Photo: Pexels, Andrew Patrick

Little did I realize, as a survivor of trauma and loss, how much my lifelong capacity for wonder had been so vital to my recovery. I’d never recognized my ability to be amazed and wowed as a true strength, and no one I’d known had ever validated these qualities as a sign of strength, wisdom, or even maturity. If anything, being awestruck or wondrous was something akin to being gullible, naïve, or childlike. Yet profoundly healing encounters with awe and wonder are common experiences for survivors of trauma and loss. Indeed, a powerful moment of awe with a great blue heron saved my life decades ago.

Recently neuroscience has shown us the healing power of wonder, though previously underexplored and underappreciated. Now researchers echo what ecologist Rachel Carson believed was essential for human survival: “Those who contemplate the beauty of the earth find reserves of strength that will endure as long as life lasts.” In the same spirit, I’ve launched a storytelling project and a YouTube channel called Healing Through Wonder, dedicated to the resilience-building gifts of awe and wonder for those living with grief and trauma.

Healing Through Wonder explores the power of moments that take our breath away and open our minds. In a post-pandemic, cynical world where many of us have lost faith in humanity or lost time doomscrolling through social media, it’s heartening to know that neuroscience research supports our awe-inspiring experiences despite the pessimism around us. Studies published by the Greater Good Science Center and the American Psychological Association show how our sense of wonder helps heal loneliness, trauma, and grief by giving us meaning, purpose, and a wider, more open perspective. In the past few years, exciting bestselling books such as Dacher Keltner’s Awe: The New Science of Everyday Wonder and How It Can Transform Your Life have been released on the neuroscience of wonder with evidence that even one moment of awe can transform our lives.

Indeed, one moment of awe did truly change my life—or saved my life. My story centers around a profound encounter with a blue heron at the age of twenty-four.

In 1979, as a homeless survivor of domestic violence, still running from my former partner, and in suicidal despair, I was ready to end it all at a campground alone by a river. I had a full bottle of valium in my hands, and beside me, another bottle of cheap red wine to wash it down. Out of the wide, twilight sky a majestic heron circled overhead and landed remarkably close to me—about ten feet away. In the dim, rising glow of the moon, the heron’s piercing eyes stared into mine, and I froze in amazement, entranced, causing me to stop swallowing the pills. This moment of sheer awe saved my life, as I realized there was just too much beauty and magic in the world to give up.

Naturally, after such a spiritual awakening, I followed herons to their wetland sanctuaries for years. Wandering and watching them quietly in their providence, I marveled at their stillness standing in shallow waters, or their determination to build nests with their mates, their elegance dancing in pairs as courtship, fishing, preening, and flying. I learned lessons about dignity, balance, grace, patience, the art of timing, and much more.

Robyn Houston-Bean, Founder of the Sun Will Rise Foundation, Co-host of the Healing Through Wonder project.

After four decades of wondrous encounters with herons and studying the neuroscience of wonder, I’ve joined with a colleague, Robyn Houston-Bean, the founder of the Sun Will Rise Foundation, to co-host storytelling sessions for our Healing Through Wonder project. Robyn has also found profound healing in experiences of awe and wonder and tells her story of a surprising encounter with a dragonfly after the death of her son, Nick. She describes a moment that took her breath away as the dragonfly stayed with her at her son’s graveside as she grieved, resting on her arm, her hand, hovering around her, following her. In her amazement and attunement to the dragonfly, she welcomed a sense of connection with her son and a sense of oneness with everything around her, opening to a warm, reassuring sense of peace. She now believes, as strongly as I do, that people struggling with grief, trauma, or addiction can be encouraged to claim their sense of awe and wonder in their healing—in nature, as well as in music and the arts, in spiritual rituals, in adventures and quests to other lands, in marveling at human acts of courage and ingenuity.  

Through the Sun Will Rise Foundation, Robyn facilitates groups for those who are grieving the death of a loved one due to substance use and she has heard many healing stories of wonder from group participants.

Thanks to Robyn and other storytelling guests from The Sun Will Rise Foundation as well as storytellers from SADOD (Support After a Death by Overdose), our Healing Through Wonder channel includes firsthand accounts of wondrous encounters and uncanny synchronicities. Reflecting on these unexpected, life-changing moments, we examine the healing effects of what captivated and transformed us.

On YouTube: Robyn Houston-Bean, Val Walker, and storytelling guests Carol Bowers and Tanya Lord

Stories of wonder, awe, enchantment, and reverence that had been secretly tucked away for decades are generously shared on our Healing Through Wonder channel. Our stories show how our wellbeing thrives on our willingness to open ourselves to encounters of awe and wonder, no matter how brief or fleeting or odd. There’s a whole, wide, dazzling world to amaze us beyond the din our overthinking minds, ruminations, or nagging inner chatter. Our willingness to look up and be amazed can turn a bad day around, or give us pause in a good way, or even change our whole outlook on life.

As our project develops and as Robyn and I learn more about the healing power of awe and wonder, I’ll be blogging here about the exciting science of awe as well as sharing experiences that have sparked our recovery from trauma and loss.

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About the Author

Val Walker is a contributing blogger for Psychology Today and the author of 400 Friends and No One to Call, released in 2020 with Central Recovery Press. Her first book, The Art of Comforting (Penguin/Random House, 2010), won the Nautilus Book award and was recommended by the Boston Public Health Commission as a guide for families impacted by the Boston Marathon Bombing. Val received her MS in rehabilitation counseling from Virginia Commonwealth University and is a rehabilitation consultant, speaker, and educator. Her articles and Q&As have appeared in AARP, Caregiver Space, Babyboomer.com, Caregiver Solutions, Time, Good Housekeeping, Coping with Cancer, Boston Globe Magazine, Belief Net, Marie Claire, and Sweety High. Keep up with Val at www.ValWalkerAuthor.com

You can also learn more about the Healing Through Wonder project through their YouTube channel, The Sun Will Rise Foundation, and Support After a Death by Overdose (SADOD) project.

On March 3, 2024, we held our second annual event, “Reclaiming Our Mental Health Stories”, during which we shed light on the experiences of individuals navigating their mental health journeys, which are often stigmatized, dismissed, and underdiagnosed. Experience the power of storytelling as you listen to Marina, Nathalie, and John, three courageous storytellers who shared the challenges and insights they’ve encountered on their journeys with mental health.

On February 4 2023, we held our inaugural annual event, “Making the Invisible Visible”, during which we shed light on the experiences of individuals navigating “invisible” chronic illnesses which are poorly understood, challenging to diagnose, and often dismissed by the healthcare establishment. Experience the power of storytelling as you listen to Katy Morly and Lili Fox-Lim, two courageous storytellers, who shared the challenges and insights they’ve encountered on their journeys with chronic lyme disease and myaligic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS).

When I was 15 years old, I told my pediatrician that I ate very specific foods at very specific times of the day, and when my eating didn’t go exactly to plan, I made myself throw up. She nodded and then left the room. When she came back, she handed me some papers, the same way that my teachers handed out worksheets in class. Each paper was titled with a different word that I didn’t recognize.

“You have anorexia and bulimia,” she said.

I remembered how, in middle school, I bought one of those celebrity gossip magazines at the grocery store. The cover featured Demi Lovato, and it talked about how she used to starve herself all day, then eat everything in her cupboard at night, and then make herself throw it all up. I read the words “binging and purging.” I remember feeling so sad for her, but thinking it would never happen to me because things that happen to celebrities didn’t happen to normal people.

So I said to my pediatrician, “No I don’t, because I only do it sometimes.”

I left the doctor’s office with my new handouts and a lollipop for my troubles.

There was a time when what, when, and why I ate never crossed my mind. But when I was 12, I remember coming home from school with a new fact I’d learned.

“Did you know that when you eat bread, it all just breaks down into sugar in your stomach?” I said this to my mom, a gastroenterologist. She giggled, enviously, at my simplified outlook on the world.

These were the years when I begged my babysitter to take me to Cold Stone every day after lacrosse practice. She’d say, “Only if you eat the whole thing.” I would order cotton candy ice cream with fudge, caramel, and gobs of cookie dough. I scraped my cup clean every time, and then I’d make a toasted plain bagel with Nutella at home. When dinner was served shortly thereafter, I’d use my fork to scrape my grilled chicken and broccoli onto my dad’s plate. My stomach had no room left, stuffed with foods that I had learned all break down to sugar in the end.

My father is a facial plastic surgeon, an expert in making people more attractive. And my mother, the gastroenterologist, knows exactly what to eat to be “healthy.” But my parents never tried to fix my 12-year-old diet. When I gave my dinner to my dad each night, I’d call him my garbage disposal, and he’d return a gaze that said, Again? but his judgement ended there. I believe they were concerned about my food waste more than anything.

I sustained my Cold-Stone-and-Nutella-bagels diet until I grew breasts in eighth grade. Puberty is terrifying for adolescents. Adults avoid change like a sickness, scared of a new routine and way of being. But in puberty, adolescents have no choice. My shirts that used to drape off my body began to hug my chest, and training bras simply didn’t do the trick anymore. I bought bras that were a size too small, to hide them. The worst part was that I was navigating the change alone, as most of my friends still had boards for chests.

During puberty, I learned another fact: breasts are made mostly of fat. So, if I was growing breasts, it must have meant that I was getting fat. I told myself this as I entered high school. At 14 years old, I could look 18 with some makeup and a low-cut shirt. Instagram taught me to look and act older than my age, which meant to have breasts, but not too large, and to have a thin waist, but not too thin. After a beach vacation, I posted an edited picture of me in a bikini. Smooth the face, pinch the waist, and enhance the muscles. Fruit and spinach replaced bread and pasta. I convinced myself that I was lactose intolerant so that no one would ask me if I wanted ice cream or “cheese-on-that?”

My body caught the attention of a boy. He and I were in the same math class. We would FaceTime to do our math homework together, which turned into me doing his math homework for him. I liked him for his charm and the validation that he gave me: if I didn’t like my body, at least a boy did. And so, the more attention he gave my body, the more I paid attention to my body, and then he liked my body more, so I liked him more.

At the same time, I was flying all over the country for lacrosse camps and tournaments. I played anywhere between 2-8 hours of lacrosse each day. I complained, but I secretly loved how much I got to exercise. I used it as an excuse to eat pasta and bread again. I fueled and refueled my body based off how many hours I exercised.

But, lacrosse went on pause in August, so I stopped eating. In 14 days, I lost 15 pounds. One day, I woke up and decided to be lactose intolerant again. I allowed myself to eat celery sticks, hummus, salad, and one egg at a time. I took daily pictures of my waist to document my progress. My waist was never quite thin enough, though; it wouldn’t be until I disappeared completely.

During this time, my family visited Jackson Hole, Wyoming. While hiking the Tetons, I bought a sandwich with mayonnaise so that it would spoil in the sun, and I would have nothing to eat. I made my family turn around because I was nearly passing out hiking. Feeling guilty about my lack of exercise, I ran four miles when we got back to the hotel.

Later that night, my mom came into my hotel room. She lowered herself slowly onto my bed, as if the bed was as delicate as the subject matter at hand.

“Dad and I think you look too thin,” she said.

“I’m just sick of eating pasta and carbs all the time,” I lied. “And I’m not playing lacrosse, so I’m just not as hungry and I just don’t look as strong.”

I don’t remember the rest of our conversation because the only thing that mattered was that someone called me “thin.”

There are a few memories from August 2016 that I will never forget. One night, my mom found me with my head in the toilet. We had pizza for dinner, and I was trying to get rid of it. It was the first substantial meal I had eaten in two weeks, and when we locked eyes, our eyes were glossy with understanding.

The next morning, my mom asked her friend, an athletic trainer, to come talk to me. I didn’t know the word at 15 years old, but this was an intervention. I’m sure he told me all about what, when, why I need to eat, but everything went in one ear and out the other. I ate a piece of cold pizza in front of them to show them I understood.

When they made me start eating again, I started running four miles each day. My foot began hurting, but I didn’t stop. I was seeing the boy from my math class in a few weeks, and I couldn’t lose all the progress I had made.

At the end of August, a group of our friends met up at the beach. I was so excited for the boy to see the progress I had made on my body.

That night, he had sex with me when I said I didn’t want to have sex with him.

“Please,” he whined.

“Okay,” I complied.

It hurt and I felt suffocated. I felt like a grown woman and a total whore, and I thought that they may be one in the same.

At 15 years old, I struggled to comprehend what had happened to me. I spoke few words for a week. I wouldn’t let anyone get within an arm’s length. Each night, I’d jolt awake, suffocating, hysterical, throwing pillows, punching air, pulling my hair. I’d been cracked in two.

I first spoke about the beach incident with my therapist, then my mom. It seemed like everyone knew something I didn’t, like I had spinach in my teeth and no one would tell me.

I kept running. He didn’t love me, which made me want to eat everything, which meant I had to keep running. I ran so much that I broke my foot, and when my foot healed, I made new eating rules. I wasn’t allowed to eat carbs after 6PM, unless it was the night before a lacrosse game.

The rest of high school came and went like the ocean’s tide. I was pummeled at times, pulled into a riptide, overthinking every meal. These times often ended in my eating everything else before I ate what I wanted in the first place. But other times, the water was calm. Eating felt simple; I ate what I wanted until I wanted to stop.

During my senior year, I strung along enough calm eating days to convince myself that I had overcome my eating disorders. I had been accepted to Brown where I would play college lacrosse, so food became “fuel” for my sport. I wrote my college essay about conquering anorexia and bulimia, and then I gave a speech about it to my entire school. I was the girl who handled adversity, who lived to tell the tale.

And then, I relapsed. When the pandemic hit during my first year of college, I was pulled right back into that riptide, trying to equalize my calories to my exercise. That year, I made myself throw up after binging at Christmas dinner. I peered at myself in the mirror afterwards. Through a blurry gaze, I asked myself, Who are you?

I am an anorexic and bulimic girl in recovery. I’ve realized that you don’t get over these diseases like the annual flu. They’re dormant at times, and they resurface at inconvenient times. Playing college lacrosse helps because anorexia isn’t an option: I have to eat to have energy. But—sometimes—my body looks bulkier here, and squishier there, and I restrict my eating accordingly.

The looming question lately is What happens once lacrosse is over? 14 years of using my body to serve a sport all comes to an end this May. I’m entering uncharted territory. Perhaps I’ll become the lost 15-year-old again with self-inflicted lactose intolerance. Perhaps I’ll revert even younger, back to my blissfully ignorant Cold-Stone-and-Nutella-bagels diet. Or perhaps, I’ll stay in this space where I look in the mirror and finally say, “Okay.”

About the Author

Nathalie is currently a senior at Brown University. She is majoring in English Nonfiction Writing and plays for the Brown Women’s Lacrosse team. Nathalie has a history with anorexia and bulimia, beginning in high school, and she continues to navigate challenges with disordered eating as a college athlete.

As I sat on the kitchen floor holding the bottle of pills, my cat Sierra came over for some attention. I set the bottle down and held her, crying. A few days later, still feeling emotionally vulnerable, I determined the exact day I would end my life. I was in 6th grade.

I was adopted from Guatemala at 8 months old and have always felt a sense of abandonment and struggled to recognize my self-worth. My single mother worked hard at her job and found good care for me when she had to work. I loved my daycare, but every day when my mom dropped me off, I worried that she wouldn’t come back. When I got older and was allowed to stay home alone after school, I felt overwhelmed with anxiety and anger if my mom didn’t answer her phone right away when I called. By the time I reached her, I would scream at her, throw things, or stab the walls with scissors. Once, I picked up a small (but not light!) cat perch and threw it against the wall. The hole remains today, a reminder of angrier times and also as a cause for occasional humor as we see our solution to the damage - placing a wall sticker that says “Peace” to cover the spot.

I was always aware that I was different from my mother and my many relatives. They were white while I was Latina. There were very few Hispanic children in my elementary school, and I was sometimes singled out with cruel comments. “Why does your skin look like dirt?” These comments hurt, and while my mom was angry on my behalf, I sensed that she couldn’t really understand how these comments made me feel.

Then I was diagnosed with learning disabilities. Now, in addition to feeling ugly, I felt stupid.  I dreaded the days when I went to the learning center, embarrassed by being pulled out of class. I hated feeling different and struggled to manage my anger.

You might think I had a tough home life, but that was not the case. I have a loving mother and extended family, a nice house, attended good schools and had many friends. My grandparents were very important to me, especially my Papa. We always had a unique connection. He made me feel loved unconditionally. One of my favorite memories of my Papa was when we were visiting my grandparents in Florida when I was a little girl. I was in the pool, and wanted someone to come in with me, so Papa dove in. He was a chubby man, and the dive created huge waves. I thought it was so funny! He called me “Princess” and made me feel like family and he had total confidence in me. He would tell my mother that adopting me was the best thing that she ever did. 

My Papa’s death when I was in fourth grade was devastating and left me feeling sad and empty. Sometimes, I wanted to be with him in heaven, to end the emotional turmoil in my head. 

By sixth grade, life felt so hopeless that I decided the only solution was suicide.

One of my classmates told my guidance counselor that she was worried about me and I admitted that I had a plan to end my life. My mom took me to the emergency room at Children’s Hospital. It was a long afternoon and evening. I answered questions from nurses about what had happened, whether I used drugs or drank alcohol, whether I felt safe at home. I answered the same questions for a doctor who was checking my physical symptoms. I waited and waited to provide them with a urine sample (many cups of apple juice later I was finally ready, but needed my mom to hold the cup for me - we still laugh about me peeing all over her hand). Then I waited some more for a psychiatrist to come talk with me. I talked a bit about how I was feeling, about my grief over my Papa’s death, about how I felt like I didn’t quite belong anywhere, but after many hours, the psychiatrist and my mom decided I was safe to go home.

I wasn’t. A week later, I told my therapist I was hearing voices in my head telling me to end my life, and I ended up back in the emergency room. This time, I was more honest about my feelings and the depth of my hopelessness. I was admitted to an inpatient, locked psych unit. 

I spent the first night on a mattress on the floor, trying to sleep without much success. The next day, my mom came to visit. We spent several hours in a run-down visiting room surrounded by toys and books for younger kids. I cried and begged to go home. We talked about why it was best for me to stay until I could feel safe, and I eventually calmed down. We laughed about silly things, and I was allowed to use my phone so I could text a couple of my friends. 

I remember feeling sad and homesick. I remember feeling bored, I remember resenting some of the restrictions I thought were stupid (all of the strings had to be removed from my hoodies – because apparently strings are dangerous). I also remember the good things. I knew that I was safe, that I could not harm myself. My mother was able to visit every day. 

I was discharged after a week. I was not ready to just jump back into classes and homework and friendships. One night, I again told my mother that I did not see any reason to stay alive. There just seemed like no way that I would ever feel anything but miserable. It wasn’t until my mother said, “If you end your life, I would have to end mine too so that we could be together,” that I started to realize that my life had value. I had felt like I was the only one experiencing intense pain, but I had been blind to my mother’s experience of watching me deteriorate in front of her eyes.

My suicidal impulses faded but I still struggled. I hated school and by halfway through 8th grade I had missed almost 50 days and was planning to drop out. There were efforts to connect me with different counselors at school, to allow me to eat lunch with a staff member rather than in the cafeteria, to let my therapist meet with me at school, but none of this made enough of a difference.

The district finally agreed to let me transfer to a therapeutic school, the Walker Beacon School. As soon as I walked into my new 8th grade class of four students, I knew this would be a much better place for me. The entire staff was trained to help. I was permitted to leave class any time I was overwhelmed and needed a break. One of the counselors would go for a walk with me or sit and let me vent until I was calm enough to go back to class. I met with my clinician several times a week and I knew she had my back (even after I threw a glass jar at her in a fit of anger). My new friends were not put off by my bursts of anger because they were also learning to regulate their emotions. Things were still difficult, but I felt that everyone around me was there to help rather than judge.

Even more important in changing the direction of my life was meeting my new therapist, Jamie. I remember sitting in the waiting room when this beautiful Black woman walked in, dressed in comfortable, colorful clothing. She walked right up, smiled, and shook my hand. I felt her warmth and her humor, and I suspected she would not be disturbed if a few swear words came out of my mouth. As we followed Jamie up a set of stairs I turned back to my mom and gave her thumbs up. This one was going to work out. 

With Jamie, there was no judgment, just understanding. I was finally allowed to express my true feelings - the deeply felt fear of abandonment, my dark moods, my suicidal thoughts and self-destructive behavior, my feelings of inadequacy due to my learning disabilities. Jamie helped me realize that I needed to stop running away from my problems and instead talk about them. She helped me realize there was a brighter future for me, one that I could manage on my own using my inner strength. It was so helpful to have someone (besides my mother, because mothers always say those kinds of things) tell me that I was smart and strong and capable. I learned to see those things in myself. This therapist saved my life. 

With time, I found increased self-acceptance. Instead of wishing I looked like my White friends with their pale skin and straight hair, I began to love being Latina. I stopped spending hours straightening my hair and let my natural curls show. I also learned to seek out friends who could accept me for me, moodiness and all. I started to understand that my birth mother’s decision to place me for adoption may have been a gesture of love, not abandonment.

Feeling stronger and more confident about myself made me more aware of times when friends and classmates were struggling. I began sharing successful strategies I had learned in therapy to help them. I became an unofficial peer mentor and realized I liked helping other students. 

During high school I got a job as a teacher’s assistant in an after-school program working with six- and seven-year-olds, many with behavioral challenges. One of my favorite students was a second-grade boy who had frequent outbursts. Sometimes we just sat and talked. I explained why his behavior was not acceptable and gave him time to calm down before we talked about how to get him back into the group play. 

As a result of the obstacles I have overcome and the experiences that shaped me, I now know I am a strong, determined, compassionate person who has the drive to pursue a career helping others. I am currently attending college to earn a degree in social work so I can help behaviorally challenged adolescents struggling with emotional setbacks.

I try to tell my own story with the hope that doing so can change the perception of mental illness. I want people to understand that a person who suffers from depression or anxiety or who struggles to regulate their emotions is still a person who might be funny, smart, compassionate, accomplished. That person can be an effective employee, a good friend, a parent, a teacher - with the right supports people can achieve despite, or even because of, their mental health issues. 

Life continues to present challenges and there are times of the year when I struggle with depression. March is especially hard because that is when Papa died. But I have learned to fight my way through the difficult times, knowing that those days will pass. Sharing my story with you today helps.  So, thank you.

About The Author:

Marina has struggled with depression, anxiety, and self-harming behavior since childhood. Adopted from Guatemala and bullied at school, she often felt like she didn't belong. With the support of her mother and her mental health providers, she has faced her challenges head-on. She is currently a junior social work major at Simmons College. She is a dedicated mental health advocate, committed to sharing her own story to decrease the dangerous stigma associated with mental health conditions. She hopes to work with children and adolescents after graduation.