Healing doesn’t erase the cracks; it fills them with gold so the light can finally get out
– Lisa Tickel
Childhood abuse remains one of society’s most pervasive—and least openly discussed—public-health crises. According to the CDC, one in seven children experiences abuse or neglect each year, yet many survivors carry their stories in silence well into adulthood. That silence doesn’t just wound the heart; it can weaken the immune system, heighten anxiety, and shape life choices for decades. Amid the statistics, voices like Lisa Tickel’s shine a guiding light. A seasoned trauma-recovery advocate and host of the Healing & Growing Hand in Hand podcast, Lisa transforms her own painful history into practical roadmaps that shorten the distance between surviving and thriving.
In this in-depth conversation, Stacey Chillemi sits down with Lisa Tickel to explore the pivotal moments that turned personal tragedy into a platform for change. Together they unpack the four pillars of Lisa’s work—survivor stories, expert insights, awareness, and prevention—while offering actionable tools for anyone seeking healing or hoping to support a loved one. From the power of six-week workshops to everyday micro-practices that soothe an overtaxed nervous system, this interview is a masterclass in resilience, empathy, and the art of turning scars into stepping-stones.
Thank you so much for joining us! Our readers would love to get to know you a bit better. Can you tell us a bit about your backstory?
I’m the youngest of two, raised in a modest Midwestern home that—at first glance—could have graced a postcard. Inside, however, daily life felt more like a minefield. My brother, seven years older, battled his own demons and often released them on me through shouting, threats, and the occasional shove that knocked the breath out of my tiny lungs. My mother, already fragile from her own unresolved pain, attempted to keep order with razor-sharp criticism: “Why can’t you be more like the neighbor’s daughter?” or “No one wants to see a chubby girl in church clothes.” My father coped by disappearing—sometimes literally hiding in the garage until tempers cooled. By age thirteen I turned to food for comfort, sneaking crackers and peanut butter into my bedroom closet just to feel a few minutes of calm. In my twenties I started therapy, but the tools to address complex trauma were scarce. The true pivot came in my thirties when I stepped into a women’s childhood-abuse healing workshop at my church. The leader opened with, “Your pain is real, but so is your possibility,” and I felt my shoulders drop for the first time in years. That single sentence cracked open a door I’ve walked through ever since.
Was there a defining moment when you knew you were called to help other survivors?
Absolutely. During that first six-week workshop, one participant—a quiet mom named Karen—couldn’t raise her eyes from the table when we began. On the final night she looked each woman in the eye and said, “For the first time I believe I deserve peace.” Witnessing that 180-degree turn electrified me. I knew then that my own scars could become signposts for others. When the original facilitators retired, they asked if I’d take the reins. It felt less like a decision and more like destiny tapping me on the shoulder: “Tag, you’re it. Go show more Karens what’s possible.”
What was the first clue that what you experienced was abuse and not just “family life”?
It dawned on me gradually. Around seven I noticed how different my friends’ homes felt—there was laughter at dinner, not tension thick enough to chew. One day my best friend’s mom tousled my hair and called me “sweetheart.” I froze, because tenderness was foreign. That evening, when my brother yelled at me for touching his record player and my mother snapped about my “baby fat,” I realized the contrast was too sharp to ignore. I couldn’t name it as abuse yet, but I knew in my bones something was wrong.
Looking back, what early steps—or missteps—shaped your healing journey?
My earliest step was simply asking a high-school counselor for help, though all she could offer then was, “Try focusing on your grades.” A misstep came next: I decided independence was safety and bulldozed through college and work without addressing the emotional wreckage. That led to anxiety attacks in grocery-store aisles and perfectionism that wrecked my sleep. Therapy helped, but traditional talk therapy alone didn’t reach the body-stored trauma. The first right step was diversifying my toolbox—adding breathwork, journaling, faith practices, and ultimately group work. Each layer addressed a different wound: mind, body, soul, and community.
Your podcast rests on four pillars—survivor stories, expert insights, awareness, and prevention. Why those?
In my darkest years I craved four things I couldn’t find in one place:
- A voice to say out loud what happened to me without apology—survivor stories grant that.
- A map drawn by professionals—therapists, physicians, neuroscientists—so I knew which trailheads to follow.
- A flashlight that exposed hidden abuse statistics, reassuring me I wasn’t isolated or “too sensitive.”
- A bridge forward so cycles don’t repeat in the next generation.
Those pillars operate like the four legs of a sturdy table. Remove one and the support wobbles; keep all four and survivors can finally set down their heavy load.
Which pillar resonates most with listeners?
The stories win by a landslide. When a guest says, “I used to binge-eat in secret,” a listener DM’s me, “I thought I was the only one hiding wrappers under the bed.” Story creates instant belonging, and belonging is the antidote to shame. Expert tips enhance that belonging, but connection starts the moment someone whispers, “Me too.”
Can you walk us through the six-week workshop? What happens in Week 1 versus Week 6?
- Week 1: Voice & Validation – We meet in a cozy room (or online breakout if virtual), light a candle, and invite each woman to share one snapshot—no pressure for the full biography. Often tears flow, but so does relief.
- Week 2: Meeting the Inner Child – We explore childhood photos, journal to our younger selves, and practice self-soothing techniques like the butterfly hug.
- Week 3: Emotional Literacy – Participants build vocabularies beyond “fine” and “mad,” discovering words like “disappointed,” “unsettled,” or “hopeful.” Naming feelings tamps down their intensity by up to 40 percent.
- Week 4: Trigger Mapping – We unpack real-life landmines: a partner’s raised voice, a slammed door, holidays. Women craft “if-then” plans, e.g., “If I sense panic, then I breathe out for eight counts.”
- Week 5: Reframing & Boundary Practice – We challenge inner narratives (“I’m broken”) and rehearse scripts for setting limits (“I’m not available for that conversation”).
- Week 6: Integration & Celebration – Participants share wins: “I slept through the night,” “I told my sister ‘no’ without guilt,” or the sweetest—“I laughed at myself in the mirror.” We end by writing a compassionate letter from our future self to our present self and seal it in an envelope to open in six months.
Women often arrive curled inward and leave taking up their rightful space, shoulders back, hopeful sparkle restored.
For someone hesitating to join, what myth would you bust right now?
“I’m too shattered.” Survivors often picture healing as massive reconstructive surgery when it’s actually more like gold-kintsugi pottery: the cracks remain visible yet filled with gleaming wisdom. Our 75-year-old alum thought decades of silence made her a lost cause. By week six she read a poem aloud—her voice quavered but stood strong. Months later she reported less chronic pain and deeper intimacy with her husband. Age didn’t diminish her capacity; it deepened her well of resilience.
Community spaces can be both healing and triggering. How do you keep yours safe?
Safety isn’t a buzzword; it’s our operating system. Every member signs a confidentiality pledge, and we limit group size to twelve so nobody gets lost in the shuffle. Two moderators (myself and a trauma-informed colleague) review posts before they go live, and we hold weekly “office hours” in a private Zoom room for one-on-one check-ins. We also teach community guidelines—no unsolicited advice, no graphic details without a content warning, and plenty of “I-statements” (“I felt X” versus “You should do Y”). The result is a space where vulnerability feels less like a cliff edge and more like a supported bridge.
Can you share a success story that illustrates the power of collective healing?
Sure—let’s call her Maya. She entered our circle convinced she was “unfixable.” Her father had ridiculed her every dream, and as an adult she’d internalized the role of silent caretaker. In week two she whispered, “I’ve never said this out loud, but I want to paint.” We cheered. By week five she posted her first watercolor in our forum. Fast-forward a year: Maya opened an Etsy shop, spoke at a community art show about healing through creativity, and now mentors new participants. What healed her most wasn’t one-on-one advice; it was the collective chorus saying, “Your dreams deserve daylight.”
What daily micro-practices do you recommend for survivors who still feel on edge?
- Morning pages (10 minutes): Dump every anxious thought onto paper—no punctuation or censorship. This frees brain bandwidth for calm focus.
- Sensory grounding (2 minutes): Wherever you are, name five things you see, four you can touch, three you can hear, two you can smell, and one you can taste. This pulls the mind from past memories into present safety.
- Sunshine stroll (10 minutes): Even pacing your driveway counts. Movement plus vitamin D boosts serotonin and signals the nervous system that danger has passed.
- Evening gratitude scan (3 minutes): List three micro-wins—“I answered one tough email,” “I drank water before my coffee,” “I made a toddler giggle.” Small acknowledgments build self-trust.
Childhood abuse often hides in plain sight. What warning signs should teachers, coaches, or neighbors watch for?
Watch for U-turns in demeanor: a kid who loved recess now clings to the corner of the playground; a conscientious student suddenly stops turning in homework. Physical signs can be baggy clothing in hot weather (concealing bruises) or frequent unexplained stomachaches. Also notice hyper-independence—kids who insist “I’m fine” and never ask for help. Over-functioning can be as telling as acting out.
If you could implement one policy tomorrow to reduce childhood abuse, what would it be?
A federal ban on corporal punishment paired with nationwide caregiver training in restorative discipline. Research from the American Academy of Pediatrics shows physical punishment increases aggression and mental-health issues, yet many states still allow it in homes and schools. We’d fund trauma-informed classroom management, parent coaching in emotion coaching, and outreach campaigns that showcase alternative tools: time-ins, logical consequences, and collaborative problem-solving.
Technology makes connection easy but emotional literacy harder. How can parents counterbalance that?
Designate a family “feelings check-in” every evening—three minutes where each member names one emotion and one need. Use emojis for younger kids if words are tough. Model texting and talking: “I’m proud you messaged grandma, let’s also send her a voice note so she hears your excitement.” And create tech-free buffers: no screens during the first hour after school or the last hour before bed, both prime times for debriefing and decompression.
You emphasize self-relationship. When did you realize you actually enjoyed your own company?
It happened on a mundane Tuesday. I was driving home from the grocery store, windows down, radio humming. I caught my reflection in the rear-view mirror—smiling, singing off-key—and felt genuine fondness rather than critique. It struck me that I’d become the nurturing presence I once searched for in others. I pulled over, placed a hand on my chest, and whispered, “You make good company.” It was as profound as any therapy breakthrough.
Do you have a go-to affirmation or mirror mantra?
“I’ve got this.” I write it in lipstick on my bathroom mirror every January. When anxiety spikes, I plant my feet, breathe low into my belly, and repeat the phrase until my pulse steadies. Over time, those three words have rewired a default setting from panic to quiet determination.
Besides your own materials, what book should every survivor or ally read?
The Myth of Normal by Dr. Gabor Maté unpacks how modern society normalizes dysfunction—chronic stress, emotional suppression, disconnected community—and then blames individuals for breaking down. The book reframes trauma not as “What’s wrong with you?” but “What happened to you, and how did you adapt?” That compassionate lens is life-changing for survivors and eye-opening for allies.
On hard days, what personal ritual keeps you grounded?
I practice a three-part reset called “Heart-Settle”: (1) Hand on heart, acknowledge aloud what I’m feeling (“I’m overwhelmed”). (2) Lengthen each exhale to twice the length of the inhale—science shows this flips the vagus-nerve switch from fight-or-flight to rest-and-digest. (3) Step outside—even if it’s raining—and visually track something in nature: a drifting cloud, a bird on a wire, the sway of a tree. Five minutes later I’m back online, able to choose rather than react.
How can our readers follow your work online?
Visit HealingAndGrowingHandInHandPodcast.com for weekly episodes, free PDF starter kits, and workshop registration. Subscribe to Healing & Growing Hand in Hand on YouTube, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify for survivor stories and expert deep-dives. You can also connect with me on socials: TikTok @lisatickel, Instagram @lisamtickel, YouTube @lisamtickel, and LinkedIn linkedin.com/in/lisatickel.
Lisa, thank you for pouring out so much wisdom and tangible hope today. I know our readers will carry your words with them.
Thank you, Stacey. Conversations like this remind all of us that healing is both possible and beautifully contagious. I’m grateful for the chance to share and to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with anyone ready to begin.
