By Jennifer Stanley
•
December 31, 2024
Removing the Second Arrow How Yoga Helped Me Overcome Trauma and Housing Loss and Discover Who I Was at Last By Jennifer Stanely I fear I may give the wrong impression when I say that yoga helped me overcome homelessness and my biggest adult trauma on the show, especially if your brain is wired like mine. You might think, “Oh, she started a yoga studio that was so successful that she dug herself out of the hole.” Yeah — the reality is nothing like that. As I write these words, we have yet to make a profit, yet my life has improved beyond my wildest dreams. No, yoga did not transform my financial situation. What it gave me was something far deeper and more powerful than money: The emotional and spiritual healing space I needed to get over my past trauma, the resulting alcohol abuse, and my own toxic behaviors that led me down a path of ruin in the first place. I want to share my healing journey of the past few years to set the record straight. I also feel my story could help others because, even though I’m now more privileged than I could have ever dreamed of a few years ago when writing “Welcome Home, Poe,” I didn’t have these advantages during my healing journey. I mostly had a yoga mat and YouTube, which is why I now use these mediums to try to give back as best I can for the many blessings I have received. I hope that sharing my story will lend similar glimmers to those who read these words while in a dark place. I also want to add to the collective knowledge base. Autistic individuals are more likely to experience homelessness for many reasons, and there’s also a lot of misconceptions about how we think and feel. I’m not a scientist or researcher, but I can offer my first-person perspective, which can perhaps inform earlier interventions and support so that others don’t experience my suffering. While there are sadly no guarantees, it’s been my experience that mindful practices like yoga can help you overcome hardship. It isn’t easy. However, by engaging in this daily routine and practicing self-compassion, you can transform past, negative, ingrained reactions into thoughtful, intentional responses to life’s inevitable hardships. This is how yoga helped me overcome the trauma of my past, my housing battle, and adult trauma, and discover who I truly was at last. Just the Facts, Ma’am — a Brief History of What Happened I’ll skip the gory details. Suffice it to say I had an, um, interesting childhood (“interesting,” here, means, “traumatic, confusing, lonely, and terrifying”). I was raised in an extremely narcissigenic environment. I’m also a late-diagnosed autistic, and what I didn’t know then was how profound my social deficits were — and in my case, they truly were deficits, not mere differences, given their impact on my life trajectory. I reached adulthood not fully understanding how to be a human, let alone an adult one. My gender protected me, as early marriage spared me from having to master skills like how to balance the checkbook and ensure the bills got paid on time. Sadly, I also had no idea how to be a good partner. A series of shattered relationships, many of which mirrored the abusive, toxic patterns of my childhood, nearly ruined me. The guilt I feel for my role in these partnerships will never fade. To my exes: I am sorry. As the years passed, I developed far worse health problems than the migraines I endured since a car accident at 17. I now know that autistic people are more prone to certain chronic health disorders. Back then, all I knew was that my body was falling apart. It was interfering with my ability to work and support myself, even as I tried different jobs, went back to school, and tried to do everything, anything, to stop my decline. But every time I went to the doctor, I was shamed for “exaggerating” my symptoms. Only, I wasn’t faking or seeking attention. Visiting physician’s offices is sheer hell on my sensory issues, but I was trying to do what people tell you to do when you’re sick. Those with chronic illness know that office visits can be a lot like going to the mechanic. You gotta limp the car to the shop first, and, of course, the worst of the “funny noises” never occur while the expert is under the hood. While doctors discovered things like white matter damage, an arachnoid cyst, mitral valve issues, they insisted these findings didn’t explain my inability to function. It didn’t help that my partners dismissed my needs and fears as often as my doctors. Don’t even get me started on the American healthcare system and how it destroys finances. As a result, every bank account and every 401k from every job I had ever managed to hold onto for more than a few months was already drained when the first housing crisis hit. When it did, I was living alone for the first time in my adult life. What Tim Fletcher calls my Big T Adult Trauma appeared in the form of an unpaid sewer bill on a townhouse I had rented with an ex but lived in solo after the split. He was responsible for paying the bill but hadn’t, apparently ever, and I had forgotten it existed. He didn’t tell me he had neglected it, and of course, I wasn’t exactly a whiz at the executive function part of adulting. So it sat unpaid — until the city threatened to put a lien on my landlord’s property for the unpaid amount. As a result, I received an out-of-the-blue eviction notice months after splitting up. Long story short, I had 48 hours to come up with $3,000 to pay the city or get out. And I had no money. I had nothing left after years of navigating American healthcare. My only alternative was to hit the streets with what I had — three cats and a Jeep that didn’t even lock. My ride still lacks a driver’s side window today, courtesy of another bad ex who punched it in. He never replaced it, and I scrape by with a scrap of fiberglass to this day. Saving that temporary roof traumatized me and kicked off years of housing insecurity. Of course, a few months later, amid the pandemic, my landlord raised the rent. Being forced to move as the first vaccines hit was also life-shattering. However, my property management company assured me that my new building had remained under the same stable ownership for years, and I would be safe. Not quite. A few months later, that stable, long-term owner sold to a foreign corporation. My rent went up again, this time by $1,200 a month. It was a lot to deal with. I almost couldn’t cope with the sewer bill. I almost didn’t. I almost ended my life then. But I didn’t. Something — to this day, I don’t know from what inner or outer wellspring it came from — stopped my attempt. And I am so grateful. Because during the intervening years, despite the subsequent housing shakeups, I gained an absolutely invaluable coping skill that made subsequent catastrophes more bearable. Only in Sedona Yoga Is Born Walking away from the cliff’s edge after the sewer bill trauma didn’t solve my problem of needing more money. Although I worked, I was unable to find anything in my hometown at my price point. I also lacked the requisite funds and a trustworthy enough car to relocate. To top it off, my credit was not good. It was a trifecta of poor fortune I had no idea how to handle. However, before truly talking to my mat, I had long done yoga as a form of physical exercise. I first earned a fitness instructor’s certification at 16 and have taught various class formats for much of my adult life. I had stopped teaching as I got sicker, but I still had the knowledge base. I noticed other people seemed to attain success by instructing such classes online, and I figured I could record videos when I felt good. Also, in practical terms, I had what I needed to get started with zero capital. So, with the help of my amazing partner, Ed, we launched Only in Sedona Yoga. I have to laugh when I look back at how grandiose my delusions were. Back then, I genuinely thought I was poor because I was just lazy. Even though I had worked multiple jobs and gone back to school to try to save myself, that childhood refrain remained in my head: “If I just put my mind to it.” If I worked really hard, I would achieve overnight success, get Ed and me the financial resources we desperately needed, and launch my nonprofit, just like that. Yeah. Remember what I said about having been raised in an extremely narcissigenic environment and being autistic? Delusions? I had them. My entire adult life, no matter what I did or accomplished, inside, I always felt like a failure, a loser, a fraud, and a fake. I manifested these qualities externally as well, for which I feel incredible guilt. Deep down, I’ve always believed my hardships were my fault, and in many ways they were . I just wasn’t able to connect the dots between my outward behaviors, my seemingly constant troubles, my past, and my neurology. I’ve often described my autism as being punished my whole life for not being able to see the board — but nobody ever suggested that hey, maybe I needed glasses. As it was, I had to find my own specs. For that, I have my yoga mat to thank. While my endeavors, as of this writing, have yet to bring financial rewards, they provided something much deeper. Yoga Mats, Psychology and Autism, Oh, My As I worked to build Only in Sedona Yoga, I spent a lot of time on my mat. Hours upon hours of practice, first to get myself limber enough to perform many of the poses — my flexibility lagged over the years and I was nearly 50 when we started. However, that time was necessary. It taught me without words how yoga is much more than a physical discipline, but a mental, emotional and spiritual one. It truly does mean “union” in more ways than I can express in what is already a lengthy tale. During this time, I also got sober. I look back with shame at how much I used to drink, how badly it made me act, and how poorly it affected my psyche. Alcohol was a constant in my household, and in my adulthood, no one close to me ever suggested I had a problem with booze. On the contrary, people often plied me with drinks to “make me loosen up and have fun,” as ordinarily, I’m quiet and avoidant AF. My intimate partners often drank as much if not more than I did, making me feel like I was rocking it in comparison. Boy, was I stupid. What finally convinced me to put the bottle down was watching Doc Snipes , one of my favorite “ Doctor YouTubes ,” and learning how it affected my various neurotransmitters. I didn’t want that. Fortunately, it wasn’t physically hard for me to quit drinking or put myself on a rigid, straight-edge-style program that my inner autistic child no doubt loved. At the time, the intended purpose was to show my doctors that no, I was not faking my symptoms. My goal was to eradicate anything that could damage my health. I ate a strict, primarily plant-based diet free of the ultra-processed junk that passes for food these days. I got off ten different prescription medications, keeping only one to help with sleep. I used the time I no longer spent drinking and doom-scrolling for yoga and digging into my other new special interest: figuring out why I was so messed up. I spent hours on my mat, practicing yin and restorative poses while watching various licensed mental health professionals on YouTube. The journey began with Dr. Daniel Fox’s YouTube channel, which I highly recommend. I came across the first video quite by accident. It dealt with borderline/narcissistic relationships, and it was like viewing my past partnerships on screen. Explaining how my autistic brain works is a bit hard, but I see patterns. It takes me a loooongg time to grasp concepts at times, but once I do, I don’t just see that narrow portion of the idea I was taught. It’s like a whole new universe opens up, and I see how this new knowledge connects to everything else, giving me a much deeper understanding. It also makes me a whiz at standardized tests. I’m not quite Rainman in that I can count the toothpicks at a glance, but I could tell you exactly what pattern they fell into and recreate that design with a new box without looking back at the original. The emotions I went through watching this video were intense. It was also chocolate ice cream with pickle sauce. I could see the patterns of behavior that my parents and past partners had were toxic AF, which was like, “Hooray, all this time, I knew it was wrong and bad, but I didn’t know why. They kept telling me they were right and I was wrong, but their behavior was actually toxic! Man, I feel validated, yay!” At the same time, I could also see that I had acted just as toxic , which filled me with deep, immense shame. I had also uttered many of the same phrases in my adult life, flung many of the same insults, engaged in the same passive-aggressive actions. The difference was that I had never harbored the malicious intentions that those with certain personality disorders presumably have. I manifested many of the behaviors, not because I was scheming or trying to one up anyone. I was trying to meet my sensory needs and imitating the only patterns I had ever learned. When something had gone wrong in my household growing up, there was no sober discussion of how to manage the resulting emotions or even the situation itself. There was screaming and chaos, substance use and hurtful words, unjustified blame and painful blows. I now know that autistic people often engage in copy-and-paste behaviors to mask their differences and try to fit in. However, this mimicry is utterly unconscious and forget about controlling something if you aren’t aware you’re doing it. Echopraxia — the unconscious imitation of other people’s facial expressions and physical movements , and echolalia — the meaningless recitation of words in familiar patterns, often to relieve stress — are exceedingly common. And my favorite role model, whom I imitated the most, was not mentally healthy. Please note: I’m not trying to escape the blame I deserve; I'm only trying to understand. I know I have said and done lousy, unforgivable things for which I will always feel deserved guilt, and I accept it. In my estimation, the pain it makes me feel doesn’t nearly repay my karmic debt. At the same time, knowing autistic traits run in families makes forgiveness possible. Did my dad truly believe in the hurtful things he said and did, or was he copy/pasting the toxicity he himself experienced? I may never know, but understanding my own pain and why I behaved so badly makes me less critical of others, even if I don’t accept their behavior. I can also see why many autistic women are misdiagnosed with personality disorders. I at first suspected my issues were due to BPD. In a way, I guess I have my relative poverty and lack of early healthcare access to thank for never getting that particular misdiagnosis. What made me suspect something else was afoot was that everything I had learned about personality disorders suggested that they were ingrained. One does not simply decide to stop behaving badly. Just like people didn’t merely stop drinking after learning how it affects your neurotransmitters. These weren’t in line with the stereotypical patterns of human behavior as I was coming to understand them. What was going on? Then, I watched Dr. Kim Sage , read the book “ Unmasking Autism ” and a host of others, and, just like Saul on the road to Damascus, the scales fell off my eyes. Finally, someone handed me that long-awaited pair of glasses and the entire world sprang into focus. So many of my struggles from my earliest memories all of a sudden made perfect sense. My pattern-recognizing mind did its thing, and all the mingled horror and ecstasy puzzle pieces of my experience fell into place. I saw the problem. I also saw how I was already, unconsciously, working to make it better, and how my new conscious knowledge could inspire my continued growth. Everything, Everywhere, All at Once Meanwhile, while I was undergoing my internal transformation, the clock was ticking. Even though I had survived the eviction notice and subsequent rent increase, I nevertheless had one year from December of 2021 to find another place to live. I think we all remember what was happening in the real estate market then, as the ripple effect continues today, affecting countless suffering souls while governments do little but treat the most vulnerable with increasing cruelty instead of aid. That’s what I mean when I say yoga helped me go from homeless to housed, and I feel shame and must sincerely apologize if I’ve made a misimpression. No. I wasn’t literally sleeping on the sidewalk. I was, however, next door to it and terrified, the kind of terror that makes it impossible to eat, sleep or think straight, that leaves you endlessly nauseous and shaking. The kind of terror I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. I had messed up adulting so badly that I had no resources left to stop this horror from happening, not even a proper vehicle to live in or good enough credit to get one. I had no money left to move, nowhere to go and there was nothing in my hometown for rent for people of my income level. I also lacked one other critical element, one that sounds hopelessly stupid in retrospect but was insurmountable at the time: I had no idea how to ask for help. Asking for help wasn’t a behavior I ever learned to copy/paste. Such behavior was considered the ultimate in shamefulness in my family of origin. Admitting vulnerability or fallibility meant risking rage, ostracism, verbal abuse, screams, tears, and, sometimes, physical violence. Also, I literally don’t know to this day how to handle certain interactions. What words do I say? How am I supposed to behave? Like an actor in a play, I wouldn’t only have to be told “reach out for help,” but to rehearse my lines and ensure my audience could understand my delivery. I tried to get help in my way, acted out plenty, and ineffectively, bemoaning my fate on social media — but it quite literally never crossed my mind to start a GoFundMe. The farthest I got was calling 211 at one point. I quickly got the impression that having any income disqualified me from aid, and in my defensive reaction, I said thank you and hung up instead of inquiring further. The idea of reaching out to other adults certainly also didn’t occur to me because as an undiagnosed autistic person, I had never established a sense of myself, let alone one of community. When I was a kid, if you needed something, by golly, you worked for it, and that’s what I kept trying so desperately to do, in any form, even when it traumatized me. I wonder how many of my family’s generational troubles spring from the same dynamic, the same inability to reach out and form the connections with others we all need in this crazy world. However, fate intervened. I met an incredible man who would go on to change my life. At the time, he was stationed overseas. We met when he was home on leave and spent the next several months falling in love over the phone. We spent hours talking, never judging each other. With him, I felt the sense of connection I had been so desperately missing without knowing it. Meeting in person cemented our union, but our souls had already bonded while we were half a world apart. I honestly don’t know if I would have made it had we not met. He helped me with expenses and renting a temporary space. One of my happiest days was buying Lora, my camper, to live in. Having that stability is what allowed me to continue my healing journey. While I had a Plan B, C, and D when we met, they would have been far less pleasant, and I’m so forever grateful he gave me the space, grace, and comfort I needed to continue to heal. Additionally, my beloved is also neurodiverse. Communicating with him is like magic. All the frustrations I had formerly felt trying to talk with neurotypical people just — didn’t happen. I understand him. He understands me. We take each other’s moods in stride. We don’t beat each other up or criticize each other for being human. It’s glorious. He’s also survived past abuse. Our relationship is a beautifully, continuously woven tapestry of love and healing together. We help each other improve in so many ways. With his help, I also started therapy and obtained my autism diagnosis — at age 52. Fortunately, though, I feel no bitterness over not knowing earlier, only joy at having the right answer at long last. I always felt “different.” Even going through the autism evaluation stirred childhood memories of when I was four. My mom wanted me admitted to kindergarten as I would be five soon. I was taken into a room with a giraffe and given an oddly similar test, after which, they labeled me as “gifted.” Not quite, doc, but hey, at least you picked up that there was something way back when. Removing the Second Arrow From an outsider’s perspective, life probably looked at least somewhat okay during these years. Inside, emotionally, it was a storm, one that still rages within me, although the winds have gone from Cat-5 hurricane force to mild tropical storms. You guys, I don’t know how to express it in neurotypical terms, but all that stuff psychologists say trauma does to your brain? It’s real. It’s so real, and I feel it every day. I literally feel it, like any other physical pain. Trauma’s grasp on me is slowly loosening, but healing isn’t an overnight process. It takes time, especially if you endured years of abuse, invalidation, and dismissal. Even though I no longer wanted to participate in toxic behaviors, I still had a whole lot of big feelings from my childhood and adult trauma that I had no idea what to do with. I missed so many essential lessons for autistic kids. Not just how to balance the checkbook but how to identify emotions beyond feeling “good” or “bad” and what coping strategies to use to handle them. I shudder to think how easily I could have destroyed my recovery by engaging in toxic old patterns. And it’s so hard not to sometimes. My learned reactions are — not good. And being autistic, I already have to go through a layer of mental math to process any social interaction to begin with. Then, I must pass my words through the trauma filter, “Is the harsh way I’m phrasing this reflective of the harshness of the reality or only hinder communication with someone who has never experienced such traumas?” I’m the first to admit, I don’t always get it right. However, I continued to cling to my yoga mat and YouTube, and I put those bad boys to work pretty much every day. Although I eventually eased my monk-like routine, daily mindful practice is a must for me. And while nothing soothes me to sleep like a good yoga nidra body scan at midnight, the only way I can ease my “big feels” long enough to sit with them is to add a bit of physical movement to mitigate those cortisol levels and promote clarity of thought. I think that’s one reason the mat worked so well for me. The other is that it is a judgment-free zone to practice mindfulness. To be autistic is to endure constant judgment, often harsh. You don’t smile right or often enough, you don’t look people in the eye, or seem fake when you do (for years, I used the “stare at their forehead” trick until I read this made you look like you have the psychopathic glare!). You never talk enough or always talk too much. When you do speak, you’re too blunt and direct. Everything about you seems to subtly rub neurotypical people wrong. While I hate the “othering” dynamic, some neurotypicals aren’t at all subtle about pointing out your differences and mocking or outright hurting you for them. There’s a huge overlap between autism and PTSD for a good reason. Spending time on the mat lets me work through my ugliest of uglies without anyone judging me for making the wrong facial expressions. I can cry, scream, surrender hopelessly in child’s pose, even sob and rock myself in cradle, and let myself feel that shame, that guilt. I lay down the burden of what has been done to me and what I have done to others and go through that baggage, taking however long it takes to iron each shirt and return it to the correct drawer. I sometimes refer to my time on the mat as “removing the second arrow.” According to the Buddha, in life, you will sometimes encounter arrows or negative events. They can pierce you and wound you. However, getting hit by a second arrow hurts even worse. That second arrow is your reaction to traumatic events. Yes. Many, many bad things happened to me in life. But I followed every one of them with a second arrow — my poor reaction. That’s what ultimately caused my suffering. Spending time on the mat let me reparent myself, teaching myself healthier coping skills. So when future arrows came — like a $1,200 rent increase — I was better psychologically equipped to deal with them without turning to the bottle and having a full-on meltdown. Engaging in this practice daily kept me from going off the rails during this tumultuous time, even though on some days, I came so, so close. Even though I was only a secondary player, relying heavily on my man to secure permanent housing, we were very much partners every step of the way — and there were many roadblocks in this market. Now my challenge becomes figuring out how to use my blessings to help others, which is what I’ve always dreamed of doing. Only Sedona Yoga provides a good starting point, and I’m excited to see what good eventually grows from this endeavor. In the meantime, I’m determined to keep working that soil, planting seeds, and tending my weeds on the mat, just as I clear them from the little acre I hope will someday grow sustainable foods for my family and others. Rebuilding My Mental Health and Finding Myself by Talking to the Mat My process of healing and becoming better on the yoga mat is by no means over — the process is as endless as the life cycle itself. What my journey has also taught me so far is that there is no perfect time to change your life. Change starts with deciding you want it, that the old patterns are no longer tolerable. It’s an ongoing process that requires constant work and upkeep, but it pays off in rewards beyond measure. I certainly don’t want to give literal thinkers — like me — the wrong impression. No, starting a YouTube channel didn’t magically fix my financial woes. Much as I hope Only in Sedona Yoga will flourish and grow, I have no idea what will ultimately come of it. I hope building it in a spirit of advancing mutual healing will result in even more and more goodness, maybe even fulfill my original dream. However, if my words or work on the mat help even one other soul, I have succeeded in life beyond measure. I can’t go back and undo the years before I began talking to my mat in earnest. I can’t make younger me get sober earlier so I might have realized what was happening more quickly. What I can do is take what I have learned these past years and use it to help others who might be in similar dark spots. That’s what Only in Sedona Yoga is all about. Guiding yoga classes on YouTube and in person helps me in my healing journey. I can only hope it helps others remove their second arrows, too. I’ll continue doing it in that spirit for as long as I am able and hope sharing my story can help others find strength. You can have a rough start in life. You can experience trauma. But you can also overcome it with mindfulness, self-compassion, and love.