Trauma-informed care is currently trending on every buzzword list you can think of. If you’re not trauma-informed, you’re not with the times. But what does this actually mean? Often, we say we are “trauma-informed” but does this really permeate into our practice? Our lives?

This piece, published in The Conversation, sheds light on new research about religious trauma, minority stress, and the experiences of LGBTQIA+ people in conservative religious settings.

It’s the imposter syndrome of adverse experiences, and we hear it on repeat. “My experience isn’t bad enough to be called trauma,” they say. “Other people have it worse, and really mine isn’t even that traumatic.” For many people, the label “trauma” doesn’t seem to fit because they haven’t lived through a situation they (or rather, society) deems extreme enough. They may be showing all the classic symptoms of trauma, and yet they can’t approach that word, because in their minds, it’s reserved for something far worse.

"I just can't seem to think clearly," "I feel tired all the time," and "I just don't have the capacity I used to have."

As we enter 2022, a lot of people are describing themselves as "burned out". Tired, drained and hoping for a better tomorrow, we are collectively searching for language to capture the way our bodies are responding to the steady drum of turbulence.

For me though, "burn out" feels like the wrong diagnosis. It just doesn't sit right. Instead, I'm sitting in the land of "trauma" and I want to suggest that for almost all of us, this is a much more helpful term.