Julie Jewels Smoot

Medical trauma does not necessarily end when someone leaves the examination room. Sometimes the consequences follow a person for years. For me, that experience contributed to a profound loss of trust in VA healthcare. I did not simply forget what happened.

And I am especially tired of people celebrating military service while becoming uncomfortable when veterans talk about military sexual trauma, chronic pain, medical neglect, and the lasting consequences of serving.

Think about that. A service member experiences sexual violence, and instead of receiving protection, compassion, and accountability, that person may find themselves facing hostility from the very people responsible for their welfare.

Moments when explanations cannot reach the places where fear, grief, exhaustion, and emotion have been carried for years. Moments when what we need is not another conversation, another solution, or another instruction about how to heal. Sometimes, what we need is to experience being held. Not restrained. Not controlled. Not touched without permission.

Someone may believe we should be ready to talk about an experience. Someone may encourage us to participate in an activity. Someone may suggest that we need to move beyond a particular fear.

Listening without absorbing is not a refusal to feel. It is a way of honoring feeling without confusing it for ownership. The space after holding matters because care does not end when the visible exchange ends. The listener also needs to be held by ground, breath, sound, and simple return.

If someone sees us awake, they may assume we are ready to talk. If we are sitting quietly, they may assume we have nothing else to do. If we do not immediately respond, they may wonder whether something is wrong.

We learn to answer when someone calls. We learn to listen when someone wants to talk. We learn to make ourselves available, even when we are exhausted, overwhelmed, or simply longing for silence. Somewhere along the way, we may begin believing that being a good person means always being accessible.

The space between sounds matters just as much as the sounds themselves. And over the years, I have come to understand that the same can be true in life. There are moments when we are creating.

A hand carefully pulls a wooden block labeled "CHOICE" from a stacked tower, symbolizing decision-making. 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

I have spent much of my life navigating expectations. Expectations about who I should be, how I should behave, what I should tolerate, how I should respond, and how quickly I should move forward from difficult experiences.

Throughout 2026, my creative work with JS Worldbridger and Author Honey Badger has continued to evolve through a series of albums exploring sound, stillness, boundaries, personal awareness, and the relationship between the body and lived experience.

I know what I have accomplished. I know the hours behind the writing. I know the vulnerability behind the music. I know the effort behind advocacy. I know the quiet discipline behind personal growth. I know the moments when choosing myself required more courage than anyone else could see.

Some people will not explain. Some will not take responsibility. Some will remember the story in a way that protects them. Some will move on without acknowledging the harm. Some will treat the distance as your problem because that is easier than facing their part in it.

A woman sits on a rock, gazing at a serene sunset, surrounded by signposts labeled "People Pleasing," "Self-Abandonment," "Trying to Fit In," and "Ignoring My Boundaries," with one pointing to "Choosing Myself," emphasizing the theme of self-acceptance over forced belonging. There was a time in my life when belonging meant being part of something. A community. A practice. A group of people who shared similar interests, values, and experiences. I believed that being part of a

Pause and reflect: What does your body truly need today? Explore options like movement, rest, or simply being, as you immerse yourself in this peaceful setting. Listen first—nothing is required. There are days when my body wants movement. There are days when it wants sound. There are days when it wants quiet. There are days when it wants to walk, stretch, breathe, move slowly, listen to a gong, receive bodywork, or simply curl up underneath a blanket and be left the hell alon

Tranquil healing space adorned with musical instruments and soft lighting, emphasizing silent recovery: "Your pain does not need an audience to be real. You are allowed to heal without explaining, proving, or performing." There is a difference between having pain and performing pain so that someone else will believe you. There is a difference between sharing because you want to and sharing because you feel you have to prove that what happened was bad enough. There is a differ

The Chiron Gong creates space for listening to what still exists beneath survival. In astrology, Chiron is often associated with the “wounded healer.” But in trauma-informed sound work, I approach Chiron differently. I do not believe every wound needs to become wisdom immediately. I do not believe pain must become purpose in order to deserve care.

Sound alchemy is a beautiful art. It uses sound to heal, to balance, and to awaken. The sounds are not just noises. They are tools. Tools that help us connect with ourselves. Tools that help us find harmony in a busy world. When I first discovered this path, I felt a quiet calling. A whisper that said, "Come closer. Listen. Heal."

This series is not about adding another tool to your toolbox. It is not about doing more, guiding more, or facilitating more. It is about something quieter.