Choice Is Part of Healing: Honoring Consent and Boundaries
There is something I have learned through my experiences as a United States Navy veteran, a survivor of sexual violence, an advocate, and a woman living with Complex PTSD.
Having a choice matters.
It matters when someone enters a room.
It matters when someone approaches your body.
It matters when someone asks you a personal question.
It matters when someone invites you to participate in a healing practice.
It matters when you decide whether to speak, remain silent, stay, leave, rest, or engage.
And it matters when you change your mind.
For much of my life, I have experienced situations in which my choices were ignored, dismissed, questioned, or taken away.
I know what it means to have my bodily autonomy violated.
I know what it means to have people make assumptions about what I should feel, what I should share, and how I should respond.
I also know how important it has been to reclaim the authority to make decisions about my own life.
That understanding is woven into everything I create as a Sound Alchemist.
My work is grounded in a simple philosophy:
Listening First. Nothing Is Required.
Those words are not simply a slogan.
They reflect how I want to be treated.
They reflect how I believe other people deserve to be treated.
And they reflect my understanding that meaningful healing cannot be separated from personal choice.
Consent Is More Than Saying Yes
When people hear the word consent, they often think about whether someone has agreed to participate in something.
But consent involves much more than a single yes.
It involves understanding what is being offered.
It involves having enough information to make a decision.
It involves the freedom to decline without punishment.
It involves the ability to ask questions.
It involves recognizing that agreement to one activity does not automatically mean agreement to another.
And it involves the right to change your mind.
If I agree to attend a workshop, that does not mean I have agreed to every activity offered during that workshop.
If I agree to receive bodywork, that does not mean someone has unlimited permission to touch my body.
If I agree to participate in a group experience, that does not mean I have agreed to disclose my personal history.
If I agree to a listening session, that does not mean I must remain until the recording ends.
Consent is specific.
Consent is ongoing.
And consent can be withdrawn.
A yes to one thing is not a yes to everything.
This is something I believe every practitioner, facilitator, teacher, and healing professional should understand.
My Body Belongs to Me
As a survivor of six rapes, I have spent years advocating for bodily autonomy.
I have spoken about rape culture.
I have challenged victim blaming.
I have addressed the ways survivors are silenced, questioned, and blamed for violence committed against them.
And I have continued speaking about the lasting effects of sexual violence, including Military Sexual Trauma.
For me, the right to make decisions about my body is not an abstract concept.
It is deeply personal.
My body belongs to me.
Not to a practitioner.
Not to a facilitator.
Not to a therapist.
Not to a romantic partner.
Not to a family member.
Not to someone who believes they know what is best for me.
No one is entitled to access to my body simply because they believe their intentions are good.
A person can believe they are helping and still cross a boundary.
A practitioner can have years of training and still fail to listen.
A facilitator can describe an activity as healing and still overlook the importance of consent.
Good intentions do not replace permission.
And professional experience does not eliminate the need to ask.
The Right to Say No
One of the most important lessons I have learned is that no is a complete answer.
I do not have to explain every boundary.
I do not have to provide a detailed history to justify my discomfort.
I do not have to prove that something is harmful before deciding that I do not want to participate.
Sometimes I simply do not want to do something.
That is enough.
There have been times in my life when I felt pressure to explain my decisions.
Why did I leave?
Why did I stop participating?
Why did I choose not to answer?
Why did I decide not to maintain a relationship?
Why did I decline an invitation?
But I have come to understand that not every decision requires a public explanation.
I can say no because I am uncomfortable.
I can say no because I am tired.
I can say no because I need privacy.
I can say no because something does not feel right for me.
And I can say no without providing an explanation at all.
My boundaries do not become valid only after someone else agrees with them.
Changing My Mind Is Not a Failure
Another important part of consent is the freedom to change your mind.
I may agree to participate in an activity and later decide that I do not want to continue.
I may arrive at a workshop feeling comfortable and discover that I need more space.
I may begin a meditation and realize that I would rather keep my eyes open.
I may choose to lie down and later decide that sitting is more comfortable.
I may agree to a particular form of bodywork and then decide that I want it to stop.
None of these decisions means I have failed.
They mean I am paying attention to myself.
Our needs can change.
Our comfort can change.
Our bodies can respond differently than we anticipated.
And information that becomes available during an experience may influence our decisions.
A respectful practitioner understands this.
A respectful facilitator does not treat a changed decision as an inconvenience.
A respectful healing environment allows someone to stop without being pressured to explain why.
I am allowed to change my mind at any moment.
That freedom should not be negotiable.
Trauma-Informed Does Not Mean Trauma Disclosure Is Required
One of the things that concerns me about some healing environments is the assumption that participants must share their trauma histories to receive support.
I have encountered situations in which personal questions were presented as a routine part of participation.
Questions about trauma.
Questions about sexual experiences.
Questions about family relationships.
Questions about medical history.
Questions about emotional wounds.
There may be legitimate reasons for a practitioner to ask about relevant health information or safety concerns.
But I believe there is an important distinction between requesting information necessary for safe participation and expecting someone to disclose deeply personal experiences.
A person should understand why information is being requested.
They should know who will have access to it.
They should know how it will be used.
And they should be able to ask whether a less detailed answer is sufficient.
I have lived with my experiences for years.
I have participated in psychotherapy, EMDR, bodywork, meditation, movement practices, and other forms of personal exploration.
I know that sharing my story can sometimes be meaningful.
But I also know that disclosure is not always necessary, appropriate, or welcome.
I do not have to tell my trauma story to prove that I deserve respect.
I can participate in a healing environment without sharing the details of what happened to me.
I can establish boundaries without explaining the experiences that led me to establish them.
I can choose privacy.
And I can decide what information belongs only to me.
Group Experiences and the Pressure to Participate
Group healing experiences can offer opportunities for connection, reflection, and shared learning.
But group settings can also create pressure.
Sometimes that pressure is subtle.
A facilitator asks everyone to close their eyes.
Everyone else does.
A group is invited to share personal experiences.
One person after another begins speaking.
Participants are encouraged to step forward, move into a circle, or acknowledge something about their lives.
And suddenly, someone who would prefer not to participate may feel conspicuous.
I believe facilitators need to recognize how powerful group expectations can become.
It is not enough to say participation is optional if the environment makes declining feel uncomfortable or shameful.
Choice should be reflected in the structure of the activity.
Participants should know that observing is acceptable.
That remaining seated is acceptable.
That declining to answer is acceptable.
That stepping outside is acceptable.
That choosing not to participate does not make someone less committed to their personal growth.
I have learned that I do not need to follow everyone else simply because I am in a group.
I can remain where I am.
I can listen.
I can observe.
I can choose which experiences I want to explore.
And I can leave the rest.
Participation is not proof of courage. Declining is not proof of fear.
Both can be thoughtful decisions.
Boundaries Are Not Rejection
There is a common misunderstanding that establishing boundaries means rejecting other people.
I do not see it that way.
Boundaries help me determine what I am comfortable with.
They help me recognize how I want to spend my time.
They help me protect my privacy.
They help me decide which relationships I want to maintain.
And they help me communicate what I am and am not willing to accept.
I can appreciate someone and still decline an invitation.
I can respect a practitioner and still disagree with their recommendation.
I can care about a person and still decide that I need distance.
I can enjoy a workshop without participating in every activity.
And I can be grateful for an opportunity without surrendering my autonomy.
I do not believe boundaries need to be hostile.
But I also do not believe they need to be softened until they become meaningless.
Sometimes a boundary sounds gentle.
Sometimes it sounds direct.
Sometimes it is spoken.
Sometimes it is demonstrated by leaving.
The important thing is that the boundary reflects my decision.
I am not required to make my boundaries comfortable for someone who does not want to respect them.
Listening to My Body Without Forcing an Outcome
Living with Complex PTSD and chronic pain has influenced the way I approach my body.
There are days when movement feels welcome.
There are days when I enjoy riding my bike, walking, or practicing yoga.
There are days when rest is more appropriate.
And there are days when I need to adjust my plans because my body is asking for something different.
I have learned that listening to my body does not mean following a rigid set of rules.
It means remaining curious about what I am experiencing.
Sometimes I notice tension.
Sometimes I notice fatigue.
Sometimes I notice discomfort.
Sometimes I notice that I have more energy than I expected.
I can use that information to make decisions.
But I do not have to interpret every sensation as a message about trauma.
I do not have to turn every moment of discomfort into a healing opportunity.
And I do not have to push through pain because someone believes it will lead to a breakthrough.
There is a difference between gently exploring my capacity and overriding my limits.
I am allowed to recognize that difference.
I am allowed to decide what is appropriate for me.
And I am allowed to seek professional guidance while retaining a voice in my own care.
Consent in Sound Healing
Consent is an essential part of how I think about sound healing.
Sound can be powerful.
A gong can produce complex, sustained tones.
A Tibetan singing bowl can create a clear, lingering resonance.
A hand pan can introduce rhythmic and melodic patterns.
Different listeners may respond differently to those sounds.
Some people enjoy powerful gong recordings.
Others prefer gentler tones.
Some appreciate extended listening sessions.
Others prefer shorter experiences.
Some enjoy silence.
Others feel more comfortable with background sound.
I believe listeners should have the freedom to make choices based on their preferences and needs.
This is one reason I value recorded listening experiences.
A recording allows someone to decide when to listen.
Where to listen.
How loudly to listen.
Whether to sit, stand, lie down, or move.
Whether to finish the recording.
And whether to return to it.
I do not need to control those decisions.
I do not need to tell someone that they must remain with a sound because it is supposedly releasing something.
I do not need to promise that a recording will heal a particular condition.
I can create music and allow people to decide how they want to experience it.
Listening is an invitation, not an obligation.
A Sound Practitioner Is Not Entitled to Someone's Vulnerability
I believe practitioners have a responsibility to recognize the influence they may hold within a healing environment.
When someone enters a workshop, treatment room, or listening session, they may be looking for support.
They may be curious.
They may be experiencing stress.
They may be carrying grief.
They may be living with trauma.
Or they may simply want to enjoy something new.
We cannot assume we know their story.
We cannot assume that they want to discuss it.
And we cannot assume that emotional vulnerability is the goal of their participation.
A practitioner should not need someone to cry to believe the session was meaningful.
They should not need someone to disclose trauma to validate the practice.
They should not need someone to describe an extraordinary experience to feel successful.
And they should not interpret a person's silence as permission to keep pushing.
I believe a respectful practitioner can offer an experience without demanding a particular response.
They can explain what is being offered.
They can ask for permission.
They can listen to the answer.
They can respect a refusal.
And they can recognize when an activity is outside their professional scope.
Holding space does not mean taking ownership of someone else's process.
It means respecting that the process belongs to them.
The Difference Between Support and Control
Sometimes people confuse helping with directing.
They believe that because they have training, experience, or good intentions, they know what someone else needs.
They may encourage a person to push beyond a boundary.
They may suggest that resistance is evidence of something that needs to be healed.
They may interpret a refusal as avoidance.
They may believe that discomfort must be endured to achieve growth.
But I do not believe support requires someone to surrender their judgment.
Support can mean providing information.
It can mean offering options.
It can mean answering questions.
It can mean acknowledging uncertainty.
It can mean helping someone consider what feels appropriate for them.
And sometimes support means accepting that the person does not want what is being offered.
There is a meaningful difference between inviting someone to explore a possibility and pressuring them to accept it.
A person can be encouraged without being coerced.
A person can be supported without being controlled.
And a person can receive care without giving up their right to decide.
My Advocacy Has Always Been About More Than Speaking Out
For years, I have advocated for survivors of rape, sexual assault, and Military Sexual Trauma.
My advocacy has involved writing, poetry, speaking publicly, challenging harmful attitudes, and confronting the ways survivors are dismissed.
I have written books.
I have created music.
I have released albums that explore experiences of survival, betrayal, service, grief, and reclaiming my voice.
But at the heart of my advocacy is something fundamental.
Every person deserves bodily autonomy.
Every person deserves to have their no respected.
Every survivor deserves to decide what they share.
Every person deserves to establish boundaries without being punished for them.
And every person deserves to be treated as someone with authority over their own life.
I have spent years speaking about the harm caused when consent is ignored.
I cannot separate that advocacy from the way I approach sound healing and personal well-being.
To me, they are connected.
I cannot advocate for bodily autonomy in one part of my life and dismiss it in another.
I cannot speak about the importance of consent while expecting people to participate in practices they do not want.
I cannot tell survivors that their voices matter and then refuse to listen when someone says no.
My values have to be reflected in my actions.
Privacy Is a Boundary, Too
I have shared parts of my life publicly through my books, music, articles, and advocacy.
But I have not shared everything.
And I do not intend to.
There are experiences I have chosen to write about.
There are experiences I have transformed into poetry.
There are experiences that have influenced my music.
And there are experiences that remain private.
I do not believe that being an advocate means giving the public unrestricted access to my personal life.
I do not believe that writing about trauma means I must answer every question someone asks.
I do not believe that being open about Complex PTSD means I must explain every symptom, every difficult day, or every decision.
I am allowed to share selectively.
I am allowed to change what I am comfortable discussing.
I am allowed to decide that certain subjects are no longer open for conversation.
And I am allowed to keep parts of my life entirely to myself.
Privacy is not dishonesty. Privacy is a choice.
I No Longer Need Everyone to Understand My Boundaries
One of the changes I have noticed in myself over the years is that I am less interested in convincing people to understand my decisions.
I used to spend more time explaining.
Explaining why something hurt.
Explaining why I needed distance.
Explaining why I was uncomfortable.
Explaining why I did not want to participate.
Explaining why I needed rest.
But I have learned that explanations do not always lead to understanding.
Some people listen.
Some people do not.
Some people respect boundaries even when they do not fully understand them.
Others continue questioning because they want a different answer.
I cannot control how someone responds.
I can control whether I continue participating in the conversation.
I can decide when enough has been said.
I can choose not to argue.
I can step away.
And I can allow someone to disagree with me without changing my decision.
This has become an important part of my personal growth.
I no longer believe I have to exhaust myself defending every boundary.
Choice Can Be Quiet
Not every act of autonomy is dramatic.
Sometimes choice looks like turning off a recording.
Sometimes it looks like declining a phone call.
Sometimes it looks like choosing to stay home.
Sometimes it looks like resting instead of completing another task.
Sometimes it looks like keeping your eyes open during meditation.
Sometimes it looks like deciding not to answer a personal question.
Sometimes it looks like leaving a group conversation.
Sometimes it looks like choosing not to explain.
These moments may seem small to someone else.
But they can be meaningful.
Especially when you have spent years feeling that you must accommodate other people's expectations.
There is strength in recognizing that your time belongs to you.
Your attention belongs to you.
Your body belongs to you.
Your story belongs to you.
And your decisions belong to you.
You do not need an audience to make those choices meaningful.
What Respectful Healing Can Look Like
I believe respectful healing environments make room for individual needs.
They recognize that people arrive with different histories, preferences, abilities, and comfort levels.
They provide information without overwhelming participants.
They offer choices without turning those choices into tests.
They recognize that consent is ongoing.
They allow people to decline.
They avoid making assumptions about what someone is experiencing.
They do not demand emotional disclosure.
They do not promise that every activity will produce a particular outcome.
And they recognize the difference between professional support and personal authority.
A person may choose to participate fully.
Another person may choose to observe.
Someone may need to move.
Someone may need to rest.
Someone may need to leave.
All of those choices deserve respect.
I do not believe everyone needs the same experience.
And I do not believe one person's way of participating should become the standard for everyone else.
Respectful healing makes room for the individual rather than forcing the individual to fit the practice.
Returning to My Own Authority
As I continue creating music, writing articles, advocating for survivors, and living my life, I find myself returning to the same understanding.
I am the person who gets to decide what is appropriate for me.
I can listen to advice.
I can consider recommendations.
I can learn from practitioners.
I can explore new experiences.
I can remain open to possibilities.
But I do not have to surrender my authority over my own body and life.
I have lived through experiences in which my choices were violated.
I cannot change what happened.
But I can continue making decisions about how I live now.
I can establish boundaries.
I can choose relationships that respect me.
I can decide what I share.
I can create art on my own terms.
I can rest when I need rest.
I can move when I want to move.
I can participate when I choose.
And I can say no.
These choices do not erase my past.
They do not guarantee that every day will be easy.
They do not mean that Complex PTSD disappears.
But they allow me to live with greater ownership of my present.
That matters.
An Invitation to Honor Your Own Choices
If there is one thing I hope people take from this article, it is that you are allowed to have boundaries.
You are allowed to decide what feels appropriate for you.
You are allowed to ask questions.
You are allowed to decline.
You are allowed to change your mind.
You are allowed to protect your privacy.
You are allowed to choose how you participate in a listening session, a workshop, a relationship, or any other experience.
You do not have to disclose your trauma history to justify a decision.
You do not have to prove that your discomfort is serious enough.
You do not have to participate simply because everyone else is participating.
And you do not have to abandon your own judgment because someone claims to know what you need.
Your choices matter.
Your boundaries matter.
Your voice matters.
And your body belongs to you.
As a Sound Alchemist, I will continue creating listening experiences grounded in choice rather than expectation.
As an author, I will continue writing the truths I choose to share.
As a survivor advocate, I will continue speaking about consent, bodily autonomy, and the importance of respecting survivors.
And as a woman, I will continue living on my own terms.
Because healing should never require me to surrender the very autonomy I have worked so hard to reclaim.
My body. My boundaries. My choices. My voice.
Listening First. Nothing Is Required.
About the Author
Julie Jewels Smoot is a United States Navy veteran, author, poet, survivor advocate, and Sound Alchemist. Living with Complex PTSD, she draws upon her personal experiences, creative work, and years of advocacy to explore bodily autonomy, boundaries, rest, sound, and personal choice.
Her original recordings feature gongs, Tibetan singing bowls, hand pan, and other instruments. Her music, poetry, and writing reflect her belief that listening and personal exploration should be grounded in respect, consent, and individual freedom.
Through her philosophy, Listening First. Nothing Is Required., Julie encourages people to honor their own experiences without pressure to achieve a particular outcome.
Explore her music, articles, and listening experiences at:
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