I recently watched a video of a traumatized cat slowly learning to trust again. The caregiver was patient and methodical: never rushing, never demanding. Day after day, they created a safe environment. It took months before the cat was willing to leave its cage, nearly a year before it felt comfortable enough to curl up on their lap.
It was beautiful to watch.
And it made me think: we already know how to do trauma care. We know how to wait, how to be gentle, how to create safety over time. We do it instinctively with animals. Yet when it comes to people, that same patience, grace, and understanding often disappears.
What We Already Know (Through Animals)
When we care for a traumatized animal, we don’t expect immediate results. We don’t shame them for trembling, hiding, or lashing out. We recognize those responses as survival. We celebrate the small victories — “he finally took food from my hand,” “she finally let me pet her.”
We know that trauma lives in the body. We know that trust must be rebuilt slowly. And we accept that healing takes the time it takes.
The Disconnect With Humans
But with people, we often lose this compassion.
When trauma shows up in humans, we label the responses as dysfunction. We call people paranoid, delusional, or uncooperative. We pressure them to “calm down” or “move on.”
The truth is: trauma responses are red flags, but not in the way they’re treated. They aren’t proof of failure. They’re signals. Markers of where the wound still lives. Indicators that more care is needed, not less.
And yet, many patients are abandoned when healing doesn’t fit the expected timeline. Insurance runs out. A clinician doesn’t know what to do. A doctor grows impatient. Instead of admitting uncertainty and helping connect a patient to the right care, too many walk away.
This happens more than we admit. It has happened to me. And it is deeply re-traumatizing. For someone already carrying the imprint of abandonment, being left again — this time by professionals — reinforces the belief: I am too much. I am beyond help.
The Science We Ignore
We know that complex trauma can reshape the brain. We know it functions like brain injury. We know the nervous system doesn’t “reset” just because danger is technically over.
You can’t live for years at 95% vigilance and then flip a switch to relaxation. Logic doesn’t override a body trained for survival.
Humans are animals, too. Our nervous systems operate on the same principles as the dogs, cats, and horses we treat with such patience. But we often refuse to give each other the same grace.
The Cost of Withholding Grace
When trauma survivors are dismissed, pressured, or abandoned, the consequences ripple outward. More substance use. More domestic violence. More suicide. Greater dependence on medication.
Not because people are “too broken,” but because they were denied the steady, thoughtful care their nervous systems needed to relearn safety.
A Better Way Forward
The people who patiently rehabilitate animals aren’t coddling them. They are consistent. Thoughtful. Present. They know healing is not instant, and they honor the process.
We could do the same for humans. Every trauma response could be treated as a signpost — an invitation to lean in, not a reason to pull away. Every red flag could mean: “Here is where care is needed most.”
We already know how to do this. The question is whether we’ll choose to extend the same grace to each other.
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