Carl Jung spoke of the wounded healer — the idea that those who have navigated their own wounds can, in turn, guide others through theirs. In my years as a psychotherapist, this archetype was not an abstract concept. It was the undercurrent of my work, the quiet knowing that my own healing journey shaped how I held space for others.
The Audio Take — a case study with new angles on the topic HERE.
I didn’t enter the profession already fully aware of my wounds. In my twenties, I sought counseling simply to “iron out a few kinks” in my life. Those early sessions were transformative enough to inspire me to become a therapist myself. I went on to complete my degrees, open a private practice, and work across a variety of clinical settings.
It wasn’t until a few years into my career, while sitting with my own clients, that deeply buried memories of childhood abuse began to surface. My healing was not linear. I moved through individual therapy, group work, and couples counseling. I made progress — and then plateaued. I sensed there was more work to do, even if I couldn’t yet name it.
Around the same time, my health shifted. I developed sarcoidosis, an environmentally triggered autoimmune disorder. After an exhausting stretch in the medical model, I made a decisive turn toward holistic health — not just as a personal lifestyle, but as a lens for my work. My focus moved from “what’s wrong” to “what’s right, and how can we make it more right?”
The Chakra System and Trauma
When I began integrating energy work into my practice, the chakra system became a powerful framework for understanding trauma’s imprint on the body. I often described it as the astral spine — seven energy centers from the base of the spine to the crown of the head. Balancing these centers could help survivors feel grounded, resilient, and better equipped to face what surfaced in their healing.
Here’s how I explained each chakra in relation to trauma recovery:
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Root (Security, Grounding)
Early trauma can destabilize this foundation. Survivors often need ongoing attention here — the energetic equivalent of tending to a delicate root system. -
Sacral (Creativity, Sexuality, Passion for Life)
Abuse can distort one’s relationship with touch, intimacy, and even creative expression. Balancing this chakra often helped clients reclaim a healthy, self-defined sexuality and rekindle their vitality. -
Solar Plexus (Personal Power, Self-Worth)
Many survivors learned early to give their power away. Rebalancing here supported confidence, healthy boundaries, and a settled, centered belly. -
Heart (Love, Grief, Connection)
Abuse often warps the meaning of love. A balanced heart chakra allows space for healthy love, discernment, and grief — and can bridge the physical lower chakras with the spiritual upper ones. -
Throat (Truth, Communication)
Survivors may either silence themselves or overshare without boundaries. Restoring balance helped clarify truth, voice, and timing. -
Third Eye (Intuition, Inner Vision)
Trauma can disrupt the inner compass. Strengthening this center rebuilt trust in one’s own perceptions and instincts. -
Crown (Spiritual Connection, Meaning)
Belief systems can fracture after abuse. This chakra supports a sense of connection to something larger — whether defined as higher power, higher self, or the flow of life itself.
How I Worked With Energy
When I saw clients, chakra balancing was a gentle but profound process. I drew from Reiki — a form of energy healing that channels life force energy — combined with my training as an aromatherapist.
For in-person sessions, I worked hands-off, scanning for imbalances, and pairing each chakra with an essential oil. Tree oils grounded the root; geranium opened the heart. Clients might place a drop over the chakra point or on the soles of their feet, reinforcing the intention with daily practice.
Often, I paired this with brief, focused writing prompts related to the chakra we were addressing. It allowed clients to process insights that surfaced energetically into language they could work with consciously.
I also offered this work at a distance, proving that healing presence is not bound by physical space.
Reflections on the Wounded Healer
Looking back, I see that my own wounds — personal trauma, chronic illness, and the long arc of self-discovery — shaped my ability to sit with another’s pain without flinching. The wounded healer does not lead from a place of perfection, but from lived empathy.
While I no longer see clients, the archetype remains alive in me. It informs my teaching, my mentoring, and my writing. And it continues to remind me: healing is never a one-way exchange. It is a shared, sacred journey.
And now I teach others about authenticity, essential oils, intuition and more.
