Therapists often encounter moments in their own lives that bring into sharp relief the very concepts they discuss daily with clients. Many of these events happened long ago, giving us time to process and integrate them, which allows us to approach clients’ experiences with a degree of objectivity. But sometimes, life crashes into our carefully cultivated professional worlds in real time—and when it does, the wise therapist pauses to reflect.

d, four masked men broke into my garage in the middle of the night while my family and I were sleeping and stole our car. In the morning, shocked to discover it gone, we called the police and began trying to piece together what had happened. No one was physically hurt, but the days that followed brought emotional dysregulation I both experienced and—thanks to the nature of my profession—observed. I was in the midst of a trauma response.

When something traumatic occurs—whether an act of violence, emotional abuse, or anything that triggers a sense of danger—we often shift into what is commonly known as “fight or flight.” According to the American Psychological Association, the fight-or-flight response is a physiological reaction triggered by the autonomic nervous system in the presence of a perceived threat or stressor. It prepares an organism to either confront or flee from danger.

While “fight” and “flight” are well-known responses (my husband and son immediately went into fight mode when they heard what had happened), there are two additional and lesser-known trauma responses: “freeze” and “fawn.”
Simply put, “fawn” is the attempt to neutralize danger by placating or merging with the source of threat (think Stockholm syndrome). “Freeze,” on the other hand, is what opossums do: they play dead. I fell squarely into the freeze category.

What did that look and feel like?

To begin with, I felt waves of anxiety coursing through my body when the police arrived. This was uncharacteristic, as I’m typically calm in a crisis. Soon, I began to dissociate. The world felt flat. I knew the officer was speaking to me, but I struggled to focus. I found myself retreating into my own mind, and I had an overwhelming urge to go inside and shut the door—away from what was being said and what it meant.
As the day went on, I could barely speak to my husband. When he spoke to me, it felt invasive and jarring. On a walk with our dogs, my legs felt heavy, the light was too bright, and everything seemed like an assault on my senses. Again, I felt a primal urge to go home, lock the door, and curl up in bed—motionless and undisturbed.

These feelings persisted for days. Where I normally would’ve reached out to friends to talk, I said nothing. I struggled through work meetings and fumbled my words. I even felt irritated by others’ attempts to empathize. That, too, made sense: accepting their comfort might have pulled me out of freeze—and I wasn’t ready for that yet. It didn’t feel safe.
Eventually, I began to thaw. The experience reminded me of those who remain frozen—stuck in what we call functional freeze. Symptomatically, it resembles depression, but its roots lie in unresolved trauma rather than neurochemical imbalance. Of course, depression and functional freeze can co-occur and often exacerbate one another.

A freeze response becomes functional freeze when we are unable to return to a baseline of safety after trauma. This can happen to a child in a chronically dysfunctional household, a person trapped in an abusive relationship, or anyone who endlessly replays a traumatic event in their mind. From the outside, these individuals may appear to be living “normal” lives. Internally, though, they may feel emotionally flat, physically heavy, foggy, fatigued, and disconnected. This is a lonely place. It can feel like there’s no way out—and no desire to connect with others, even if the opportunity arises.

Why would our brains react this way, despite the obvious downsides?
Because they’re trying to protect us. Freeze is a survival mechanism—a pause button. It gives us time to rest, regroup, and begin to make sense of what happened, especially when the truth feels too overwhelming to process all at once.

Healing from both short- and long-term freeze begins with reconnection—to ourselves and to others. This can mean gentle movement, deep breathing, allowing ourselves to sit with someone even in silence, or making the small but powerful choice to reach out. These steps may feel counterintuitive, but over time, they signal safety to the brain. And when the brain registers safety, the body can begin to thaw.

If reconnecting feels impossible, therapeutic support is not just helpful—it may be essential. Sitting with a trauma-informed therapist can be the safest and most effective way to emerge from this kind of mental hibernation. A skilled clinician will recognize what’s happening, help you understand it, and walk with you at a sustainable pace toward healing—without re-traumatization.

Our brains are wired for survival in endlessly adaptive ways. Responses like freeze are not weakness, failure, or flaws—they’re simply part of being human. When we understand them, we can work with them. And from there, not only survive, but deepen into the fullest expression of who we are meant to be.