How I Use Music to Reclaim My Body After Trauma
For a long time, my body felt like evidence. It carried memories I did not choose, reactions I could not always explain, and a constant sense that I was being watched from the inside. Even ordinary things—getting dressed, hearing footsteps behind me, sitting close to someone on public transport—could make my muscles brace before my mind had caught up.
Music gave me a way to return to myself without demanding a neat explanation. A bassline could remind me that my chest was still capable of expanding. A familiar chorus could help me notice my hands, my feet and the chair beneath me. This was not a magical cure, and it did not erase what happened. It offered a language for safety when spoken language felt too exposed.
My relationship with sound has changed over time. I still have songs I avoid, playlists I have rebuilt and days when silence is the kindest option. Reclaiming my body through music means listening with choice, moving with permission and allowing pleasure to exist alongside grief.
Starting with choice
Trauma can make choice feel theoretical. The body may react as though every situation is already decided, particularly when a sound, smell or lyric brings back an old threat. Choosing what plays next is small, but it is still a real decision. I can pause a song, skip a track, lower the volume or turn everything off without having to justify myself.
I began with music that had no emotional history attached to it. Instrumental tracks, gentle electronic sounds and songs in languages I did not understand gave me space to listen without being pulled into a specific memory. Later, I added music that made me feel capable: loud pop, messy punk and Australian artists whose songs I had heard through Triple J or community radio.
This approach also helped me separate preference from obligation. I do not have to finish a song because it is critically acclaimed, connected to an important period of my life or recommended by someone I love. My nervous system gets a vote. That vote matters.
Making a playlist that feels safe
I treat a restorative playlist like a room I have designed carefully. The opening songs are predictable and steady. I avoid abrupt changes in volume and lyrics that describe violence when I am already unsettled. A few tracks make me feel grounded, a few make me laugh, and at least one lets me cry without turning the whole experience into a collapse.
I also keep a “no thanks” list. Some songs are beautiful but belong to a version of my life I am not ready to revisit. Others carry the atmosphere of a particular person or place. Removing them is not dramatic. It is similar to taking a sharp object out of a crowded drawer: practical, temporary and protective.
The playlist changes with the seasons of recovery. On a hot afternoon in Brisbane, I might need bright music and an open window; during a grey Melbourne morning, I might choose a slower album and a warm drink. My coffee-fuelled mornings have become a gentle setting for checking in before I press play: what do I need today, and what might be too much?
Letting rhythm bring me back
After trauma, I sometimes lived from the neck up. I could analyse a feeling while remaining completely disconnected from the body experiencing it. Rhythm offered a route back that did not rely on perfect insight. I noticed the pulse in a song, then the pulse in my wrist, then the contact between my feet and the floor.
I started with almost invisible movement. Tapping two fingers against my thigh, rolling my shoulders or swaying while brushing my teeth was enough. There was no mirror, choreography or expectation that I should look confident. The point was sensation, not performance.
Some days, music makes movement possible; other days, it makes stillness feel safer. Both count. Reclaiming physical autonomy is not measured by how expressively I dance or how quickly I become comfortable. It is measured by whether I can make a choice and stay present for the choice.
Moving without performing
I grew up surrounded by messages about how bodies should look when they move. Girls and women are often taught to be attractive but not attention-seeking, sensual but not “asking for it”, polished but not too self-conscious. Those rules become especially cruel after sexual trauma, when being seen can feel dangerous and being invisible can feel like the only protection.
Music lets me challenge those rules privately. I can dance badly in old pyjamas, stretch in the kitchen or sing loudly while driving on a regional highway. I do not need to make my body pleasing, productive or available. It can be awkward, tired, strong, soft, disabled, recovering and still worthy of care.
At a live gig, the experience is more complicated. Crowded venues, dark rooms and strangers moving close can activate my fight-or-flight response. I now plan exits, attend with people I trust and choose a place near the edge rather than treating the front row as a test of bravery. In Sydney or Melbourne, where gigs can involve packed trains and long queues, getting home safely is part of enjoying the music.
When a song becomes a trigger
Music can support healing, but it can also open a door too quickly. A lyric about coercion, a particular drum pattern or the sound of a voice may send me into a flashback before I recognise what is happening. I have learned that exposure is not automatically progress. Forcing myself to listen can recreate the feeling of having no control.
When I am triggered, I turn the song off and name what is around me. I might say, quietly, “I am in my bedroom; it is 2025; the experience is over.” Then I look for ordinary details: the kettle clicking, traffic outside, the texture of a blanket. If I need more support, I contact someone I trust or use services such as 1800RESPECT or Lifeline on 13 11 14.
I also keep the volume moderate when I am vulnerable. Headphones can create a private refuge, but they can make it harder to notice what is happening around me. On public transport in Australia, I prefer one earbud or noise-cancelling headphones without music playing, especially at night. Safety and sensory comfort have to coexist.
Finding pleasure without forcing it
Recovery culture can make every activity sound like homework. Journalling, breathing exercises and mindful movement can be valuable, but I do not want music to become another task I fail. Sometimes I listen because a song is fun. That is enough. Pleasure does not have to prove that I am healed.
The first time I sang along freely after the trauma, I was surprised by how ordinary and enormous it felt. I was washing dishes in a share house, probably annoying my neighbours, when my voice became louder than my self-monitoring. There was no revelation. There was simply a moment when sound came out of me without asking permission from fear.
That kind of joy can feel politically meaningful. A body shaped by violence is still a body capable of delight, and delight is not betrayal. I can be angry about what happened, aware of the systems that allow harm and delighted by a ridiculous pop hook in the same afternoon.
Keeping music connected to support
Music helps me regulate, but it is not a replacement for trauma-informed therapy, medical care or trusted community. I am wary of advice that presents a playlist as a universal answer. People respond differently to sound, and some survivors experience music as overwhelming. The goal is not to copy my routine; it is to notice what increases choice and what reduces it.
I keep notes about songs that help me settle, songs that energise me and songs that need a warning label. This gives me information without turning recovery into a scorecard. I also share music with friends who understand that “Can we change this?” is a complete sentence.
Healing remains uneven. There are mornings when I feel at home in my skin and evenings when my body seems like a locked house. My reflections on healing isn’t linear remind me that a difficult day does not cancel the work that came before it. It is simply a difficult day.
Music has helped me reclaim my body because it returns authority to the present moment. I decide what enters my ears, how close I stand to the speakers, whether I move and when the song ends. Those decisions may look small from the outside, but they have become part of my recovery.
I am still learning what makes me feel safe, alive and recognisably myself. My random facts include the harmless details that make a person feel real: favourite songs, odd habits, comfort rituals and changing obsessions. Trauma is part of my story, but it is not the only sound in it.
The next time I make a playlist, I will begin with one song that feels safe, sit with both feet on the floor and choose what plays after it.
