To heal we need to be heard

Photo by Noémi Macavei-Katócz on Unsplash

When my son burst onto the scene 6 weeks early, life was in freefall.  I remember the very moment I realised I could lose him before I even met him.
Four minutes to get him out safely, and not much more time after that to make sure I could be here to meet him.
I remember the consultants tone of voice as she flipped back my bed, turned to her colleague and said “get the anaesthetist now.” I remember my midwife’s face as she turned to me and said “we need to put you to sleep Linda, he’s in distress” no discussion, no explanation, just a reassuring smile, a firm squeeze, and the words “I’ll be with you all the way.” Her name was Angela.
I remember grabbing her hand and pleading through tears “please get him out safe and please let me be here to meet him”. I knew we were in trouble. I didn’t understand any of it. I didn’t need to in that moment - I just needed to get through.
But afterwards? I talked about this non stop. I talked about the lead up, the words they all said, their expressions, the surgeon coming to see me afterwards. Explaining everything to me. What had happened, how it had happened, what she did (she seemed very proud of the fact that she still managed to give me a “tidy C section scar”).
I talked about it to my mum, my sister, my dad (poor fella) the next door neighbour, work colleagues, friends, the postman and even the lady at the bus stop. Everyone.  I did not merely recount it - I relived it.
I didn’t know then what I know now. I was integrating. My emotional right side of my brain was integrating with the logical and rational left side of my brain so I could understand, and regain a sense of control, predictability, of safety. I was healing.
Harvard Medicine’s Annie Brewster, MD, calls this the healing power of personal narrative - using storytelling to navigate illness, trauma, and loss, restoring identity and agency. (The Healing Power of Storytelling).  Authors in neuroscience have shown that when we share deeply emotional stories, the same brain regions light up in listeners through “neural coupling,” releasing oxytocin to deepen empathy. (The Neuroscience of storytelling)  Deep storytelling does not just help us survive - it helps us integrate, heal, and belong.
Telling my story stitches the torn edges of my right brain’s raw emotion to my left brain’s sense-making. Research into expressive writing therapy shows how weaving words around trauma reduces stress and even improves immune function. Writing Therapy: How to Write and Journal Therapeutically   Scientific study confirms that structured storytelling shrinks symptoms of depression, anxiety, and PTSD, especially where there has been grief and loss The Role of Storytelling in Healing After Loss - Cremation Services of Western NY
Restorative practices mirror this - offering a safe container for storytelling, for truth-telling, for bearing witness. They recreate that moment I felt with Angela - but instead of a frantic operating theatre, it happens in circles of listening, integration, and repair .What are your survival stories?  Maybe it wasn’t medical - it could be a parenting meltdown in Tesco, a Zoom fail that bonded your team, or a moment when your world shook and you found your footing again.  Share it - funny, fierce, resilient.  Your story could drip oxytocin into someone else's despair or loneliness. Your courage might tether someone else's experience. 
Drop your story below. Let’s listen. Let’s laugh. Let’s heal - together.  Because in shared stories, we reconnect brain to heart, chaos to coherence, isolation to community. That’s the magic of restorative practice and storytelling.  Trust the process. Tell the story. And, if nothing else - laugh at how human we all are.

​​LJ Sayers is a restorative practitioner, trainer and consultant, living in Northern Ireland.  She is a wife to JP (her rock), a mum to J (her reason and purpose), a Covid Redundant Hugger, Storyteller and Chief Quality Controller of all chocolate in her household.