Radical Care + Story Containment: The Invisible Architecture of Safer Storytelling

(This is a longer piece—part essay, part invitation. I hope you’ll read it in spaciousness. Or bookmark it to return when you can linger.)

Maybe you’re a therapist, coach, artist, or healer—someone who’s used to holding space for others. But when it comes to your own story, it feels different. You might feel the longing to tell it… and also a kind of hesitation.

You want to share. To be seen. To make meaning of something that’s lived inside you for a long time. But something in you also knows: the timing, the space, or the support isn’t quite right.

That knowing lives in your body. It’s your nervous system that's quietly saying, “not yet”—even if your mind is pushing with, “I should be able to write this.”

That disconnect can show up as:

• Obsessively rewriting or overworking your stories (fight response)
• Abandoning the project entirely (flight response)
• Hitting writer’s block that just won’t quit (freeze response)

These aren’t signs of personal failure. They’re signs your system is asking for more care. And that’s something worth listening to.

So what helps us feel safe enough to tell our stories—not just out loud or in public, but in a way that feels steady, self-honoring, and at our own pace?

In a culture that glorifies the quick reveal and polished soundbite, I choose another pace with my clients—one rooted in preparation, discretion, and trust in your body’s timing. Because telling your story should never come at the cost of your wellbeing.

Most of us know what we do is powerful. We don’t need to be bolder or more confident. We need rooms built to hold us. Containers that honor our complexity and help us feel safe enough to speak so we can come to understand ourselves in a new way. Where our stories can lead to transformation when we allow them to unfold with radical care.

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What Is Containment in Nervous System Response?

Containment is a somatic idea that simply means creating enough internal or external support to feel safe while moving through any intense, tender, or expansive experience. In storytelling, containment is the invisible vessel that allows your voice to emerge when it feels safe. It’s like a well-built nest—something strong and soft enough to hold a still-forming story. It’s the ritual, the structure, the community that says: You can rest here. You can feel how you feel. You will be held. There is no need to perform. 

And from that place of grounded presence, you can begin to listen—to what the story really means to you, what it’s asking of you, and if or when it wants to be shared publicly.

Every storyteller is different—which is why containment and radical care can’t be one-size-fits-all. Think of it like adjusting the temperature in a shared room—what feels cozy to one might be stifling to another. That’s why, in my  live writing spaces, we co-create conditions that are flexible, thoughtful, and responsive. These labs are just one example of what a radically caring, well-contained storytelling space can look like in practice—custom-built to meet a wide range of emotional and creative needs. Here’s how that looks in practice:

I check in with each participant before the session—through email or voice notes—to sense what themes are alive and how people are arriving into the space. This helps me thoughtfully design a gathering that meets people where they are, rather than assuming I know what they need. The 24 hours before a circle are a time of sacred listening for me—because my version of offering a luxury experience to my clients is seeing and holding them in the ways they most need.

On the day of the event, I spend time in self care and meditation, often an hour or two. Research in neuroscience and polyvagal theory shows that a regulated nervous system can help co-regulate others—that the simple act of my being grounded can invite others into a similar state. This quiet preparation lets me show up with attuned presence, so each storyteller feels not just included, but exquisitely cared for. This is part of why I purposely hold small group sessions so I have the capacity to hold whatever is present.

Once we gather, we set some tenants and expectations together as a collective before moving into a grounding somatic practice. I offer multiple pathways into somatics (breath, humming, back body awareness), so each person can access what’s most regulating for them. I also offer full permission: do only what feels good to your body. Need to walk instead of write? Rest instead of speak? You are still in the story.

We write together for 90 minutes in a quiet, generative flow state that honors the way each person’s creative energy wants to move. For internal processors, this might look like deep immersion in silence, letting the story unfold quietly on the page. For external processors, I offer 1:1 5 minute breakout rooms  where they can speak aloud what’s stirring, share a reflection, or just be witnessed. My goal is to meet you where you are. 

Throughout the session, I’m taking the temperature of the space. I’m watching breath patterns, facial expressions, the rhythm of typing or stillness—signs that help me feel when the room might need a pause, a breath, or a gentle redirection. These aren’t interruptions; they’re invitations to stay present without pushing. We close the writing time with a check-in and a simple movement practice so we can settle into our bodies before we step into the story circle.

Before the story circle we return to our tenants and step into the age old ritual of communal storysharing and sacred listening. Then we do a ceremonial story circle opening by lighting a candle or doing a reading. In the circle, each person is offered the time to read, speak, sing, or perform their stories. Or they may just want to sit in silence, and then they are offered this in community. If reflection is asked for, the group is invited to offer thoughtful observations—never advice, interpretation, or critique. The point isn’t to fix the story—it’s to give the storyteller a new way of seeing it through a strangers eyes. When others reflect back what they heard or felt, the teller often begins to hear their own voice more clearly. We end the circle with a simple closing ritual—maybe blowing out a candle or reading a passage—to mark the shift out of sacred space.

After the call, I offer voice note aftercare and optional 1:1 support for those who need more time to process or reshape what surfaced.

Want to experience this kind of held storytelling space? Sign up for the next StoryLab Live Writing Circle—a space where your body, voice, and story are welcomed exactly as they are, with radical care and gentle containment.

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Collective Safety Through Co-Creation

Agreements, shared rhythms, and rituals aren’t just logistics—they are acts of devotion. When we create them together, we build trust. When we return to them as a group, we co-regulate. This helps the nervous system soften, and signals: you are safe here.

Regulated bodies support others in regulation—a lesson I learned through somatic practice and the teachings of Staci Haines. That’s why I aim to arrive to every circle grounded, resourced, and steady.

I know what it feels like to be in a space that didn’t know how to hold me. A few years ago, I was in a shamanic journey session that opened up something deep and overwhelming in my body. I slipped into a preverbal state—I couldn’t speak or advocate for myself. My nervous system had gone into a freeze state in the way trauma sometimes does. And the space, well-intentioned as it was, wasn’t prepared to see or support what I was experiencing. I left that space feeling raw, unseen, and emotionally unheld.

That experience taught me a lot about the kind of presence I now strive to offer in my work. It's part of why I got certified in integrative somatics at The Embody Lab. I want my clients to know that if their story opens up something tender, I’m already watching and attuning. That they don’t have to hold their own regulation alone. That I will do everything in my power to hold them until we can get them into professional hands if that is necessary.

These values—deep listening, skilled presence, and nervous system literacy—are at the heart of what I mean when I talk about radical care. It’s not just about being kind; it’s about being equipped and having capacity for whatever may arise in my spaces.

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Why Somatic Storytelling is Radical Care

Radical care goes deeper than care. While care might respond with empathy or kindness, radical care is a systemic, relational practice. It considers not just what is needed in the moment, but how those needs are tended over time—before, during, and after we speak. Political theorist Joan Tronto reminds us that care involves noticing, taking responsibility, offering support, and receiving feedback—actions that mirror the rhythms of a well-held storytelling space.

Radical care begins before the first word is written and continues long after the telling ends. It might look like inviting a trusted friend to witness, moving your body after sharing, or receiving thoughtful voice-note support. These acts might seem small—but they create the texture of care that helps us stay in relationship with our stories—even when they stir discomfort. Think of it like climbing a ladder into a vulnerable memory: radical care is the friend holding the base steady. You’re still doing the work of climbing, but you don’t have to do it alone. And sometimes, moving through that discomfort (with the right support) is what helps the nervous system find its way back to regulation.

This kind of care changes how we tell—and how we live with—the stories that shape us. Some stories may never be fully healed. That doesn’t mean they can’t be reclaimed. Radical care honors this complexity. It moves us toward empowerment, not exposure. As feminist scholar Maria Puig de la Bellacasa notes, care becomes a political act—rooted in reciprocity, trust, and shared responsibility.

As we share our stories in circle, I try to model this kind of reclamation. I name the barriers we all face—shame, urgency, the myth of “finished.” And I remind us all: you have thousands of stories. You get to choose which ones to tell—and when.

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Myths We Must Unlearn

You do not have to tell your most painful story first. You do not need to tell everything in your stories publicly. The stories that feel less charged may be your entryway. Gentleness is not avoidance—it is a powerful strategy of nervous system-informed care.

Once a story is released publicly, it cannot be taken back. Without preparation, support, or community, that release can sometimes retraumatize. This is where radical care shows its depth—not just helping us tell, but helping us hold. We also need places to return to after we share our stories (especially publicly)—a room where rupture and repair are possible. A place where we are not asked to be brave alone.

Containment is what lets us move from silence to speech—gently, with support. It gives us something to lean on, so we’re not doing it alone.

This is why story circles matter. When we do this work in small, carefully held spaces, we change how our story moves in the world. This is why collective witnessing and co-regulation matter. Healing doesn’t only happen in the public telling—it happens in the way that telling is received, held, and honored by the group.

When we follow that quiet nudge of a story and find it met with care, something powerful unfolds. The story softens. We soften. And in that softness, something new becomes possible.

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A Practice for the Storyteller

This is where we begin—not with the biggest, boldest story, but with a gentle tuning inward. If you’re feeling stuck, tender, or unsure about a story you want to write, start here:

• What happens in my body when I think about telling this story?
• Is there a part of it that feels safer or more accessible to start with?
• What support might I need before, during, and after I write or share this?

There is no wrong way to tell your story. But there are ways that help your story feel more held—like the difference between being heard and being truly seen. That’s the quiet strength of containment: creating inner and outer conditions that help you stay with your story, even when it brings up discomfort. And it’s radical care that tends to that process—meeting your story with enough softness, structure, and support to move through it without harm.

Together, they make storytelling not just possible, but a practice of healing and reclamation—a way of coming home to yourself while being held in the presence of others.

May your story meet a space that’s steady enough to hold it. And may that space remind you: your voice matterss and you are never alone.

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