Board and Pieces

Coping with my childhood trauma feels like I’m locked in a chess match I never agreed to play. My opponent—the memories, the pain, the fear—sits across from me, always patient, always ready to pounce on my missteps. The board is a battlefield of my life, and every piece I move feels heavy, like it carries the weight of the choices I’ve made just to survive.

Sometimes, I can see a clear path forward—a bold move that might give me an advantage—but just as often, I feel trapped, backed into a corner by thoughts I can’t seem to shake. My pawns are my small victories: getting out of bed, reaching out for help, choosing to forgive myself for things that were never my fault. They move slowly, and sometimes it feels like they don’t matter, but I know they’re my foundation.

The knights are my coping mechanisms, the unexpected ways I maneuver around the pain—music, writing, or just breathing through another hard day. The bishop is my intuition, guiding me diagonally through the fog, even when I can’t see the whole picture. And my queen… she’s my strength, she’s the spirit of my heart, my ability to rise up even when I feel shattered. She’s what keeps me fighting.

But the trauma—it plays like it knows me better than I know myself. It anticipates my fears, capitalizes on my doubts, and sometimes, it wins a round. It’s in those moments I feel like flipping the board, giving up. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I’ve learned that this match isn’t about winning or losing—it’s about staying in the game. It’s about recognizing that every piece I move, no matter how small, is progress.

And as long as I keep playing, I have a chance to rewrite the game. Piece by piece, move by move, I’m learning to take back the power that was taken from me. Hopefully someday soon, I’ll look across the board and realize I’m not playing against the trauma anymore. I’m playing for myself.