Listening ends cleanly. You do not carry the sound forward unless you choose to. You do not owe it attention afterward. You do not need to hold onto what occurred while it was present. For many people with post-traumatic stress, experiences linger when they are not wanted. Chiron does not do this.

For many nervous systems, survival remains active because it is still useful. The body learned how to stay alive under conditions that did not allow rest, trust, or ease. Those strategies did not expire when the danger ended—they adapted.

Rhythm is not only made of sound. It is also made of what is not filled. Between each beat, there is a pause. Between moments of sound, there is space. In this work, those spaces are not treated as absences. They are part of the rhythm itself. Silence does not mean something has gone wrong.

When the body is required to keep going—through stress, trauma, injury, or long-term responsibility—it finds ways to cope. Muscles hold. Systems brace. The nervous system stays alert.

A person clutching their knee in discomfort along a rural path, highlighting the struggle with chronic knee pain.

I do not use music to fix my Post-Traumatic Stress or my grief .I use music to stay in relationship with myself while healing unfolds. For me, sound has never been about bypassing pain or transforming it into something more palatable. It has been about creating a space where my nervous system is allowed to respond honestly — without pressure, without urgency, and without expectation.

In many sound spaces, staying is treated as success. Staying present. Staying through sensation. Staying until the end.

You don’t need to remember every moment. You don’t need to carry meaning forward. You don’t need to decide what this was.

No matter how experienced a facilitator may be, they cannot feel what you feel. They cannot sense your edges. They cannot track your capacity. They cannot know what safety means inside your nervous system. Only you can. This is not a responsibility to perform well. It is a permission to decide.

There is a point in many healing journeys where stopping feels wrong. Not because something is unsafe—but because leaving feels like failure. We are taught, often subtly, that healing requires endurance. That staying longer is better. That pushing through discomfort is progress. That stopping means we didn’t try hard enough. Trauma-informed sound challenges this belief. You are allowed to stop.

Trust rarely arrives as certainty. It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t feel like confidence. It doesn’t come with proof. More often, trust grows in places that are almost unnoticeable. In the moment you stay when you once would have left. In the breath that comes a little easier. In the choice to listen without bracing. Trust grows quietly. Many people believe trust should feel like safety all at once—a clear signal that the body has decided everything is okay

Many people arrive in healing spaces already apologizing. For how long it’s taking. For how little has changed. For still feeling the way they feel. There is often an unspoken timeline hovering in the background.

In many healing spaces, improvement is implied. Calmer. Lighter. More open. More regulated. Even gentle practices can carry the message that who you are now is a starting point—not a place to stay. For trauma-shaped nervous systems, this can feel like another place to fail.

A serene meditation scene highlights the healing power of silence, offering refuge for the nervous system with calming candlelight and incense. In many healing spaces, silence is treated as something to fill. A pause that lasts too long. A gap that needs guidance. An emptiness waiting for meaning. But for some nervous systems, silence is not absence. It is refuge. Silence does not mean nothing is happening Silence can feel unfamiliar—especially if your system learned to stay

If you’re new here, you may be wondering what trauma-informed sound actually means. You may be curious, cautious, hopeful, skeptical—or simply tired. You may be drawn to sound but unsure if it will feel safe. You may have tried healing spaces before and left feeling unseen, overwhelmed, or like you didn’t belong. This orientation is not here to convince you of anything.

People often ask what is supposed to happen during sound healing. They want to know what they should feel. They want to know if they’re doing it right. They want to know how they’ll know it’s working. These questions make sense. Many of us have learned that healing looks a certain way—calm, emotional release, insight, lightness, peace. But trauma-informed sound begins with a quieter truth:

If you’re here, you may be curious about sound healing—but unsure if it’s for you. You may be living with trauma, grief, exhaustion, or a nervous system that doesn’t easily settle. You may have tried meditation, breathwork, or sound before and felt like it didn’t work—or didn’t feel safe. This space is different. There is no right way to be here. There is nothing you need to fix. You are welcome exactly as you are.

I am a First-Degree Nia Black Belt  and a Sound Alchemist , but that was not always a comfortable truth to live inside of. When I first walked into a Nia class and later into Nia training, I carried something many people could not see: a deep fear of using my voice.

Even when these expectations are offered gently, they are still expectations. And for many people—especially those with trauma histories—expectations can feel like pressure. Trauma-informed sound healing begins with a different premise: Nothing is required of you.

If sound healing has ever made you feel restless, emotional, numb, irritated, or even resistant, nothing has gone wrong. Your body isn’t failing. Your nervous system isn’t broken. It may be doing exactly what it needs to do. Trauma-informed sound work begins with a different assumption than most wellness culture: healing does not require relaxation. Healing requires safety, consent, and honest presence—sometimes quiet, sometimes uncomfortable, sometimes wordless.