There was a time when every flashback felt like a fire drill. My body would light up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve, bright, loud, impossible to ignore. The moment something triggered, I’d bolt straight into survival mode: cancel plans, cancel people, cancel myself. No questions asked.

It didn’t matter if the memory was big or small, obvious or sneaky, because my nervous system didn’t bother to check. It just screamed, “DUCK AND COVER!” and I obeyed like a well-trained monkey.

For the longest time, I thought that meant there was something seriously wrong with me. Like I was broken beyond repair. However, now I understand it simply means I’ve been through some stuff, stuff that left its fingerprints all over my nervous system.

Flashbacks Come in All Shapes and Volumes

Flashbacks are weird. Sometimes they’re loud and theatrical, like your own personal horror movie. Other times they’re quiet, just a smell, a phrase, a feeling that sneaks in sideways. A memory that isn’t welcome but shows up anyway, like an ex who still has your spare key.

For a long time, I treated every one of them like a four-alarm emergency. Which, honestly, makes sense when your past includes actual emergencies. The traumatized brain doesn’t do nuance. It does black-and-white thinking. It says, “We’ve been here before, and it didn’t end well,” and throws the whole system into red alert.

What If It’s Just… Old Stuff?

But here’s the thing I’ve been learning, slowly and ungracefully, but sincerely:

Not every flashback is a crisis.

Sometimes it’s just… old stuff. Floating up. Being seen.

Sometimes it’s your brain finally feeling safe enough to crack open a drawer it slammed shut years ago.

Sometimes it’s not a breakdown. It’s just a memory, and your body is trying to hand it to you like, “Hey… ready to look at this yet?”

From Intruders to Visitors

And when I stopped treating those moments like invaders and started treating them like visitors, something shifted.

Don’t get me wrong. Visitors can still be disruptive. Some show up unannounced. Some overstay their welcome, and some track emotional mud all over the carpet. But they’re not constantly trying to hurt you. Sometimes they’re just trying to be acknowledged.

Now, when something old surfaces, I try not to panic. I try to check in:

• Am I safe right now?

• Is this memory about now or then?

• Can I sit with this, even just for a few breaths?

Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s absolutely not. But even asking is progress. Even noticing is growth.

I used to think healing meant erasing the flashbacks. I thought it meant finally being “normal,” whatever the hell that is.

But healing, for me, has looked more like this:

• Fewer 10-alarm responses.

• More curiosity.

• More compassion.

• A little less self-abandoning when the past comes knocking.

There’s power in saying, “I remember this pain, and I know how to be with it now.”

It doesn’t mean the past goes away. It just means I don’t have to go with it.

And honestly, that’s a hell of a thing.

Photo by Robin the Bird on Unsplash