Stuffed and Buzzed: Unbinding Our Dreams, Desires, and Hurts

"When we unbind the stories and dreams we've hidden away, we don't just heal ourselves — we create space for others to rise, to feel, to belong. True freedom begins when we step out of the basement and into the light of our own becoming." - Mary Coughlin

The Basement of the Self

There was a time when I used to describe my inner world with a haunting image: she (me) was bound and gagged and stuffed into the basement of my body. It was a place where my emotions, desires, and dreams were sent to be forgotten. A cold, dark space where the parts of me that were too "much" or too "unacceptable" were silenced and hidden away. I didn’t think much of it at the time. It just was. Life moved forward.

But recently, I was journaling and reflected on a playful phrase my partner, Dan, and I would use after a good meal: “stuffed and buzzed.” At first, it felt like a lighthearted way to describe that satisfied, sleepy fullness that comes from indulgence. But something clicked. “Stuffed and buzzed” wasn’t just about food. It was a way of being.

I realized that many of us live this way every day. We "stuff" our stories, our emotions, and our dreams into basements of our own making. We shove away pain, doubt, and disappointment, not realizing the weight we carry. And then, to survive the discomfort of it all, we seek a "buzz." We get lost in work, consumerism, social media, alcohol, or anything that will distract us long enough to avoid the truth — that deep down, we're hurting.

The Illusion of Perfection and the Hidden Hurt

Our society rewards people who can put on a good show. Those who can maintain the perfect balance of productivity, positivity, and personal success are seen as strong, resilient, and “on top of things.” But what I’ve come to learn — especially through the lens of trauma-informed care — is that most of us, even the ones who seem to "have it all together," are carrying some form of hurt.

Sometimes, it’s obvious. Sometimes, it’s so subtle that even we don’t see it. We get so used to living with it that it feels normal. We build whole lives around this hidden pain, crafting routines and roles that allow us to avoid it. But avoidance doesn’t heal. It just delays.

And so, the cycle repeats. We stuff. We numb. We buzz. Over and over again.

The Cost of Stuffing: Disconnection and Burnout

This cycle is not without consequence. Stuffed emotions don’t stay hidden forever. They leak out in the form of stress, anxiety, irritability, and sometimes even physical illness. We wonder why we feel so tired, so brittle, so quick to anger or sadness. It’s because the basement is full. The weight of all that “stuffing” is too much.

This is where I see a connection to trauma-informed care — not just for the people we serve, but for ourselves as well. Trauma is not just the big, dramatic events that make headlines. It’s also the slow, quiet accumulation of unprocessed pain. The missed opportunities to acknowledge what hurts. The absence of space to feel seen, safe, and supported.

In the work I do with neonatal clinicians, nurses, and healthcare teams, I’ve seen firsthand how "stuffing and buzzing" shows up in professional spaces. Clinicians put their own needs last. They push through exhaustion. They hold in tears. They pride themselves on their ability to "handle it." But eventually, the body (and the soul) demand a reckoning. Burnout, compassion fatigue, and even moral injury become inevitable.

Breaking Free: The Journey from Basement to Belonging

Trauma-informed care offers a way out of this cycle — for the babies we serve, the families we support, and for ourselves. It’s a call to stop stuffing. To stop numbing. To stop buzzing past the pain. It’s an invitation to slow down, to feel, to notice. It asks us to create space for healing, not just for the people in our care, but for ourselves and our colleagues as well.

What if we gave ourselves permission to bring our dreams, desires, and emotions up from the basement? What if we untied the ropes and removed the gag? What if we allowed our inner selves to be seen, even when it felt uncomfortable?

This is what trauma-informed care asks of us. It’s not just a practice for patients — it’s a practice for humanity. It’s about belonging — to ourselves, to each other, and to the larger story of what it means to be human.

Grace and Space: The Way Forward

I’ve thought a lot about why people avoid this work. It’s not that we don’t want to heal. It’s that healing feels hard. It feels like opening a door we’ve been taught to keep closed. It feels like admitting there’s something wrong with us. But here’s the truth: there’s nothing “wrong” with feeling pain. Pain is part of being alive. The real tragedy is that we deny ourselves the grace and space to feel it.

When we deny ourselves this space, we stay trapped in the stuffing-and-buzzing cycle. We miss the opportunity to process, to grieve, and to grow. We miss the chance to forgive ourselves and others. And without forgiveness, the pain perpetuates itself — sometimes in our own lives, sometimes in the way we show up for others.

But it doesn’t have to be this way. We can learn to hold space for ourselves, just as we hold space for others. We can create moments of stillness in a world that pushes us to keep going. We can practice compassion — not just for others, but for the selves we’ve hidden away in the basement.

Unbinding Ourselves, Unbinding Each Other

As I write this, I’m struck by how universal this experience is. We all have something in the basement. We all have a version of ourselves who was told to stay quiet, stay small, stay unseen. We all have hurt. And if we know this about ourselves, then surely we can recognize it in each other.

This is why trauma-informed care matters. It’s not just for the babies. It’s not just for the parents. It’s for all of us. Because healing isn’t something we do alone. We heal in community. We heal by being witnessed, seen, and accepted as we are.

When I think back to that earlier version of myself — the one bound and gagged in the basement — I feel sadness but also deep gratitude. She was just doing what she thought she had to do to survive. But survival isn’t the goal anymore. Freedom is. Authenticity is. Wholeness is. And now, I know that it’s possible to walk downstairs, unbind her, and welcome her home.

If you’re reading this and it resonates, I want you to know something: You are not alone. You’re not alone in your pain, and you’re not alone in your healing. There’s space for you here. Space to unstuff the basement. Space to be seen. Space to stop buzzing and just be.

Call to Action: Where Do We Begin?

If you feel ready to unbind, consider these questions:

• What stories, emotions, or dreams have you “stuffed” away?

• What "buzz" (work, distractions, consumption) have you been using to avoid feeling that weight?

• What would it look like to create a little space, even for just 5 minutes, to sit with what you’ve stuffed away?

• Who can you invite into this process with you — a friend, a mentor, a partner — who will hold space for your becoming?

In trauma-informed care, we often talk about "safety" as a core principle. It’s about creating an environment where people feel safe to be vulnerable. But what if that space also existed within us? What if we could become a safe space for ourselves?

If this feels hard, that’s okay. It is hard. But every unbinding begins with a single untied knot. Every basement door opens one hinge at a time. This is slow work, but it’s sacred work. And I promise you, you are worthy of it.

Final Reflection

We live in a world that teaches us to stuff and buzz. But we can unlearn it. We can create a world that offers grace and space, one where we don’t have to be bound and gagged versions of ourselves. This is the heart of trauma-informed care. It’s not just about care for others. It’s about belonging — to ourselves, to each other, and to the wider human story.

As we step into this new year, let’s unbind what holds us back, unstuff what weighs us down, and embrace the light of our own becoming. Here’s to a year of grace, space, and the freedom to truly belong — to ourselves and to each other. Happy New Year, and remember: healing starts here, with you.

All my love,

Mary