There’s something so relaxing about easing into my day with my morning routine. It starts with a rich coffee aroma filling the kitchen, and the warmth of the mug in my hands—it’s the kind of moment that anchors me and sets the tone for the day. But today, everything shifted. What should have been just another peaceful morning turned into something unsettling, almost violent in the way it tore open a wound I didn’t even know was there. But the funny thing is, I didn’t even realize it right away.

So, I started to make coffee and grabbed the filter basket like I always do, and don’t ask me how but there it was—gum. Gum, stuck in between the inside of the machine and the filter basket. GUM, right in the very spot where my morning would begin. It’s a minor inconvenience, right? Something so small that most people would sigh, roll their eyes, and move on. And I did, kind of, on the surface. But in that instant, something was about to stir deep within me. I wasn’t just looking at gum—I was staring at the first crack in a long-forgotten dam of emotions I had buried for years.

I was frustrated, yes, but still focused on the issue at hand: getting my coffee. And then it hit me—peanut butter. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remembered hearing that peanut butter removes gum which at this point was not just an easily removable wad of gum but smeared into the grooves of the filter basket guides and on the basket itself. I reached for the jar, spread a little on the sticky mess, and like magic, it worked. The gum slid right off.

And that’s when it happened. As the gum came loose, so did everything else. It hit me like shifting plates along a fault line, subtle fissures forming beneath the surface of my mind. In that moment, with peanut butter and gum in hand, the pressure finally gave way, and memories and emotions I had buried for years cracked open, surging up like an unstoppable quake, shaking everything inside me. It was like an 10.0 of trauma memories rolling through my entire being. The realization hit me like a wave, all at once. Peanut butter, gum, anger—it all connected back to a moment I hadn’t thought about in years.

I was less than ten years old, and my hair—it was everything to me. So long and dark, my dark hair was more than just something I loved—it was the only thing that made me feel connected to my father. In this adopted family where my mother and brother both had blonde hair, my father and I were the only ones with dark hair. It felt like the one thing that tied us together, the one feature I shared with him that set me apart from the others, and few knew how much I adored my father.

My mother took scissors to my hair and hacked it off almost to my ears, severing not just my hair, but a piece of me. Losing my hair felt like losing that connection to my father, that resemblance to him, making the punishment all the more painful, isolating, and even intentional. That day, she didn’t just strip me of something that made me feel connected or pretty—she took away my sense of security in an already uncertain and terrifying world. For the rest of my life, I struggled with feeling even more small, timid, and out of place, as though that one moment added another layer to my fear of not being enough, of not belonging, of being unloved.

I remember looking in the mirror afterward, stunned, like I didn’t even recognize the person staring back at me. My heart sank into my stomach. I felt ugly. Embarrassed. Devastated. And then the next day came the ridicule. Facing my peers at school and in the neighborhood, hearing their laughter, their cruel comments. It destroyed me in ways I didn’t understand at the time. I couldn’t have put it into words, but the pain was there, imprinted deep in my mind and body.

That moment shaped so much of my life, though I wouldn’t realize it for years—decades, even. Growing up, I was obsessed with growing my hair long again which remains with me still today (just ask my stylist). It was like a silent vendetta, a subconscious mission to regain something that had been stolen from me. I tied my self-worth to my hair, almost without knowing it. I didn’t feel attractive unless my hair was long. And God forbid someone touched it or messed it up—I would lose it. I went insane, flying off the handle over the smallest thing, completely unaware of why I was so triggered.

For years, I heard people talk about how peanut butter could get gum out of hair, and every time I heard it, something tugged at me but I didn’t know what or why. But, now I do. Why hadn’t my mother known that? Why hadn’t she tried? Why was cutting my hair the only option? I don’t know the answers to these questions although I have my suspicions. And the truth is, I probably will never know and I honestly don’t even care at this point. She no longer has power over me, I took that back a long time ago in my own therapy and healing.

What I do know is that as the peanut butter worked its magic on the gum this morning, everything clicked into place and made sense. I was back in that moment, watching helplessly as my mother hacked away at my hair. The anger, the frustration—it wasn’t about the gum or the coffee machine at all. It was about that moment of powerlessness, of loss. It was about that little girl who felt like a part of her identity had been stripped away, with no control over it. No control over her body.

You see, that’s the thing about trauma—it hides. It buries itself deep in our psyche, waiting for the right moment, the right trigger, to bring it all back to the surface. And that trigger? It can be anything. Something as innocent as gum in a coffee machine.

The realization hit me like a ton of bricks. And let me be clear, it wasn’t just about hair. It was about power and control, about feeling like I had no say in what happened to me. It was about a loss of identity, a loss of something I had valued so deeply as a child. And all these years, I had been carrying that wound with me, never realizing how much it shaped the way I saw myself. And, to add to it,  this wound was reopened many times in my life by other people which only deepened it.  

Suddenly, I understood why I had always been so obsessed with my hair. It wasn’t about vanity—it was about reclaiming something I had lost. It was about proving, in some small way, that I could hold on to a part of myself that had once been taken from me. And that anger I felt whenever someone touched my hair, or me, my body, without my permission? It was the little girl inside me, still fighting for power and control, still trying to protect what was hers and had been violated in many different ways in the past.

That’s the thing about triggers. They don’t follow logic. They don’t make sense in the moment. They hit you out of nowhere, and suddenly, you’re overwhelmed with emotions that seem completely disproportionate to the situation at hand. You’re left wondering, “Why am I so angry right now? Why do I feel like this?” But the truth is, it’s not about the present moment at all. It’s about the past.

Listen to me when I tell you this. Trauma doesn’t just go away. It stays with you, whether you like it or not. It molds itself into the way you see the world, the way you react to things, the way you live your life. You may not even realize it, but trust me,  it’s there, shaping your decisions, your relationships, your sense of self. And until you confront it, until you dig it up and bring it into the light, it will continue to control you, just like it controlled me for so many years.

I had spent my entire life growing my hair, obsessed with maintaining its length, its beauty, without fully understanding why. I had tied my attractiveness and self-worth to something so superficial, thinking it was just a quirk, just a preference. But it wasn’t. It was a reaction to trauma, to a moment in my childhood that had broken something inside of me.

It’s funny how something so small, so seemingly insignificant, can hold so much power over you. Gum. Peanut butter. A cup of coffee. These are the things that triggered a flood of emotions and memories I had long forgotten and that were tied to other moments of my power and body being violated. But that’s how trauma works. It’s not always about the big, obvious moments. Sometimes, it’s the little things that catch you off guard, that force you to confront the pain you’ve been carrying for years.

So, what do you do when this happens? What do you do when you’re hit with a trigger so strong, so overwhelming, that it leaves you spinning? The first step is to acknowledge it. To sit with it, as uncomfortable as that may be. Don’t push it away, don’t bury it deeper. Let yourself feel it, even if it hurts. No, wait. Especially if it hurts.

The next step is understanding where it comes from. For me, it obviously took this to realize that my obsession with my hair wasn’t just a superficial preference. It was rooted in deep-seated pain, in a moment of loss and powerlessness. Once I made that connection, everything else started to make sense.

But that’s not where the healing ends. Acknowledging and understanding your triggers is just the beginning. The real work comes in learning how to cope with and heal those wounds so they no longer control you. That’s where therapy comes in. That’s where I come in.

As a trauma therapist, I’ve seen firsthand how powerful these hidden wounds can be. I’ve watched people struggle with triggers they don’t understand, with emotions that feel too big to handle. And I’ve also seen how transformative it can be when those wounds are brought to the surface, when they’re finally given the attention and care they deserve. And as a human being who has been through a sh*t ton of trauma in my own life, I also know what it’s like to go through it and how to heal from it.

Healing isn’t easy, it’s not something you can just buy from Amazon or Walmart. Trust me, I wish it was that easy. It’s messy, it’s painful, and it’s not always linear. But it’s possible and so worth it. You don’t have to live your life controlled by trauma, by triggers you don’t understand. You don’t have to let the past dictate your present. You don’t have to live your life feeling out of control or powerless.

If this resonates with you—if you’ve found yourself overwhelmed by emotions that seem to come out of nowhere, if you’ve felt the weight of trauma even when you can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from—I want you to know that there is hope. You can heal. You can uncover those hidden wounds, make sense of your triggers, and start to take control of your life again. I am speaking from experience. 

Trauma doesn’t have to define us. Triggers don’t have to control us. We are stronger than the pain we’ve carried, and we deserve to heal. When you’re ready, I am here to help you do that.

-Adrienne

I’m Ready!