Julie Jewels Smoot

It does not mean everything has healed. It does not mean painful memories have disappeared. It does not mean I will never experience grief, anger, fear, or discomfort again. It means I recognize my right to make decisions about my own life.

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.

We do not owe anyone our stories. We do not owe anyone the details of what happened to us. We do not owe anyone an explanation for our boundaries. We do not owe anyone a description of our pain.

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

Through my own experiences with military service, trauma, Complex PTSD, chronic pain, grief, and recovery, I have come to understand how important it is to have choices. Choices about my body. Choices about my environment. Choices about what I share. Choices about how I participate. And choices about what I want from a listening experience.

For years, I have observed how meditation, sound healing, and wellness practices are often presented as experiences that should produce particular outcomes. Relaxation. Peace. Calmness. Emotional release. Inner transformation.

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.

My body has carried me through every experience of my life. It has responded to stress, exhaustion, grief, fear, joy, movement, and rest. There have been times when I have felt connected to my body and times when that connection has been difficult. But I do not believe that reconnecting with ourselves requires us to override what our bodies are communicating.

Listening can mean noticing a sensation in the body. It can mean recognizing an emotion that has been pushed aside. It can mean realizing that nothing needs to happen right now. It can mean turning the music off and choosing quiet. All of those responses are valid.

This can be hard to accept, especially for people who learned early that peace depended on pleasing others. If every no once caused tension, disappointment, punishment, or withdrawal, then the body learns to cushion every decision. It learns to manage everyone else’s feelings before stating its own need.

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.

I know my worth. I know who I am. I know what I have survived, what I have overcome, and what I have created. My life has carried me through military service, healing work, writing, music, advocacy, grief, awakening, and renewal. None of that becomes less real because a social media post does not receive engagement

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

You don’t have to tell every detail of your story in order to heal. Healing can happen through sound, movement, breath, rest, silence, creativity, boundaries, and simply learning to listen to what your body needs. You can feel without explaining. You can heal without performing your pain. You can share what feels right and keep the rest for yourself. Your story belongs to you. Your body belongs to you. You decide who gets access.

Sometimes intervention is appropriate. Persistent, severe, new, or concerning symptoms deserve appropriate medical attention. But ordinary human discomfort also exists.

Loving your body does not have to begin with looking in the mirror and loving everything you see. It does not require confidence every day. It does not require you to feel beautiful. It does not require you to celebrate every change your body has experienced.

I am allowed to move at my own pace. I listen to my body without judgment. My body is worthy of being heard. I do not have to force myself to relax. I can rest without earning my rest. Nothing is required of me in this moment. I give myself permission to simply be. My breath does not need to be perfect. I can notice without needing to change anything. I trust myself to recognize what I need. My boundaries are worthy of respect. I am allowed to say no. I am allowed to choose w

Healing is not always loud or dramatic. Sometimes, it is quiet and subtle. It unfolds slowly, like the soft petals of a flower opening to the morning sun. Julie’s approach to healing embraces this softness. She uses art as a language of the heart—a way to express what words alone cannot capture.

Gentle waves wash onto the shore as a serene sunrise paints the sky and ocean in hues of pink and blue.

Reflecting on Inner Wisdom: How Our Bodies Sense Before Our Minds Comprehend.