“It’s not a marathon, it’s a relay.” A reflection on attending a trauma conference in this 2024 world.

I've attempted to write this post a few times now, but each draft feels clunky, uncomfortable. Yet, what's even more uncomfortable is the thought of not writing it at all. So, I invite you to join me in this discomfort as I navigate my experience at the Oxford Trauma and Mental Health Conference, and the reflections that have followed.

I went to Oxford with two intentions.

First, to absorb as much wisdom as possible from some of the most influential voices in trauma and mental health, and then gradually weave that knowledge into my work with Wagtail Institute—helping us become more trauma-informed and well, together.

Second, to embrace any personal insights that might deepen my own healing journey, adding to my evolving practices and growth.

Both intentions were met. I carefully chose sessions from leaders I admire, participated in embodiment practices, and showed up fully for the experience. I could easily craft a polished reflection on that alone.

But what else did I find?

Perhaps, more questions than answers. And somehow, that feels important, too.

What does it mean to attend a trauma conference when the world is in its current state?

What does it mean to reflect on our work, our clients, our tiny corners of this planet, while the world as a whole feels so unsafe for so many?

What does it mean to attend a trauma conference knowing the global majority don’t have access to the safety and opportunities I do?

It means something—though I’m still uncovering exactly what.

I’ve been struggling.

Sometimes, the struggle feels loud.

But more often, it’s quiet.

I’m struggling with the fact that friends I consider family, and a place I’ve called home, are enduring genocide. I have wonderful friends and loved ones who hold space when I try to put words to this pain. But mostly, it’s something I can’t articulate. So I don’t.

In Oxford, I found others carrying this same unspoken weight. And maybe, in that space, words weren’t necessary. There was a shared understanding, a collective holding of that struggle.

But now, words feel necessary. And as I put pen to paper, I already sense something more hopeful emerging.

Four themes surfaced during the conference—pain, storytelling, safety, and collective healing. These themes have lingered with me, offering a framework to reflect on our work, our clients, and our homes. But they also raise questions about what they mean for all of us—or at least for me—given the current state of the world.

So yes, I’ve been struggling. I’ve been questioning. Yet, in all of this, I know that the work we’re doing is more important than ever.

Pain

"Don’t be afraid of pain—your own or others’. You’ve probably felt pain today, and I’m not sorry for that, because I’m not afraid of it."

Gabor Maté closed his session with this message. Pain, he said, is a messenger. It’s inevitable. It’s not something to avoid or fear. It’s when we turn away from pain, refusing to feel or acknowledge it, that we become unwell—physically, emotionally, psychologically, spiritually.

The point wasn’t to glorify pain or to suggest we seek it out, but rather to recognize its place in our lives. To listen to it. To work with it. What matters is how we respond when pain inevitably shows up.

As a trauma-informed consultant, and someone who’s spent over a decade supporting traumatized young people, I’ve often focused on the pain of others—on the pain that runs deep in systems. But, if I’m honest, I’ve been guilty of downplaying my own pain.

Even now, I find myself questioning my right to feel pain about Palestine.

Gabor Maté’s words were exactly what I needed to hear.

To deepen my understanding, I also turned to this podcast with Dr Rola Hallam. I found her at the conference and was drawn to hear more of her story. On that podcast, she said something that resonated deeply:

“It’s not a marathon, it’s a relay.”

She was referring to trauma work—not as the endless, exhausting marathon we’re often told it is, but as a relay. I carry the baton for a while, and then I pass it to someone else. I rest. I take care of myself. Maybe I even have some fun. And when I’m ready, I’ll pick up the baton again.

Wow.

What if we applied this perspective in our trauma-affected spaces? What if we recognised that the work is painful and heavy—and that for it to be sustainable, we need both a team to pass the baton to and a culture that understands and respects rest?

So, I’m learning not to be afraid of pain—my pain, your pain, our collective pain. The pain of the work.

Maybe if we were more in touch with pain at a societal level, we wouldn’t allow traumatized mothers to lose their children to child protection systems.

We wouldn’t isolate those who don’t conform to society’s expectations.

We wouldn’t put children in prisons.

We wouldn’t turn away from the screams coming from Gaza.

And maybe, just maybe, we wouldn’t allow tomorrow’s atrocities to take place. Instead, we’d stand together, in the shared understanding of our collective pain.

Storytelling

Storytelling was a central theme at the Oxford conference. Many of the academics I’ve followed for years opened up with more vulnerability, sharing insights into who they are, how they came to this work, and how their childhoods and personal healing journeys shaped them.

Gabor Maté stands out as a respected figure because he shares his story—his trauma, his mistakes, and the healing modalities that have worked for him. Others are now following his lead.

Dan Siegel, for example, joked about finally getting permission from his 95-year-old mother to publicly share his childhood stories—not because they’d found healing together, but because most of her friends had passed, so there was no one left to judge her.

In nearly every session I attended, the presenter began or ended with a personal story. They normalized the complexity of families, the brokenness of systems, and the importance of awareness and healing.

I’ve always been drawn to stories—maybe because I love words. I connect with human stories, and I enjoy sharing them, too.

But I haven’t always been good at listening to my own embodied story. I’ve felt safer in the intellectual realm—listening, writing, thinking. Yet, my body has its own stories to tell—some short, some incredibly long.

Even when I intellectualise, I know that much of what I process is informed by what the body holds. Now, I’m committing to a more holistic approach to healing. The discomfort and vulnerability are part of the process.

One standout embodiment session was led by Bea Palya, a Hungarian singer. She guided us in exploring power and authenticity through our voices—encouraging us to sing, speak, project, and dig up the things we aren’t saying. In that session, I realised my intention to unearth my own stories and to create space for them.

Stories have the power to evoke emotion and humanize the dehumanized. There’s a reason we all know (and maybe feel care) for Anne Frank. We read her diary and felt like we knew her. Holocaust survivors share their stories so we can feel their experiences in a personal, tangible way.

We can talk about six million people being killed, but once numbers become too large, they lose meaning. What’s the difference between six million and six million and one? Numbers don’t stir empathy.

Right now, thousands of Palestinians and Lebanese people have been killed. Thousands. But that number could feel distant to you. If you heard the story of just one of those lives—read their journal, knew their name—you’d feel it differently.

So, as I continue working through my own stories, I’m committing to amplifying the stories that often go unheard, too.

Safety

What would a reflection from Wagtail Institute be without focusing on safety?

Safety is at the core of everything I do. It shapes how I meet new clients, host podcast guests, facilitate groups, and speak with young people. I even think about it when positioning furniture in our work. It’s the message I hope everyone who interacts with Wagtail Institute takes away—that creating safety for others is essential.

I also work with practitioners to recognise their own feelings of safety—or lack thereof. Together, we explore regulation strategies that support internal safety because when we feel unsafe, our survival instincts kick in—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn. And sometimes, these responses activate when we don’t need or want them to. Healing our nervous systems is part of this process.

Unsurprisingly, safety was a significant theme in Oxford, too.

Michael Niconchuk raised a powerful point. In trauma-informed spaces, we often take safety for granted. We focus on healing the nervous system and creating internal safety using frameworks like polyvagal theory—but what if the external world remains unsafe? We talk about "post" traumatic events, but for many, the trauma is still ongoing.

Michael introduced a multi-dimensional construct of safety that includes: body, relational, cultural/spiritual, land/earth, and material safety.

His work centres on refugees and those in conflict zones, but his words made me think of children and young people in child protection systems. So many of them aren’t in a "post" situation at all. They may be removed from an abusive environment but placed with strangers or in group homes alongside other traumatized youth. They’ve often been uprooted from familiar land, culture, and family, thrust into uncertainty—facing family courts, sometimes criminal courts, and an unclear future.

“Post” trauma, I’ve realized, is a luxury. One we can’t always assume is available.

I learned that there are 120 million refugees globally (likely increasing as I write this). The average length of time someone remains displaced is 26 years.

In Australia, 50,000 children and young people live in out-of-home care. 125,000 adults are currently experiencing homelessness.

Does this mean these individuals can’t heal? Of course not. But it does mean we need to be more nuanced in our conversations around safety. Safety is not a given, and for many, it’s far from the reality.

Should we feel guilty for having the luxury to find our own safety? No. Quite the opposite. We must recognise that if so many are still using their survival systems, we are not in a position to help if we’re stuck in ours. A dysregulated adult can never help regulate another.

Collective Healing and concluding thoughts

Dan Siegel had a strong message threading through each of his sessions at the conference, and this was the focus on MWE (me + we). I’ve just ordered his book, IntraConnected, to dive further into this notion.

The idea is that healing isn’t just about us as individuals but how we are connected to one another, and how the ‘me’ cannot truly be whole without the ‘we.’ In trauma work, it’s easy to get lost in the personal stories, the deep inner healing, and the individual journey. But Siegel's idea of MWE is a reminder that we are fundamentally interconnected, and so our healing—our collective healing—must reflect that. It's not just personal wellness or survival that matters but how we hold space for each other, how we listen, how we heal as communities.

Collective healing is relational. It’s about allowing space for our individual pain while recognizing the shared grief, joy, and humanity that connects us all. It's knowing that we need each other—not just as bystanders or supporters, but as active participants in a shared process of becoming. This doesn’t erase the need for personal work, but it shifts the focus towards the ripple effects of healing together, in community.

As we face global crises, conflicts, and systems that often fail those in need, the question isn’t just, "How do I heal?" but also, "How do we heal together?" How do we, as practitioners, parents, colleagues, neighbors, contribute to a collective sense of safety, of hope, and of shared responsibility for each other’s wellbeing?

In concluding my reflections on this conference, I return to those themes that continue to sit with me: pain, storytelling, safety, and collective healing. These are not separate ideas; they are woven together, deeply intertwined.

And so, as I write this and process these reflections in a world that feels increasingly fractured, I hold onto the belief that our individual and collective healing can—and must—coexist. Pain and safety, storytelling and silence, solitude and connection.

We need each other in this work, not just to survive, but to truly heal. Together.