure to dive straight into the center of the wound. But sometimes the most honest writing happens when we start at the edges, where the light changes, where we can still breathe.
The Practice of Peripheral Vision
Here’s what I’ve learned about trauma memories: they don’t usually come to us as complete narratives. They come in small pieces; a smell, a color, the quality of light in a room, what you were wearing, a sound from outside.
For a long time, I thought those details were me avoiding the real story. But they’re not avoidance. They’re actually how our minds protected us during overwhelming moments.
Some things to keep in mind while you write:
You don’t have to go to the center. The moments around the wound; what led up to it, what came after can hold the story on their own.
Details help you stay grounded. “the kitchen tile was cold” can carry more than “i was terrified,” because it keeps you present.
Pay attention to your body. If you notice your breath changing, your body tensing, or a sense of floating away; that’s information. You can close your notebook. The words will wait.
A few things that help:
Set a timer for 10–15 minutes
Keep a grounding object nearby. Something with texture: a smooth stone, a piece of fabric, something to hold that reminds you where you are.
Before you start writing, name three things you can see right now in your present space. This simple practice anchors you in the now.
Journaling Prompts
Choose one memory you’d like to explore, something that still holds weight for you.
What were you wearing that day?
What season was it, what’s the weather doing?
What sounds do you remember?
Any objects nearby? describe them
What did you do immediately after, what was the very next small action you took?
You don’t need to connect these details to the larger story. Just practice noticing them, describing them, letting them exist on the page.
Optional Exercise: Catalog Poem
If you want to go a little deeper, try a catalog poem—a list-based poem where each line begins the same way. I love this structure because it feels contained. You’re filling in blanks rather than facing an empty page, and that can make all the difference when you’re feeling stuck.
Choose one of these opening lines and repeat it, filling in different details each time:
“I remember the…”
“There was…”
“Before that, there was…”
“I can still see…”
“What i don’t talk about is…”
Write at least 5 lines, but you can keep going as long as it feels right.
Reflection Questions
What surprised you about what you remembered or noticed?
Which details felt vivid or important?
How does your body feel now compared to before you started writing?
Is there anything you want to hold onto from this practice?
Remember the tree and how it didn’t heal by covering what was exposed, but by growing thick and textured around it. Your writing can do the same. The pieces you write from today; the cold tile, the quality of light, what you were wearing; these aren’t secondary details.
They’re how you survived.
They’re how you return.
They’re the bark growing around the wound.
See you in two weeks for Lesson 2: Writing What Your Body Remembers
P.S. If you need grounding support during your writing practice, I have a set of digital safety check cards designed specifically for this work.
If you feel like sharing: What’s one small detail from your writing today; a color, a texture, a sound that felt true?
This is so beautifully held — the way you frame writing as growing around the wound instead of forcing entry into it feels deeply humane. The metaphor of the bark stayed with me.
This is such excellent advice on how to write around traumatic memories. Thank you for sharing