When I returned from Utah in 2021, I wrote a blog post called Challenge By Choice. In it, I wrote about the choices we, as a group from Annie’s House, were given. Each person was challenged to decide what was best for themself: stay on the ground and cheer for others, climb any number of rungs on a towering pole and climb back down, climb to a platform and ease back down using the rungs, or climb to the platform and take a leap of faith into the air toward a ring. No choice was wrong.

Of course, one of my close friends, before anyone else could even think, grabbed a helmet and harness and prepared for the leap of faith. She is a daredevil, awakened by adventure and enlivened through her career in the military. She climbed, jumped, bounded back over to me, took off her gear, and immediately handed me the harness and helmet. I had some time to think, mostly from a place of absolute fear. I had the heart-racing feeling that screams to not do something. Yet, here I was, putting on a harness and trying to process the risk and reward as quickly as possible. Should I just climb the rungs? Should I climb to the platform? Should I go ahead and step off that ledge with a lot of timidity and a little bravery? Should I leap off that ledge with the courage of someone who knows there is nothing to fear? Or should I leap off that ledge with courage while also knowing the risk is great? And if the risk is great, what is the reward?

I’ve talked about an opportunity I had on a zipline. It was a chance to face a physical challenge that symbolized an emotional challenge. I let fear hold me back, and I was convinced I would NEVER get past the emotional challenge. I was not about to do that this time. I climbed the pole, awkwardly pulled myself onto the small ledge, closed my eyes, and leapt with heart racing. The person below caught me. It was over. Adrenaline was still shooting through my body. I had the shakes. But I had done the thing that felt most redeeming.

And that brings me to the next challenge by choice.

For the past six years, I have sat in my therapist’s office knowing that I am making progress but feeling stuck in the waves of shame and pain. Time and time again, I have wanted to share my story but couldn’t. Time and time again, I have circled back into self-harm and self-sabotaging fear responses. I have lashed out at my therapist. I have lashed out at myself. I have tried to will myself into being successful with Cognitive Processing Therapy. I couldn’t be honest enough about my experience to work through stuck points. I have tried to will myself into successfully riding the wave during EMDR. Instead, the record in my mind would keep playing the same terrible songs because I couldn’t verbalize what I was experiencing.

I sat in my therapist’s office, inwardly trembling because she had read the blog post I wrote about my fears in sharing my story (the first rung to that platform). Why is it that we feel shame when we admit to fear? Or is that just me? And writing about all of it is so much easier if there isn’t also a follow-up discussion. Yet, I knew that was the direction we would head. I wasn’t afraid of her reaction or words. I was afraid of my overwhelming feelings and sensations. Those are the real enemy here. They always have been. Further, with my fears written about and the subsequent feeling of shame, I knew the next step would be to dive deeper into my story. After all, It was my ultimate goal. It was a goal I hadn’t been able to articulate. It was a goal I couldn’t even explain the purpose of, but as my therapist often tries to tell me, once the words start to come out, we can make sense of them. (Words are flowing out now, and I can’t promise they make much sense, so…sorry.)

Rung two was talking about my blog post. Rung six was talking about sharing my story, however and whenever I chose, understanding that the choice and power were fully mine. Rung twelve was the decision to write about my experience of trauma in detail. It was the experience that I, for once, wouldn’t leave out the devastating details that have kept me stuck. Rung sixteen was actually writing it all. Rung nineteen was the discussion that I had written it and would like my therapist to know what it said. All the rungs in between? Oh, those were the emotions, thoughts, feelings, impulses I had to work through each time.

The platform. I sat somewhat silently on my therapist’s couch with the lavender weighted blanket resting on my lap; it was keeping me grounded. We, my therapist and I, with seemingly few words, discussed what I wanted to do with the seven pieces of legal pad paper I had written on. Challenge by choice. I wasn’t sure I could read it out loud, but I knew I needed to listen to my own words. I handed the papers to my therapist and sat still and silent as she began reading about my experiences. The waves of emotions, shame, and sudden devastation I felt at hearing, OUT LOUD, what happened made me dizzy. I fought my natural inclination to dissociate; I fought to stay grounded despite the derealization and depersonalization I was experiencing. I felt nauseous, like my body was physically reacting to the verbal purge taking place.

Time was almost up. My therapist asked if she should keep reading. I gave her a stopping point, knowing the last page and a half of the narrative would be too much to end the session on. She stopped, we processed briefly, and I packaged up my pain to make it manageable as I walked out of the office.

The jump. We started our next session with more processing; the agonizing shame I felt wanted me to cower away from any conversation, and it wanted me to avoid, at all costs, the last page and a half. But, I talked about the feelings and shame, and I handed over the papers for her to finish reading. She asked if she should read it aloud. “No, read it silently.” Maybe a different part of me would have beaten myself up for the lack of courage or taking the easy way out. He fact of the matter is, this wasn’t the easy way out. It was a conscious choice to do what would keep me most regulated while also sharing the nightmare. The funny thing is, as awful as it was for me to share something so private, I actually said, “I didn’t do anything wrong.” A part of me knows that, and a part of me needs to talk about all of it.

I jumped off the ledge. Maybe I didn’t reach for the ring. Maybe I closed my eyes and hoped my therapist would catch me before I hit the ground. But I jumped off the ledge. It was a challenge by choice, “choice” being the keyword.

No activity or challenge was left at the action in Utah. It was processed. It was discussed at length. All of the emotions, thoughts, sensations, and experiences were picked apart, not just for the individual but for the group as a whole. This is where I am, and just like jumping is a challenge, speaking up and processing is a challenge. A challenge by choice.