2007 – Learning Stillness: Living with PTSD
Even as our days grew calmer and brighter after Peter’s arrival, I knew that something inside me was not as it had been before. The memories of loss and chaos would return without warning — sometimes in dreams, sometimes in silence. I tried to hide it, to stay strong for my family, but the sleepless nights and the quiet anxiety never quite left me.
Life in the hills was peaceful — the laughter of the children, the sound of roosters at dawn, and the scent of rain on dry soil after long days of heat. Yet beneath that calm, I carried an unease that I could not escape.
After seeking help, I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).
The advice I received changed my life. I was told to avoid noise, confusion, and stress — and, above all, to stay away from constant online stimulation and the growing pull of new digital distractions. Instead, I was encouraged to focus on calm routines, time in nature, and quiet reflection - and more than anything else, practice meditation every day.
Long before that time, I had already developed a deep respect for Buddhist teachings. While living in Phuket, I often visited a Thai monk who became both a teacher and a close friend. His temple was in the hills, set within a cave-like space where a great stone formed the roof and hundreds of beautiful artifacts surrounded the altar. Sometimes I stayed there overnight, joining the monk in quiet meditation beneath candlelight, or walking slowly through the darkness in peaceful reflection.
One of the most touching experiences of my life was following him on his morning alms round, watching how villagers showed respect and kindness through their daily offerings.
After the tsunami, I often went to Wat Chalong, where I spent hours each day in quiet meditation, seeking clarity about how to rebuild my life and care for my family. That practice of mindfulness — sitting, breathing, and walking — became my greatest teacher.
Yet, it was not easy. The person I once was — always active, surrounded by people, full of ideas and plans — had become someone who needed silence to heal.
At first, I felt restless, unsure what to do with the long quiet hours of the day. That was when I began taking long morning walks through the fields and along the small country roads. The rhythm of walking helped me think more clearly and breathe more deeply.
Those walks slowly became my best medicine. The open sky, the rice fields, and the distant mountains gave me a sense of balance that no treatment could replace.
Gradually, I came to understand that my life had not ended with the tsunami — it had simply changed direction: a slower, quieter life.
