Toni Peters – Author

Tag: trauma

  • The Pancake Wish

    The Pancake Wish

    Toni Peters. October 7, 2026.

    My granddaughter Paisley turned four this week.

    When Scotty and I got to the party, she met me at the door, took me by the hand, and gave me the tour. First stop was the doorway her mom had covered in a curtain of streamers, the kind you have to push through to get to the other side. Paisley walked me through it like she was leading me into a palace. Next stop was the refrigerator. She opened the door and pointed, and there it was: her “marsh marrow” birthday cake. Her mom made it for her, and Paisley wanted me to see it before anybody else got the chance.

    Doorway with faded crepe paper streamers

    She said it out loud

    Then came presents. Paisley had asked for one thing in particular, a Disney Junior princess she calls Spinning Sophia. When she pulled the paper off and saw it, she screamed. It was the full-body scream only a four-year-old can make when the world has done exactly what she asked it to.

    Then the cake came out. We sang. I was sitting with her little brother on my lap, and everybody leaned in the way you do when a little one is about to blow out candles. And Paisley did the thing you’re not supposed to do. She said her wish out loud.

    She closed her eyes, and in the most reverent voice a four-year-old can find, she said, “Pancakes.”

    The whole room laughed out loud. And not one of us told her she’d broken the rule. Nobody said, “Oh honey, now it won’t come true.” It was too innocent and too pure to touch.

    For the record, pancakes are her favorite food. They’re mine too. She comes by it honestly.

    What grown-ups learn to do

    I’ve been thinking about that moment ever since. Paisley asked for exactly what she wanted, right out loud, in front of everybody. She didn’t whisper it or shrink it down or worry that it was too small. Same as with Spinning Sophia. She knew what she wanted, she asked for it, and when it came, she screamed for joy.

    Somewhere along the way, most of us grown-ups learn to keep our wishes to ourselves. Life teaches us that the things we hope for don’t always come, and if nobody knows what we wished for, nobody has to watch us be disappointed. For a long time I believed that.

    This year taught me otherwise.

    “Go at it boldly, and you’ll find unexpected forces closing round you and coming to your aid.”
    Basil King

    I’ve lived that. I said my dream out loud, that I would write my memoir and it would find a publisher. Then I wrote the manuscript, and the right publisher stepped into my life. Now I wish boldly. I say the thing out loud, and I go after it.

    That’s exactly how Paisley went after hers. She didn’t hedge. She named it, in front of everybody, and trusted that somebody who loved her was listening.

    Children ask

    Jesus told the grown-ups to let the little children come to Him, because the kingdom belongs to such as these. I used to think that was about innocence. Watching Paisley, I think it might be about boldness. Children ask.

    So here’s to my granddaughter, four years old and already wishing boldly.

    Say the wish. Say it out loud,
    even if it’s small, even if it’s pancakes.

    Nobody in that room thought less of her for it. We just loved her more.

    And the next time Paisley spends the night, Mimi is making pancakes.

    Some wishes Mimi gets to grant.

    What’s the wish you’ve been keeping to yourself? Say it here, out loud, even if it’s small. I read every one, and I’ll say mine too.

    Toni Peters, author and founder of Warrior Storytellers

    About the author

    I write about women who survive things and become someone new on the other side. I’m a citizen of the Citizen Potawatomi Nation, a grandmother who answers to Mimi, and the founder of Warrior Storytellers. I live in Edmond, Oklahoma, where I write before the sun is all the way up and spend most of what’s left of my free time on the water.

    Something’s coming.

  • How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    Raccoon standing on a cluttered wooden desk in an attic room with books and various items
    A raccoon curiously investigates books and objects on a cluttered attic desk.

    How to Outsmart Your Own Brain (Harder Than the Algorithm)

    or The Raccoon in Your Attic

    Let’s get one thing straight:
    Beating the algorithm is child’s play compared to outsmarting your own brain.

    Algorithms are predictable.
    They like consistency, chaos, and the occasional trending audio.
    Your brain, however?

    Your brain is a raccoon. Think about a clever, nocturnal, emotionally dramatic raccoon who lives in your attic and rearranges your furniture at 3 a.m.

    And yet — this is the creature we’re supposed to rely on for creativity, courage, and getting our lives together.

    So today, let’s talk about how to outsmart your own brain.
    Or at least how to gently trick it into cooperating long enough to write a paragraph, send an email, or stop spiraling about something that happened in 1997.

    Step 1: Accept That Your Brain Is Not Always on Your Side

    Your brain has two primary goals:

    • keep you alive
    • keep you from doing anything remotely uncomfortable

    This is why your brain will happily let you reorganize your sock drawer for three hours but will stage a full-scale rebellion when you try to write a chapter of your memoir.

    Your brain is not trying to sabotage you.
    It just thinks “emotional vulnerability” is the same as “being chased by a bear.”

    Step 2: Give Your Brain a Job It Thinks It Invented

    Your brain loves to feel important.
    So instead of saying, “I’m going to write for an hour,” try:

    “I’m just going to open the document so you can look at it.”

    Your brain:
    “Oh, well, that’s harmless. I’ll allow it.”

    Five minutes later, you’re writing.
    Your brain is confused, but it’s too late.

    You’ve tricked the raccoon.

    Step 3: Use Bribery (Your Brain Responds Well to Snacks)

    You know who else responds well to snacks?
    Toddlers.
    Algorithms.
    Golden retrievers.

    Your brain is no different. Tell it: “If we write for 20 minutes, we get a treat.”

    Your brain doesn’t need to know the treat is just iced coffee or a walk outside.
    It just needs the promise of joy. Brains are simple like that.

    Step 4: Stop Expecting Your Brain to Be Logical

    Your brain will:

    • remember a mistake from 12 years ago
    • forget why it walked into a room
    • panic over sending an email
    • remain completely unfazed by global chaos

    It’s not logical. It’s emotional. It’s a teenage drama queen. It’s doing its best.

    Trying to reason with your brain is like trying to negotiate with a squirrel holding a stolen granola bar.

    Just… don’t.

    Step 5: Outsmart Fear by Making It Bored

    In my experience, fear thrives on attention. It loves drama. It loves a spotlight. The trick? The trick is to make fear so bored it wanders off to bother someone else.

    How?

    Do the thing anyway.
    Do it quietly.
    Do it without ceremony.
    Do it while fear is still mid-monologue.

    Fear hates that.

    Eleanor Roosevelt knew this.  She didn’t wait to feel brave. She acted, and bravery followed.

    Your brain will eventually catch up.

    Step 6: Celebrate Every Tiny Victory (Your Brain Loves Praise)

    Your brain lights up like a Christmas tree when you acknowledge progress.

    Wrote one sentence?
    Victory.

    Opened the laptop?
    Victory.

    Didn’t spiral into existential dread before coffee?
    Major victory.

    Your brain is trying.
    Reward it.

    The Real Secret to Outsmarting Your Brain

    Here it is — the truth about outsmarting your brain:

    You don’t outsmart your brain by overpowering it.
    You outsmart your brain by partnering with it.

    By understanding its fears and honoring its limits. By gently nudging it toward the life you want. By choosing courage even when your brain is screaming, “Absolutely not, we are not doing that.”

    Your brain is not the enemy.
    It’s the narrator.
    The protector.
    The raccoon in the attic doing its best with the tools it has.

    And with a little humor, a little compassion, and a few strategic snacks, you can lead it — step by trembling step — into the life you’re meant to live.

  • Reclaiming the Future: Why I’m Writing a Memoir About Abuse, Hypervigilance, and Healing.

    Reclaiming the Future: Why I’m Writing a Memoir About Abuse, Hypervigilance, and Healing.

    The Mask of the “Perfect” Survivor

    When people think of trauma, they often think of visible chaos. They don’t often think of the straight-A student, the hyper-reliable employee, the CEO, or the chronic people-pleaser. But for me, perfectionism and people-pleasing weren’t just personality traits; they were survival mechanisms born out of childhood physical and sexual abuse, and utter abandonment.

    If I was perfect, I was safe. If I made everyone else happy, I wouldn’t be left behind again.

    But as I sit down to write my memoir, I am reckoning with the massive, hidden cost of that response. Living in a constant state of hypervigilance takes a heavy toll on the mind and body. Even now, years later, I still battle the echoes of that hypervigilance in my day-to-day life. It is a war I am mostly winning, but it requires active, daily strategy.  There are moments when I must stop everything that I’m doing, take a few seconds to do a quick “check-in” on the way my body is feeling, and respond in a way that releases the tension. My body gets so tense and so on edge sometimes that I now experience chronic pain diagnosed as an “unspecified autoimmune disorder”. At lunch with a couple of girlfriends last week, I choked on a sip of water. My friend, Mary, started pounding me on the back, trying to help me get my breath back. Pain wracked my body every time she touched me. She didn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. But it was a moment that reminded me of a strange irony: I have to be intensely vigilant about managing my own hypervigilance (sounds crazy, eh?).

    Why I am Reliving This on the Page

    Writing a memoir is not just about recounting the past; it is about excavating it. It is incredibly difficult to put these lived experiences into words. So, why do it? [2, 3, 4, 5] 

    The purpose behind my book is simple: To show you that your past does not get the final say in who you become.

    Trauma tries to convince us that our ceiling has been lowered—that certain dreams are no longer available to us because we are “broken.” I am writing this book to shatter that lie.

    The Healing Framework

    In the book, I’m sharing not just my story, but the actual framework I used to heal and navigate a world that my body constantly told me was unsafe. I want to encourage others to realize that they can still become exactly who they were meant to be.

    • The Writer is still in there.
    • The Teacher is still in there.
    • The CEO and Entrepreneur are still entirely possible.

    Those opportunities still exist. They are still real. Your trauma might have delayed the timeline, but it cannot cancel the destination.

    It is Not Too Late

    If you are reading this and you feel exhausted from holding up the weight of perfectionism, or if your body is tired from being on constant high alert—I see you.

    I am writing this book for us. To remind us that it is not too late to put down the heavy armor of our survival mechanisms and step into our true calling. If you’re interested in my progress or updates, feel free to subscribe!I’d love to hear from you in the comments: What is a dream or a role (Writer, Leader, Creator) that you felt was lost to your past, but you are ready to reclaim?

  • When your job becomes a threat

    Most people don’t realize they’re experiencing workplace trauma until they’re already in the ashes.  We’re taught to push through and be grateful that we have a job. A remnant from the Depression Era perhaps.  We’re expected to be “professional” and even normalize dysfunction because everyone else seems to be surviving it.

    For me, workplace trauma slipped in quietly — day by day — until one day I woke up and realized I was in an unhealthy relationship with my job, and I didn’t recognize myself anymore.  This is how I spotted the trauma, barely before it broke me.

    My nervous system was doing the job my boss should have been doing.  I knew something was wrong when my body started managing my environment for me:

    I would become tense before opening my email or my heart rate would spike when a certain name popped up.  I would find myself rehashing conversations from the day in my head and found that I absolutely could not relax on Sundays because Monday was looming. Looking back, I recognize that I found myself quietly scanning for tone, subtext and danger.  This wasn’t simple “stress”.  This was my nervous system trying to keep me safe in a place that wasn’t.

     At this juncture of my life, I would recognize that I was abandoning myself to survive the culture.  For me, workplace trauma showed up as saying yes when I meant no or shrinking my voice. Not speaking up in conference calls or meetings. Staying silent to avoid being a target.  The thing that really stings now? I was tolerating behavior I’d never accept in any other part of my life.

    When I began editing myself to stay employed, the job was no longer just a job — it was a threat.

    I found that one of the most insidious signs was that I was being told that I was “a team player” or “so reliable” or even “the one we can always count on”. PTO? What was that?

    But what they really meant was that I didn’t push back, I absorbed dysfunction and I was willing to sacrifice myself for the system. Obviously, being rewarded for self-abandonment is a hallmark of a harmful workplace.

    I’m embarrassed to admit this now, but I couldn’t even tell the difference between my value and my output. Workplace trauma can blur the line between “I didn’t finish the task” and “I am failing as a human”. In my own experience, I started believing untruths. My worth was tied to my productivity, resting was being lazy and mistakes were moral failures. I worked for years in an environment where burnout was a badge of honor.

    I learned the hard way, at the cost of my health, that this wasn’t ambition, it was conditioning.

    Just like in an unhealthy relationship, I felt the hypervigilance humming through my body.  When nothing was happening (aka there wasn’t a metaphorical fire to put out) I was on edge and hyper-alert.  I always felt like I was waiting for something to go wrong – to the extent that sometimes I was just unable to exhale.

    This was my body telling me the environment was unsafe — even though my mind was still trying to rationalize it.

    Subtle but devastating, I stopped dreaming. I stopped imaging a future. A different job. A different life. I stopped dreaming of a version of myself who felt alive.

    Workplace trauma didn’t just drain my energy – it drained my imagination and with it my creativity.  I couldn’t picture anything beyond survival, I felt trapped.

    I was failing to recognize myself.  This is the moment most people finally wake up, but not me. For years, I continued to look at myself in the mirror and think that “I used to be confident”, “I used to be creative”, “I used to feel like me”.  Workplace trauma didn’t just harm my career; it caused harm to my identity.

    If any of this feels familiar, you’re not being dramatic – you’re in danger.

    Workplace trauma is real. It’s pervasive and it’s often invisible until you name it. Recognizing trauma early is not weakness, it’s wisdom.  The moment you stop abandoning yourself and start listening to your body you start to reclaim your voice, your boundaries and your future.

    Everyone deserves a workplace that doesn’t require sacrifice to our health, our dignity, or our humanity.

    And if you’re reading this thinking, “This is me,” I want you to know:

    You’re not broken.
    You’re not imagining it.
    You’re not alone.
    And you’re allowed to choose yourself.

  • What “Safety” Really Means After a Lifetime of Hypervigilance

    For most of my life, “safety” wasn’t a feeling. It wasn’t softness or ease or the ability to exhale. Safety was a strategy — a constant scanning of the room, the people, the tone, the temperature. It was reading micro‑expressions like weather patterns. It was anticipating impact before it arrived. It was staying three steps ahead so I wouldn’t get blindsided again.

    Hypervigilance becomes a kind of genius when you grow up inside chaos.
    It sharpens you.
    It protects you.
    It keeps you alive.

    But it also rewires your body to believe that safety is something you earn through performance, perfection, or prediction — not something you inherently deserve.

    And that’s where the trouble begins.

    When “Safety” Has Always Meant Survival

    People who haven’t lived it think safety is simple.
    Lock the doors.
    Choose good people.
    Avoid bad situations.

    But for those of us who spent years — or decades — in survival mode, safety is not a location. It’s not a locked door or a quiet house or a stable relationship.

    Safety is a state of being we were never taught to inhabit.

    Hypervigilance trains your nervous system to believe:

    • Stillness is suspicious
    • Calm is temporary
    • Good moments are traps
    • Rest is dangerous
    • Joy is a setup

    So when life finally becomes quiet, your body doesn’t relax — it panics.
    It waits for the other shoe, the next blow, the next rupture.

    This is the paradox:
    When you’ve lived your whole life on high alert, peace feels unsafe.

    The Phoenix Protocol: Relearning Safety

    In The Phoenix Protocol, I talk about the four phases of transformation — Break, Burn, Rise, Return. Safety threads through every phase, but not in the way people expect.

    Safety isn’t the absence of danger.
    It’s the presence of self.

    It’s the moment you realize you no longer have to abandon yourself to stay alive.
    It’s the slow, steady re‑patterning of a nervous system that has only ever known fire.

    Safety becomes:

    • The ability to feel your feelings without bracing
    • The capacity to rest without guilt
    • The trust that you can handle your own life
    • The knowing that you don’t have to earn your right to exist
    • The quiet confidence that you can walk away from what harms you

    Safety is not external.
    It’s internal sovereignty.

    What Healing Actually Looks Like

    Healing doesn’t begin with trust.
    It begins with noticing.

    Noticing when your shoulders rise.
    Noticing when your breath shortens.
    Noticing when your mind starts scanning for exits.
    Noticing when your body prepares for a threat that isn’t there.

    Hypervigilance doesn’t disappear overnight.
    It softens.
    It loosens.
    It gives you space to choose differently.

    Healing is the moment you catch yourself bracing — and instead of shaming the reaction, you say:

    Of course you’re tense. You’ve lived through things.
    And you’re safe now. You can stay.

    That is the beginning of Return.

    What Safety Feels Like Now

    For me, safety is no longer a strategy.
    It’s a sensation.

    It feels like:

    • A jaw that unclenches
    • A breath that reaches the bottom of my lungs
    • A body that doesn’t flinch at kindness
    • A heart that believes good things can last
    • A life that doesn’t require constant translation

    Safety is the quiet knowing that I belong to myself — fully, fiercely, and without condition.

    And that is the rise.

    If You’re Still Hypervigilant, You’re Not Broken

    You’re not dramatic.
    You’re not overreacting.
    You’re not “too sensitive.”

    You are a person who adapted brilliantly to environments that required constant alertness.

    Hypervigilance was your armor.
    Safety is your birthright.
    And learning to live without armor is a sacred, courageous return.

    You don’t have to rush it.
    You don’t have to force it.
    You don’t have to pretend you’re further along than you are.

    You only have to begin.

  • Why Your Body Remembers What Your Mind Tries to Forget

    Blog Post #3 – March 1, 2026

    Many trauma survivors share strikingly similar physical health challenges. Digestive issues, autoimmune disorders, insomnia, and chronic pain show up again and again. In my own life, bloodwork often looks “normal” unless I’m in a flare, which can make the symptoms feel invisible or dismissed.

    The reality is simple: your body remembers what your mind tries to forget. It becomes the first witness to your pain and the last to release it. Long after your mind has minimized, rationalized, or moved on, your body continues to hold the truth—not because you’re weak or stuck, but because it was built to protect you.

    Why the mind tries to forget

    The mind is a storyteller. When something overwhelming happens, especially in childhood or adolescence, it often does three things to help you survive:

    • It buries the memory to keep you functioning.
    • It rewrites the narrative so you can make sense of the senseless.
    • It disconnects you from the emotion so you can keep moving.

    This isn’t denial. It’s protection. The mind’s job is to keep you able to think, plan, and navigate the world. When trauma threatens that, the mind steps in and says, “We can’t hold all of this right now.”

    But the body? The body doesn’t have that luxury.

    Why the body remembers

    Your body is wired for survival. When something traumatic happens, your nervous system records:

    • the fear
    • the tension
    • the sounds
    • the sensations
    • the helplessness
    • the instinct to run, freeze, or fight

    These aren’t memories in the traditional sense. They’re imprints; stored in your muscles, your breath, your heartbeat, your gut, your posture, your reactions.

    This is why you can feel unsafe even when you know you’re safe.
    This is why your stomach drops at a tone of voice.
    This is why your chest tightens when someone walks toward you too fast.
    This is why your body reacts before your mind understands why.

    Your body isn’t betraying you. It’s trying to protect you with the information it still carries.

    When the body speaks louder than the mind

    There are moments when your body tells the truth before your mind can catch up:

    • A smell takes you back to a moment you never talk about.
    • A stranger’s anger sends your heart racing.
    • A conversation leaves you shaking even though “nothing happened.”
    • A memory surfaces out of nowhere and steals your breath.

    These aren’t overreactions. They’re echoes—your body saying, “I’ve been here before, and I remember what happened last time.”

    Healing begins when you stop judging those reactions and start listening to them.

    Healing happens when the mind and body reunite

    Trauma splits you. Healing brings you back together.

    The work isn’t about forcing yourself to “get over it.” It’s about learning to:

    • notice what your body is saying
    • name the sensations without shame
    • understand the patterns
    • reconnect with the parts of you that went silent
    • create safety in the present moment

    This is why therapy, somatic work, breathwork, grounding, and trauma-informed practices are so powerful—they help your body release what it’s been holding so your mind doesn’t have to carry the burden alone.

    Your body isn’t the enemy. It’s the historian.
    Your mind isn’t broken. It’s the protector.
    Healing is the moment they stop fighting each other and start working together.

    The truth beneath it all

    Your body remembers because your story matters.
    Your mind forgets because you deserved safety.
    And your healing begins the moment you stop seeing your reactions as flaws and start seeing them as evidence of your strength.

    You survived.
    Your body carried you through.
    And now, you’re learning to come home to yourself again.