Radhe Lesny Trauma Healing Therapy

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.

09/30/2025

So moving, heartbreaking and beautiful.

I know the exact pressure it takes to crack a rib during CPR. But last Tuesday, I learned a patient’s silence can break a doctor’s soul.

His name was David Chen, but on my screen, he was "Male, 82, Congestive Heart Failure, Room 402." I spent seven minutes with him that morning. Seven minutes to check his vitals, listen to the fluid in his lungs, adjust his diuretics, and type 24 required data points into his Electronic Health Record. He tried to tell me something, gesturing toward a faded photo on his nightstand. I nodded, said "we'll talk later," and moved on. There was no billing code for "talk later."

Mr. Chen died that afternoon. As a nurse quietly cleared his belongings, she handed me the photo. It was him as a young man, beaming, his arm around a woman, standing before a small grocery store with "CHEN'S MARKET" painted on the window.

The realization hit me like a physical blow. I knew his ejection fraction and his creatinine levels. I knew his insurance provider and his allergy to penicillin. But I didn't know his wife's name or that he had built a life from nothing with his own two hands. I hadn’t treated David Chen. I had managed the decline of a failing organ system. And in the sterile efficiency of it all, I had lost a piece of myself.

The next day, I bought a small, black Moleskine notebook. It felt like an act of rebellion.

My first patient was Eleanor Gable, a frail woman lost in a sea of white bedsheets, diagnosed with pneumonia. I did my exam, updated her chart, and just as I was about to leave, I paused. I turned back from the door.

"Mrs. Gable," I said, my voice feeling strange. "Tell me one thing about yourself that’s not in this file."

Her tired eyes widened in surprise. A faint smile touched her lips. "I was a second-grade teacher," she whispered. "The best sound in the world... is the silence that comes just after a child finally reads a sentence on their own."

I wrote it down in my notebook. Eleanor Gable: Taught children how to read.

I kept doing it. My little black book began to fill with ghosts of lives lived.

Frank Miller: Drove a yellow cab in New York for 40 years.
Maria Flores: Her mole recipe won the state fair in Texas, three years running.
Sam Jones: Proposed to his wife on the Kiss Cam at a Dodgers game.

Something began to change. The burnout, that heavy, gray cloak I’d been wearing for years, started to feel a little lighter. Before entering a room, I’d glance at my notebook. I wasn’t walking in to see the "acute pancreatitis in 207." I was walking in to see Frank, who probably had a million stories about the city. My patients felt it too. They'd sit up a little straighter. A light would flicker back in their eyes. They felt seen.

The real test came with Leo. He was 22, angry, and refusing dialysis for a condition he’d brought on himself. He was a "difficult patient," a label that in hospital-speak means "we've given up." The team was frustrated.

I walked into his room and sat down, leaving my tablet outside. We sat in silence for a full minute. I didn't look at his monitors. I looked at the intricate drawings covering his arms.

"Who's your artist?" I asked.

He scoffed. "Did 'em myself."

"They're good," I said. "This one... it looks like a blueprint."

For the first time, his gaze lost its hard edge. "Wanted to be an architect," he muttered, "before... all this."

We talked for twenty minutes about buildings, about lines, about creating something permanent. We didn't mention his kidneys once. When I stood up to leave, he said, so quietly I almost missed it, "Okay. We can try the dialysis tomorrow."

Later that night, I opened my Moleskine. I wrote: Leo Vance: Designs cities on paper.

The system I work in is designed to document disease with thousands of data points. It logs every cough, every pill, every lab value. It tells the story of how a body breaks down.

My little black book tells a different story. It tells the story of why a life mattered.

We are taught to practice medicine with data, but we heal with humanity. And in a world drowning in information, a single sentence that says, "I see you," isn't just a kind gesture.

It’s the most powerful medicine we have.