An Interview: Healing from Betrayal Trauma

The following is an interview with a client, Natalie. When Natalie was pregnant with her third child, she learned her husband had been using hookup apps. That was four years ago. The couple have subsequently divorced. Natalie shares some of her experience of recovery from betrayal trauma here. 1. Can you share some of the […]

An Interview: Healing from Betrayal Trauma


Above the stars❤️

Above the stars❤️

Loyalty, integrity and sencerity
A lot of merits
Not just a parent inherits
It is a matter of same spirits
They are both similar
Their unity is a hidden treasure
That is Beyond all measure
I am talking about him
I am talking about my soul twin
At dawn time
And within this rhyme
I ask my Lord
For whome I adored
And I never ignored
To keep him fine
On that straight line

Sohair 🙏🤲

Cliff Girl

In my infinite smallness

looking out over the ocean

my limbs are albino snakes 

basking in the sun and the heat

burns the soles of my feet

A treasure of pearls are strewn

like stardust on the shore 

and a garland of lilac is tied 

to nothing but my hand. 

I am the universe lending life 

to silent rock as the sun streams 

down my throat where there is no voice.

The laughter of children rings 

through honeyed coves where lost 

lovers await the tide to 

tumble them into the light.

Below my feet lies a carpet of 

Jacaranda and my empty hands 

carry no burden but love. 

Cliff Girl

The Red Monks of Brittany

The Knights Templar were traditionally known, here in Brittany, as the Red Monks. Their evil deeds and cruel reputation survived in the popular imagination long after their medieval heyday; cruel ghosts, condemned to forever wander the lonely places to atone for their terrible and abominable crimes.

The Red Monks of Brittany

Song of Seasons

Song of Seasons

Hold me in  fleeting hours

while we are beautiful and wild

winged creatures of the night

sipping honeysuckle vines 

sustained by the sun and rain.

Stay  when summer departs and

butterflies flit at teardrops pooled in

the corner of my eyes.

Lie down with me in winter when

hoar frost coats the rose buds

and  blue birds cease  their song

tiny skeletons of  hollow bone

indifferent to the cold

These lips are   petals

reminders  of lost flowers

If  you do not return

but fly on  to distant gardens

my body will seek shelter

beneath the feathers of

tongueless birds.

Translation by Bernd @ neues vom Hutschi 

Halt mich fest in flüchtigen Stunden den schönen und wilden, unser Fleisch ist voll und reif, geflügelte Wesen saugen die Nacht auf, Jelängerjelieber, die von Sonne und den Regen gespeiste. Bleib, wenn der Sommer vergeht und der Garten vom Lächeln nippt, das aus der Iris deiner Augen blitzt. Lieg bei mir im Winter, wenn die Vögel zu singen einhalten, winzige Skelette aus hohlen Knochen, gleichgültig der Kälte gegenüber. Für dich sind meine Lippen Blütenblätter, süße Erinnerungen an verlorene Blumen. Wenn du nicht zurückkehrst sondern weiterfliegs, wird mein Körper Schutz suchen unter den Flügeln zungenloser Vögel. translated by Bernd Huschenreuther


art by Steve Hanks

💫Learning to Go Alone – Ann Taylor

💫Learning to Go Alone – Ann Taylor

Come, my darling, come away, 

Take a pretty walk to-day; 

Run along, and never fear,

I’ll take care of baby dear: 

Up and down with little feet, 

That’s the way to walk, my sweet. 

Now it is so very near, 

Soon she’ll get to mother dear. 

There she comes along at last: 

Here’s my finger, hold it fast: 

Now one pretty little kiss, 

After such a walk as this.

~ Learning to Go Alone – Ann Taylor 

The knot🙏

The knot🙏

She asked him
While She was looking at him
How is your love for me? 
She wanted to KNOW the degree
His answer was a guarantee
My love is like a strong knot
A knot that can Not be decoded
Every time Ayesha wanted to make sure
Of his love that was pure
She said and tried to assure
How is the knot?? 
Mohamad says :
AS it is
You see
It is Not a difficult quiz
Safety is a gift
Every family wished
And should n’t be missed




We are all damaged. We have all been hurt. We have all had to learn painful lessons. We are all recovering from some mistake, loss, betrayal, abuse, injustice or misfortune. All of life is a process of recovery that never ends. We each must find ways to accept and move through the pain and to pick ourselves back up. For each pang of grief, depression, doubt or despair there is an inverse toward renewal that will come to you in time. Each tragedy is an announcement that some good will indeed eventually come. Be patient with yourself.

“The wound is the place where the light enters you” – Rumi

Don’t deny yourself of your own experiences, no matter how tragic or painful they were. They belong to you. When you cover-up your pain within yourself, you are suppressing your best chance to grow. Respect your pain and honor your pain. Those scars are your stripes and badges of honor. Those injuries are a part of your sacred story. Don’t hide from your truth. It is in what you have hidden, that you will find what you have been so desperately seeking. In the heart of your deepest wounds and losses is the essence of your greatest hope. What you thought of as dreadful or shameful was always your greatest treasure, for it has cultivated your deepest understanding. Your pain has brought forth the pearl of your wisdom, compassion and strength. Be proud of who you are.

“There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in” – Leonard Cohen – Selected Poems, 1956-1968

All beautiful things carry distinctions of imperfection. Your wounds and imperfections are your beauty. Like Kintsugi, the Japanese art of mending broken pottery with gold, we are all perfectly imperfect. Breakage and mending are honest parts of a past which should not be hidden. Your wounds and healing are a part of your history; a part of who you are. Every beautiful thing is damaged. You are that beauty; we all are!

Hope is the thing with feathers…

Hope is the thing with feathers…

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

A poem by Emily Dickinson 1830-1886