In my late twenties, I enrolled in a course aimed at teaching participants how to manifest their desires through the power of positive thinking. With nearly ten years of unwavering optimism backing me, I became a master of affirmations. If someone around me was downcast, I was quick to encourage them to “take a deep breath.” And if there was an essential oil promising eternal happiness, I would apply it liberally.
A major assignment from the course required me to meditate for an hour every day for a month, and I eagerly committed to this task like a diligent pupil. Now that I’m a mom, I wish I could go back and advise my younger self against spending such a significant amount of time sitting with my eyes closed, pretending to meditate instead of actually sleeping. Despite any reservations, my late-twenties self was infatuated with the fleeting high that meditation provided, with no intention of stopping.
I was so determined to find my inner calm that if someone had confronted me about the true motivation behind my meditation practice, it would have likely sent me spiraling into turmoil. Externally, I appeared to embody health and wellness, but beneath that façade lay a wounded child who never felt adequate. I was a girl who endured physical, emotional, and psychological abuse throughout my childhood and fought fiercely to shield herself from further pain. My persistent state of forced positivity served merely as a bandage over my unresolved childhood traumas.
However, this relentless pursuit of “good vibes” came with a significant downside: it left no space for me to experience anger or sadness. Thus, whenever those uncomfortable emotions surfaced, my mind and body reacted violently. I found myself unexpectedly screaming at my ex-husband during arguments only to retreat to my bedroom to self-harm shortly afterward. I was in a constant battle against my own body image and had immersed myself in a creative field where both my appearance and demeanor were subject to scrutiny.
My unhealthy obsession with meditating my pain away ultimately had the opposite effect. While it allowed me to function socially for a time, I was simultaneously acting out in desperate attempts to be seen and rescued. When my first marriage ended, the foundation of my self-worth crumbled alongside it.
I quickly remarried and became pregnant sooner than I had envisioned. However, after welcoming my daughter, the overly positive methods I had relied on for so long began to falter. I found myself struggling with debilitating postpartum issues, which sent me reeling.
Around the time my daughter entered toddlerhood, I experienced panic attacks for the first time. I attributed them to the physical and emotional strains of new motherhood, believing I was mourning my pre-baby self. While that was partially accurate, there was much more beneath the surface. I began therapy, attending sessions up to twice a week, to unravel the reasons behind my frequent tears, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts.
That’s when my therapist provided a diagnosis that would alter the course of my life. I had been unknowingly living with complex PTSD for years. This revelation meant that my radical optimism and meditation obsession were merely masks for perfectionism and people-pleasing, both of which stemmed from a desire to evade pain. While others believed I was thriving, I was drowning in profound distress—something I had failed to recognize even in myself.
All the meditation techniques in the world couldn’t shield me from confronting my painful reality. My past traumas were driving my life, and I only came to this realization after hitting rock bottom. From that place of despair, I began to hear the little girl inside—long ignored while I fixated on maintaining a cheerful demeanor. For the first time, I listened to my body, which I had battled for far too long.
Although it has been a tumultuous journey, motherhood has ultimately served as the most significant catalyst for authentic and lasting change in my life. It has compelled me to release aspects of myself that, while seemingly effective on the outside, were detrimental in the long run. It forced me to confront my old traumas directly.
Last month, I bravely held my fear’s hand and walked into an ER for a psychiatric assessment. My panic attacks had escalated into prolonged muscle spasms, and I was at my wit’s end. Following my ER visit, I arranged to meet a psychiatrist to discuss medication options. Despite my reservations stemming from societal stigma and worries that medication might dull my emotions, I left the appointment with a prescription for antidepressants.
Surprisingly, those medications have revitalized my serotonin levels—and my life. Since starting antidepressants, all of my PTSD-related symptoms have diminished, and I no longer contemplate disappearing from the world. Instead, I am eager to be an authentic, vulnerable, and empowered part of it.
I want to clarify that my intention isn’t to disparage meditation. I firmly believe that the years I spent meditating provided a necessary survival tool until it no longer sufficed. While meditation works wonders for many, it failed to address the wounds I was unaware of. This doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned meditation as a component of my self-care routine; rather, I now understand it can’t be my sole method for trauma recovery.
Through therapy and medication, I’ve come to a humbling realization: I had been skipping essential steps on my journey to wholeness. My healing couldn’t be achieved by zoning out in a tranquil room; there was too much chaos swirling inside. I needed to clear out the emotional clutter before I could find peace within myself, and I had to stop pretending I was okay when I genuinely wasn’t.
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Summary:
In this article, Jenna Morgan shares her transformative journey from relying on meditation as a coping mechanism to embracing medication for her mental health struggles. After uncovering the roots of her complex PTSD, she finds that medication, combined with therapy, has been crucial for her healing and self-acceptance. By candidly discussing her experiences, Jenna emphasizes the importance of addressing deep-seated traumas and recognizing when certain self-care practices may no longer serve us.