I Walked on a Crushed Foot for Two Days. That’s Not Toughness, That’s Trauma.

I once walked around on a crushed foot for two days before I got it looked at. Another time I went two weeks with a broken arm.

When I tell people that, they usually say something like “wow, you must have a crazy high pain threshold.” And I do. But I’ve come to realise that’s not the whole story, and it’s not really a compliment.

I wasn’t tough. I was trained.

I grew up in a house where my pain didn’t count. I was a sick kid that nobody believed, in a home that didn’t feel safe, and I learned the rules very early. I won’t be believed. Stop talking about it. Things still have to get done. There are other people worse off than you. So the best thing I could do with my body’s signals was ignore them. That lesson didn’t go away when I grew up. It just got a chronic illness to work with.

This post is about that. About how trauma and chronic illness don’t just sit side by side in your life, they feed each other. And once you see the loop, you can’t unsee it.

Two problems that were always one problem

For most of my life I treated my body and my past as two completely separate things.

Over here, my body: hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (hEDS), Functional Neurological Disorder (FND), MCAS, dysautonomia, scoliosis, chronic pain, chronic fatigue, gut issues, and the list goes on. Over there, my history: a childhood full of yelling and fear, years of not being believed, CPTSD.

Doctors for the body. Some vague idea of “dealing with it one day” for the past.

It wasn’t until I was diagnosed with FND that I started to see how tangled up they actually were. I talked about that a bit in my reintroduction post. This is the deeper version.

What follows is a mix of two things: what I’ve lived, and what I’m learning as a Level 2 Trauma Healing Practitioner working towards Level 3. Quick note before I go on: I’m sharing my lived experience and my training, not a diagnosis. I’m not a doctor, and this isn’t medical advice. Everybody’s body and history is different.

Direction one: how trauma feeds illness

One of the first things my training made click for me is that your nervous system has a job. When it senses danger, it floods your body with stress hormones so you can fight, run or freeze. Heart rate up, muscles tight, digestion on hold, every sense on high alert. That system is brilliant for short bursts.

It’s not built to run for years.

When you grow up unsafe, it doesn’t really get the chance to switch off. I used to lie in bed at night with my heart racing, too scared to go to sleep, and get told to grow up. That wasn’t a one-off. That was most nights.

Researchers have been looking at this for decades. The well-known Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) research found that the more trauma people went through as kids, the more likely they were to have health problems as adults. Living in survival mode for a long time can affect sleep, digestion, pain, your immune system and more.

Now, I want to be really clear here: trauma did not cause my hEDS. hEDS is genetic. I was born with it. Scoliosis at three months old isn’t a stress response.

But here’s what I think trauma did do. It meant my already struggling body never got to rest. It taught me to push through pain instead of listening to it, which is how you end up walking on a crushed foot. And it kept my nervous system so wound up that every other symptom had more fuel.

And with FND, the link became impossible to ignore. When I’m dysregulated, my tics and spasms ramp up. My pain gets louder. My brain fog gets thicker. My body has been keeping a record of everything my mind tried to push down.

It doesn’t take a big trauma to set it off, either. A few months ago I was getting ready to visit my parents for Father’s Day, and I was worried my sister might be there. That worry alone started a tic and body jerking episode. Then my muscles seized up. Then my EDS flared. I’m still dealing with the fallout: trouble talking, trouble with my eyes, legs that feel like jelly, intense pain, and a memory so patchy that sometimes I don’t even know what I’m doing.

Direction two: how illness feeds trauma

This is the part I don’t think gets talked about enough.

Being chronically ill isn’t just physically hard. It can be traumatic in its own right. Especially when nobody believes you.

When my FND started, I was told my first tic was “just stress, calm down.” The whole-body spasms were “just your EDS.” When my legs started dragging and I couldn’t grip things, also “your EDS.” When my speech started slurring, I was “just tired.”

Then there was the tilt table test. I walked into that public cardiology appointment already knowing I wouldn’t be heard. The technician had decided it was anxiety before the test even started. The room was so cold I was shaking, and they couldn’t get a blood pressure reading because of it. About 15 minutes in, I had an episode. He said it happened “after 10 minutes,” so it didn’t count. Even after admitting the cold had stuffed up the readings, the conclusion was: woman, history of anxiety, so it’s anxiety.

Every time that happens, your nervous system learns something. It learns that doctors aren’t safe. That your body can’t be trusted. That you have to be on guard.

These days I put off going to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. That’s not me being stubborn. That’s a trauma response.

And it’s not just doctors. Living in a body that dislocates in your sleep, tears rib cartilage when you sneeze and drops things without warning keeps you on high alert all the time. You start scanning every twinge. Is this a new thing? Is it bad? Will anyone believe me if it is?

Then there’s the grief. I loved being a vet nurse. My body is a big part of why I’m not one anymore. Losing pieces of the life you planned is its own kind of wound.

The loop

So here’s what it looks like when you put both directions together.

I’m in a flare right now as I write this. It started with the heat. Hot weather flares my EDS, the pain and instability stress my body, and that stress flares my FND. One thing knocks into the next like dominoes.

And the strangest part is how far away I feel from myself in it. My mind and my body feel like two separate things, sitting outside each other. I don’t feel present in my own body. Honestly, some days I feel like I’m five years old again. In my training I’ve learned that disconnecting like this (it’s called dissociation) is one of the ways a nervous system protects you when things feel like too much. Knowing that doesn’t make it go away, but it does make it make sense.

On a bigger scale, the loop goes like this. Something flares. I’m scared, because I’ve learned that flares are unpredictable and help is unreliable. That fear revs up my nervous system. A revved up nervous system makes my symptoms worse. Worse symptoms mean I need help, so I go to a doctor, and if I’m dismissed again, that’s one more piece of evidence that I’m not safe. Which keeps my nervous system on high alert. Which keeps the symptoms going.

Round and round.

And layered on top of it, that old childhood lesson: don’t make a fuss, your pain doesn’t count. So I ignore the early warning signs until it’s a crushed foot or a broken arm or a full blown flare, which gives the loop even more to work with.

If you’ve been stuck in that loop and blamed yourself for not getting better, please hear this. It’s not a willpower problem. It’s a nervous system that’s been doing its best to keep you alive in conditions that were never fair.

This is not me saying it’s all in your head

I need to say this loudly, because I know how this topic can get twisted.

Trauma affecting your body does not mean your illness is imaginary, or psychological, or something you could fix by relaxing. FND is a real neurological condition. hEDS is genetic. MCAS, dysautonomia and chronic pain are real.

“Stress makes it worse” is not the same as “stress is the cause.” And neither one gives anyone the right to dismiss you.

The problem was never that doctors considered the mind-body link. The problem was that they used “anxiety” as a reason to stop looking.

What’s starting to help me

I don’t have this solved. I’m still very much in it. But here’s what’s helping me start to loosen the loop, even a little.

Believing myself first. I Googled my own symptoms and pushed for the referral that got me my hEDS diagnosis, after a GP told me flat out “you don’t have that.” (That’s a whole story, and I’ll tell it properly soon.) It taught me that my own experience of my body is information, not drama.

Going into appointments prepared. Because walking in already dysregulated, with no notes, is how I end up forgetting everything and leaving with “it’s anxiety.” Writing it down beforehand is a way of protecting my nervous system, not just getting a better appointment. I actually made a Doctor Appointment Prep Kit for exactly this reason.

Tiny moments of safety. I’m not going to pretend I do a 30 minute practice every day. ADHD laughs at that. What I actually do is small: a sensory tube with little jellyfish floating in it, sitting outside for a few minutes, texting a friend, noticing tiny glimpses of okay. They don’t fix anything. But each one tells my nervous system, for a moment, that it’s not in danger right now.

Listening earlier. This one is hard. I’m trying to notice the small signals before they become big ones, and to treat my body like it’s worth checking on. Old training doesn’t undo itself overnight.

Getting the right support. Trauma informed practitioners who understand that the body and the history are connected, alongside medical care that takes the physical symptoms seriously. You deserve both, not one or the other.

You’re not imagining it

If you’ve ever felt like your body and your past are ganging up on you, you’re not imagining it. And you’re not broken. You’re dealing with two things that keep feeding each other, and most people only ever get treated for one of them.

If you want somewhere small to start, grab my free 60 Second Nervous System Reset Cards. They’re quick tools for the moments when you can feel yourself starting to spiral, made for brains and bodies that don’t have capacity for a long practice.

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And I’d love to know: have you noticed this loop in your own life? Tell me in the comments, or reply to one of my emails. You’re not too much, and you’re not the only one.

If this hits you hard….

You’re exactly who I write for. You don’t have to go through this alone.

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Briony Bianca

I’m Briony – the woman behind She Shines Abundance. I’ve lived through trauma, chronic illness, and a lifetime of being misunderstood. Now, I’m here to turn my pain into purpose. This space is for women who feel unseen, exhausted, or broken but still want to heal, grow, and find light again – in real, imperfect ways. Around here, we don’t fake positivity. We do honesty, healing, and small steps that actually make life better.