You’ve been there. The funeral where tears wouldn’t come. The breakup that felt like nothing.
The moment someone asked, “Are you okay?” and you realised you genuinely couldn’t feel anything at all.
Maybe you wondered what was wrong with you. Here’s the thing: Nothing was wrong with you. What you experienced wasn’t a malfunction. It was a feat of engineering.
The Gazelle Problem
In the 1970s, a young biophysicist named Peter Levine noticed something puzzling. Animals in the wild face life-threatening danger constantly—chased by predators, narrowly escaping death—yet they don’t develop PTSD. Gazelles don’t have flashbacks. Zebras don’t go numb.
What Levine observed was this: after a close call, prey animals do something odd. They tremble. They shake, sometimes violently, for several minutes. Then they stand up, shake once more, and return to grazing as though nothing happened.
Humans rarely do this. When the accident ends, when the assault is over, when we escape the fire, we “hold it together.” We say “I’m fine.” We answer questions. We act normally.
And that, Levine concluded, is precisely the problem.
The Sound Engineer in Your Head
When experience overwhelms what the nervous system can handle, the brain makes a rapid calculation. It becomes, in effect, a sound engineer in a crisis—frantically pulling down faders on the mixing board. Grief? Muted. Fear? Silenced. The memory itself? Fragmented into disconnected pieces.
This is not a bug. This is a feature.
The woman who felt nothing while escaping a burning building wasn’t broken. Her nervous system made a decision: feeling would slow her down. The soldier who describes combat with the emotional register of a grocery list isn’t defective. His psyche learned that connecting words to feelings was too dangerous.
The numbness kept you alive. It got you through. But here’s what’s interesting: the system that saved you doesn’t know the emergency is over. It’s still pulling down faders. Still muting channels. Still waiting for the signal that it’s safe.
The Keyboard
I’ve come to think of this as a stuck keyboard problem—a framework I explore in The Healing Trauma Workbook. The idea behind the keyboard metaphor is pretty simple. Imagine your inner experience as a piano, with each key representing a channel of being: sensation, imagery, emotion, behaviour, meaning. In ordinary life, you play all of them. You sense the world (sensation). You see images within it (imagery). You have emotions and feelings (emotion). You take actions (behavior). And you’re able to ascribe meaning to the world (meaning). All of this flows together to create a coherent whole.
Trauma mutes certain keys. Parts of us can get stuck in the on or off position.
I once worked with a man*—a contractor in his mid-fifties, built like someone who’d spent decades lifting things—who hadn’t cried in 30 years. Not at his father’s funeral. Not at his divorce. Not when his daughter was born. He wasn’t cold; people who knew him described him as warm, generous, and funny. But somewhere along the way, the grief key had gotten stuck in the off position. A protection installed in childhood that had forgotten how to release.
Sometimes it’s anger that goes silent. Sometimes joy. Sometimes the body itself—that strange experience of feeling like you’re watching your own life from behind glass.
And sometimes trauma doesn’t mute keys at all. Sometimes it jams them all up on full blast: the flashback that won’t stop, the rage that flares at nothing, the vigilance that scans every room.
Titration
Here’s what doesn’t work: forcing the key to play. The nervous system muted it for good reason. As Bessel van der Kolk writes in The Body Keeps the Score, trauma isn’t stored as narrative. It’s stored in the body. You can’t talk your way out of something that was never stored in words.
What does work is earning the system’s trust. Clinicians call this titration—introducing small, manageable doses of previously overwhelming experience. A moment of grief, then back to safety. A flicker of anger, then grounding. It’s less like breaking through a wall and more like thawing frozen fingers: slowly, gently, letting circulation return at its own pace.
The contractor? It took eight months. One Thursday afternoon, in my office, talking about nothing in particular—his truck, a job site, the weather—his eyes welled up. He looked startled, almost confused. “I don’t know where that came from,” he said.
I did. A key had unstuck.
The Full Keyboard
When this happens—and it does happen—something remarkable emerges. People don’t just feel better. They feel more. The grief they’d avoided, yes. But also the pleasure they’d forgotten. Joy that had gone missing. The full range of what a human being is capable of experiencing.
Your keyboard was muted for good reason. With patience, every silenced note can find its voice again.
You were never broken. You were surviving.
