When the Power Goes Out

Its officially winter this morning and as I sit watching the sun rise a text dings from my neighbor about the power outage.  We are on solar power so we never know about power outages.  I was grateful for the text because I shouldn't run convenience appliances inevitably taxing our solar power supply.  My thoughts quickly drifted back to my days as an unpaid child switchboard operator.  Let me explain.  My father worked for a power company and back in the day when nothing was electronic the power was fixed by calling the Alberta Power line man on duty.  The only way that my dad knew where to start was by who called in.  I would sit near the phone with the MD map in hand and mark who called in and then I would radio that out to my dad.  My call out sounded like this, "549, Nick do you read?".  Then he would respond, track the location and fix the power.  My childhood was filled with electricity adventures like playing in live sub stations, pulling wires, running the winch to lift transformers and reading meters in remote places.  In retrospect the adventures were really about escaping my damaging home life.  My memories begin to churn in my stomach and just like that I am back in that space where I didn't have a voice and where my human rights were negated.  That dark place that nobody wants me to talk about wherein I was constantly bombarded by emotional neglect.  It is something that everyone knows but nobody dares speak of.  It is the secret that keeps rising in my throat like a bad case of bile reflux.  I want to call out, "549, Nick do you read?  The power is out in my childhood...how could you not have known this?"

The weight of that memory is enough to make me head outside into the fresh snow to regulate my emotions.  After wrestling to dress our 90 pound pitty, I release the hound into fresh snow. Geese leaving in a giant v and snow gently falling on our quiet yard, I stand watching while Willow galloping through the fresh powder.  Attempting 360 swirls and zoomies past me I noticed the pure joy that dances across Willow's face.  It makes me wonder about my own war with joy.  I never felt comfortable in joy.  When I would come close to being joyful I would wait for the other shoe to drop.  Now here in this winter wonderland with ears flapping and jacket half off, Willow stands beside me.  Curiously nuzzling my leg, Willow looks up searching for my recognition of her joyous work.  In that instant the bile that was lingering in my throat now turns to anger.   My palms start to sweat, my stomach turns and I feel the urge to cry.  Willow's zealous joy is a glaring reminder of my inability to feel joy.  Don't get me wrong, the anger is not toward Willow in any way.  I can recognize the anger I struggle with is rooted in that childhood memory.  I am angry at my mom for the abuse and my dad who turned a blind eye each time she wiped the joy from my childhood.  I am angry with the people who wash over my complex trauma like it didn't exist. Sadly, there was a time in my life when I would have blindly allowed that anger to take over and I would lash out at anyone close enough to receive my wrath.  This morning, however, I lean into the anger and prepare myself to gather the understanding around the impulse.  I lean down to hug Willow and after a full face lick she darts off through the next snow drift.  The affection serves to remind me of the infinite love surrounding me now in this moment.  I tell myself that I am worthy of that love and focus on breathing through to emotional clarity.  

When we find ourselves exploding in anger or rage, it can feel like we’re caught in a storm we don’t know how to control. In these moments, it’s easy to think something outside of us caused the fury, but often, the root of it goes far deeper. Triggers are not just surface-level irritations; they’re echoes of past pain—experiences that were never fully processed, still lingering beneath the surface. When we react with such intensity, it’s a sign that a past wound is calling out for healing.

Identifying our triggers is the first step to understanding this deeper connection. Every time anger erupts, it's an opportunity to pause and ask, "What does this remind me of?" The more we do this, the more we start to notice patterns—similar situations that consistently push us over the edge. These patterns are clues, pointing us to the unresolved trauma that still lives inside us. Far from being a nuisance, triggers are our best chance at healing. They are the guideposts that show us exactly where our inner work needs to happen.

It’s not an easy process. Sitting with our triggers requires patience and a willingness to face what we’ve been avoiding. The bottom line is this; triggers are there to teach us. By paying attention to them and diving into the unresolved emotions they represent, we can finally begin to heal the parts of ourselves we’ve kept hidden for so long. Our triggers, in this way, becomes less about destruction and more about transformation.  In our darkest times, triggers can lead us back to those unhealed parts that need light.  They are the guideposts on the map to fixing our power outage.  If we are open to listening closely triggers serve as call outs on our healing journey, "549, Nick do you read?"