Radhe Lesny Trauma Healing Therapy

11/21/2025

Wow, I really relate to waiting beyond what I think I can bear how about you?

Understanding Leaves

The leaves do what we can’t.
They wait their whole lives.

At first they dream of air
and wait to slip from wood.

Then they dream of openness
and wait to stretch in light.

Then they dream of thirst
and wait to soften in the rain.

At last they dream of nothing
and simply unfurl.

Photosynthesis is how this waiting
is described in the physical world.

The mystery of waiting is what
turns light into food.

To wait beyond what we think
we can bear is how things
within turn sweet.

A Question to Walk With: In conversation with a friend or trusted loved one, describe your understanding of what it means to endure.

This is from my book of poems, The Way Under The Way.

11/19/2025

Thank you Gabor Mate

10/24/2025

Yes

There are times in our lives when the rug is pulled out from underneath us —
when the old dream dies, and the way we thought it would all unfold turns to dust.

The center is lost.

Our instinct is to move quickly from death to rebirth,
to find the lesson, the light, the next beginning.
But the soul has a different rhythm.

It asks us to slow down,
to feel what has been shattered,
to make a small altar for what has died.

If we leave too soon, the unwept grief —
and all that it carries —
remains buried in the body,
in the nervous system,
in the half-processed soil of experience.

Grief is not evidence that the path has gone wrong.
It is love reorganizing itself through the body —
a sacred metabolizing of what could not be held before.

When we turn toward what aches,
something begins to reassemble from within.
Not the life we had before,
but a deeper life —
rooted, tender, and true.

10/14/2025

I’ve seen this organization happen over and over again with my clients. So grateful to practice touch work for developmental trauma and support clients to feel safe in their body.

We’ve all been given experience that we’ve been unable to process consciously. This is one of the basic characteristics of trauma, unendurable emotional pain that hasn’t been able to find a relational home in which it can be held.

There are times in my clinical work when I’ll meet with someone who is really suffering, but they can’t actually feel that pain. They’re not able to make contact with the felt quality of the open wound.

Instead, there’s a protective numbing, a dissociative shut down and collapse into the somatic unconscious. From here, the lost orphans of psyche and soma burn, ache, and long for holding.

This response is coherent and makes sense based on what happened earlier in their lives, and was an adaptive response in the face of survival-level anxiety and annihilatory panic, to the very real threat of psychic disintegration.

Trauma is the experience of de-linking – left and right, top and bottom, limbic and cortical, body and mind – and linkage occurs through the felt sense of safety.

Where we find a way, guided by mercy and grace, to touch that experience, hold it in love, make sense of it, and integrate it into a new cohesive narrative.

Slow and safe. I’m with you, and you’re safe. I’m with you and you’re safe. You’re no longer alone. And you’re safe.

While insight and clarity can be supportive, it is right-brain immersion in fields of safety which fosters cellular restructuring.

The psyche will reassemble when it feels safe.

The body will reorganize when it feels safe.

10/14/2025

Beautiful and so very true

Many sincere practitioners discover, at some point, that insight alone doesn’t transform them.

They’ve tasted moments of pure awareness — open, vast, and still — yet the old patterns return. They can see their reactions, but awareness alone isn’t tactile or sensual enough to unveil the red stone.

It isn’t that awareness practice is deficient in itself. It’s that for many nervous systems shaped by stress, trauma, or early disconnection, the light of awareness hasn’t yet reached the body.

The body becomes the vessel for the unfinished conversation, the holy archivist of every unwept tear. When implicit memories stir, the nervous system contracts, and awareness floats upward, detached from the very ground that longs to be included.

This is why insight must eventually ripen into embodiment. Presence has to descend — to infuse the feeling body.

Only then can awakening redden into the alchemical rubedo. As Rumi writes, only when the soul is dyed the color of love is awakening whole.

As the body opens, the subtle defenses that once protected us begin to melt, and presence deepens from a cool witnessing into a warm, breathing intimacy with life — a union of spirit and matter.

Two currents — ascending and descending — embodied transcendence, ensouled incarnation.

10/10/2025

That’s so true Frank Anderson.

Most of us try to get rid of painful thoughts:
“I shouldn’t feel this way.”
“Stop overthinking.”
“Just move on.”

But here’s what neuroscience shows us—
the more you fight a thought, the louder your brain makes it.

That’s because your amygdala interprets that inner struggle as danger, and your prefrontal cortex—the part that helps you regulate—temporarily shuts down.

So instead of calming your mind, you end up reliving the same emotional loop.

Those thoughts that keep looping aren’t random.
Many were formed in moments when your brain was trying to protect you.

That’s why healing isn’t about forcing positive thoughts—it’s about changing how you relate to what arises inside you. When you meet a thought with curiosity instead of judgment, you send a powerful signal to your body: “I’m safe now.”

Your body doesn’t know the difference between an external threat and an internal one. So if you meet your thoughts with fear or frustration, your brain reads that as danger— and your amygdala, the part that scans for threat, amplifies the sense of threat.

But when you pause, breathe, and simply notice what’s happening—without trying to fix or silence it—your nervous system receives a different message.

The amygdala quiets.
The prefrontal cortex—responsible for reasoning, reflection, and choice—comes back online.
And that’s where neuroplasticity begins.

Your brain starts building new connections that link awareness with safety instead of threat. Over time, that repetition teaches your mind:

“I can think and feel difficult things without being in danger.”

That’s what true rewiring looks like—not controlling your thoughts, but creating safety inside your relationship with them.

So the next time an old thought shows up— “you’re not enough,” “something bad will happen,” “they’ll leave”— pause. Notice it. Soften your response.

You don’t have to believe it or banish it. You can simply get curious about it—maybe even listen to what it’s trying to protect.

That’s where healing begins.

10/05/2025

Gorgeous

The body is the reliquary of what the heart could not bear to feel.

Every unwept tear, every silence, every unfinished gesture of reaching for love — none of it vanishes. It is held in the tissues, woven into muscle and fascia, preserved in the rhythms of the nervous system. Not as pathology, not as failure, but as testimony to our brilliance in surviving.

To meet the body in this way is to bow before a living archive, a temple that has been keeping vigil. Healing is not about erasing what is stored there, but approaching it with reverence — breath by breath, image by image, as if touching a sacred relic.

The nervous system does not need us to conquer it or transcend it, but to listen. In the shaking, the trembling, the ache, there is a hidden intelligence at work — the alchemy by which the unlived may one day come alive again.

10/04/2025

Beautiful soul. I’m so grateful to Jane. She’s such an inspiration.