How Childhood Emotional Abuse Shows Up in the Body as an Adult

RELATIONAL TRAUMA & CHILDHOOD WOUNDS • April 12, 2026

LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026

Last reviewed: June 2026 by Annie Wright, LMFT

In short: Childhood emotional abuse lives on in the adult body as chronic pain, autoimmune flares, insomnia, and gut disorders because prolonged emotional harm during development dysregulates the nervous system and stress response in lasting, measurable ways.

When the Body Sends the Bill

Taylor is thirty-eight years old, a senior product director at a biotech firm in San Francisco, and she’s been clutching the edge of her desk since 9 a.m. Not because the product launch is in three days. Because her jaw hurts so badly she can barely open it. The pain radiates up through her left temple and down into her neck, a rope of tension she’s learned to carry like background noise. She has a mouthguard she rarely wears and a prescription for muscle relaxants she fills but doesn’t take. She doesn’t have time to be in pain. She powers through.

What Taylor doesn’t know yet. What no doctor has ever asked her about, not in thirty-eight years of annual physicals and specialist referrals. Is that her jaw started clenching when she was seven years old. When her father would get home from work and the whole house would shift. When her mother’s voice would take on that particular edge, the one that meant anything Taylor said could and would be used against her. When the safest thing her small body knew to do was go very still and very tight and hope it would pass.

The pain in Taylor’s jaw isn’t structural, though a dozen imaging studies suggest otherwise. It’s historical. Her body is still bracing for an impact that happened decades ago, in a home that no longer exists, from people who told her she was too sensitive, too much, never enough. The body remembers what the mind has filed away under “fine” and “over it” and “I turned out okay.”

In my work with clients, I see this pattern constantly. driven women who come to therapy not necessarily because they’ve named their childhood as abusive. They often haven’t. But because their bodies have started insisting on being heard. The chronic migraines. The IBS that appears before every high-stakes meeting. The autoimmune diagnosis that arrived the year everything finally “worked out.” The body, it turns out, keeps meticulous records.

What Is Childhood Emotional Abuse?

Before we go further, it’s worth naming exactly what we’re talking about. Because in my clinical experience, many women who grew up in emotionally abusive homes don’t call it that. They call it “strict,” “intense,” “complicated.” They say “my parents did their best” in the same breath that they describe being screamed at until they dissociated, or being told they were worthless, or watching one parent systematically undermine everything they thought was real.

Childhood emotional abuse is distinct from childhood emotional neglect, which involves the absence of attunement. Parents who simply weren’t there emotionally, who couldn’t see you. Emotional abuse is different. It’s active. It’s directed at you. It’s the presence of something harmful, not the absence of something good.

Emotional abuse can be overt. Screaming, name-calling, public humiliation. Or it can be subtle and covert: the parent who delivers cruelty in a calm voice, who rewrites history when confronted, who makes love contingent on performance. It can come from one parent while the other minimizes or denies it, adding a layer of gaslighting to the original wound. And it can come in waves, interspersed with warmth and normality, which is what makes it so confusing and so hard to name.

For driven women especially, emotional abuse often arrives alongside achievement-oriented messaging. You’re screamed at for your grades and praised for your awards. You’re told you’re worthless in private and paraded as the family’s pride in public. This creates a particular psychological split that I explore in depth in my writing on developmental trauma. The sense that you must constantly perform to earn safety, that love is transactional, that who you are underneath your accomplishments is fundamentally unacceptable.

The Neurobiology: How Emotional Abuse Rewires the Stress Response

Here’s what happens in the body of a child who is repeatedly emotionally abused: the stress response system never gets the chance to return to baseline. A child in a safe home activates their sympathetic nervous system. The “fight or flight” branch. In moments of threat, and then, once safety is restored, deactivates it and returns to what neuroscientists call “ventral vagal” regulation: the calm, connected state that allows for learning, play, and growth. But a child living with chronic emotional abuse can’t do that. The threat is at the dinner table. The threat tucks them into bed. There is no “after.”

Bessel van der Kolk, MD, psychiatrist and trauma researcher at Boston University and author of The Body Keeps the Score, has spent decades documenting what happens when the stress response system is chronically activated in childhood. His research shows that traumatic experiences don’t just shape psychology. They alter the brain’s structure, the immune system’s functioning, and the body’s relationship to sensation itself. As he writes, the body keeps the score of every overwhelming experience, storing what the mind cannot consciously hold. (PMID: 9384857)

Stephen Porges, PhD, neuroscientist at Indiana University and developer of Polyvagal Theory, offers a framework that’s been transformative in understanding why childhood emotional abuse leaves such a specific signature in the body. Porges’ theory describes three states of the autonomic nervous system: the ventral vagal (safe, social, regulated), the sympathetic (mobilized, fight-or-flight), and the dorsal vagal (collapsed, shut down, dissociated). Children living with emotional abuse cycle chronically between sympathetic hyperactivation. Always braced, always scanning. And dorsal vagal shutdown. Numb, flat, gone. (PMID: 7652107)

What Porges’ work illuminates is that these aren’t emotional states. They’re physiological states. The body learns to live in chronic mobilization because that’s what kept you alive. And in adulthood, when the original threat is long gone, the nervous system doesn’t automatically update. It keeps running the same program, burning cortisol, keeping the muscles braced, keeping the gut clenched, keeping the immune system at war with itself.

Gabor Maté, MD, physician and author of When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress, adds a crucial piece: he argues that many chronic illnesses. Autoimmune conditions, inflammatory disorders, certain cancers. Are the body’s way of saying what the mind has been trained to suppress. His clinical work with patients facing conditions from multiple sclerosis to rheumatoid arthritis consistently reveals histories of childhood emotional abuse and chronic stress. The body, Maté argues, cannot be fooled. What we deny in consciousness, it expresses in tissue.

The ACE (Adverse Childhood Experiences) study, the landmark research by Vincent Felitti, MD, and Robert Anda, MD, at Kaiser Permanente, demonstrated this with epidemiological rigor. Studying over 25,000 patients, Felitti and Anda found that childhood adversity. Including emotional abuse. Was strongly correlated with adult health outcomes across virtually every category: heart disease, cancer, autoimmune conditions, obesity, depression, addiction. The higher the ACE score, the higher the health risk. The connection between what happened to you as a child and what lives in your body as an adult isn’t theoretical. It’s documented in one of the largest studies in public health history. (PMID: 9635069)

Understanding this biology matters enormously for driven women who have spent years being told their symptoms are stress-related, psychosomatic, or simply the cost of ambition. They’re not wrong that stress is involved. They’re wrong only about which stress. And when it started. If you want to explore more about how this intersects with complex patterns of relational harm, my post on how relational trauma differs from complex PTSD may offer useful context.

How It Shows Up in Driven Women’s Bodies

Driven women are particularly vulnerable to a specific kind of misconnection: they’re extraordinarily good at functioning despite their symptoms. They’ve been doing it since childhood. A child who learned that her emotional needs were dangerous. That crying brought more rage, that vulnerability brought contempt. Learns very early to override her body’s signals and keep moving. By adulthood, that override is so automatic she often doesn’t notice she’s doing it.

What I see consistently in my clinical work is that the body eventually stops being override-able. Something breaks through. A diagnosis, a collapse, a symptom that can no longer be managed by pushing harder. And that’s often what finally brings driven women to therapy. Not because they’ve decided they deserve care, but because their body has decided for them.

Taylor came to therapy not because she had named her childhood as abusive. She came because her rheumatologist, at their third appointment in two years, sat across from her with an autoimmune panel that looked worse than the year before and asked: “What is happening in your emotional life?” Taylor didn’t know how to answer. She had never been asked.

In our early sessions, what emerged wasn’t just a story of a difficult childhood. Though it was that. It was the story of a nervous system that had been running on high alert since she was a small child in a house where her father’s unpredictable rages made every meal a potential minefield. Taylor had learned to read the room before she could read a book. She’d learned to monitor the energy in a space, to track micro-shifts in her father’s mood, to stay hypervigilant so she could predict and brace and minimize harm. That skill. That exquisitely calibrated attention to environmental threat. Had made her exceptional at her job. It had also never stopped running.

The jaw tension was bracing. The autoimmune flares were the immune system turned, quite literally, against itself. Mirroring an early relational environment in which she’d been turned against by the very people who should have been her protection. The insomnia was a nervous system that couldn’t trust the dark, couldn’t believe morning would be safe. These aren’t metaphors. They’re biology. And understanding them changed everything for Taylor. Not because naming the pattern fixed it instantly, but because it meant, for the first time, her body’s story made sense.

If any of this resonates, you might also find it useful to read about how childhood trauma affects parenting. Because for many of my clients, their body’s distress intensifies when they become parents and the echoes become impossible to ignore.

The Somatic Manifestations Catalogue

What follows isn’t an exhaustive clinical reference. It’s a practical mapping of what childhood emotional abuse most commonly leaves in the body. I offer it not to alarm you, but because in my experience, one of the most healing things a person can hear is: this is not random. This makes sense.

Chronic headaches and migraines. The body holds tension in the head, neck, and shoulders as a protective bracing response. For children who grew up in states of chronic hypervigilance. Always listening for the next eruption, always scanning. The muscles of the upper body may quite literally never have fully released. Migraines in adults with histories of childhood trauma frequently track emotional triggers: conflict, criticism, the anticipation of confrontation. The nervous system reads those cues as danger and responds accordingly.

TMJ and jaw clenching. The jaw is one of the body’s primary sites of suppressed expression. When a child learns that speaking up is dangerous. That saying “stop,” “that hurts,” or “you’re wrong” brings more rage or more contempt. The jaw becomes the site of words that couldn’t be spoken. Grinding and clenching, particularly at night when conscious control relaxes, is one of the most common somatic presentations I see in adults with childhood emotional abuse histories.

Gastrointestinal disorders. The gut is often called the “second brain,” and for good reason: it contains more neurons than the spinal cord and is exquisitely sensitive to the state of the autonomic nervous system. IBS, chronic nausea, digestive dysfunction, and gut disorders are strongly associated with trauma histories in the research literature. Gabor Maté, MD, has documented extensively how the gut bears the burden of emotions that were never allowed expression. In women with emotional abuse histories, gut symptoms often flare in situations that unconsciously echo the original threat environment: high-stakes evaluations, conflict with authority figures, intimate vulnerability.

Autoimmune conditions. This is perhaps the most clinically striking area. The research linking childhood adversity to autoimmune disorders. Including rheumatoid arthritis, lupus, fibromyalgia, multiple sclerosis, and inflammatory bowel disease. Is robust and growing. The proposed mechanism involves chronic cortisol elevation (from sustained stress activation) disrupting immune system regulation, eventually causing the immune system to lose the ability to distinguish self from threat and attack the body’s own tissue. The ACE study found that high ACE scores significantly increased the risk of autoimmune disease in adulthood.

Fibromyalgia and chronic widespread pain. Fibromyalgia. Characterized by widespread musculoskeletal pain, fatigue, and heightened pain sensitivity. Is disproportionately prevalent in trauma survivors, and disproportionately dismissed by clinicians. The nervous system of a trauma survivor often develops central sensitization: a state in which the pain-processing system becomes dysregulated, interpreting sensory input as more threatening than it is. This isn’t “all in the head.” It’s in the nervous system’s hardware, shaped by years of living in threat.

Chronic back and neck tension. The back and neck carry the musculature of holding on, of bracing, of the freeze response that kept a child safe in an unsafe home. Many adults with emotional abuse histories describe a baseline tension in the upper back and neck that no amount of massage fully resolves. Because the tension isn’t muscular in origin. It’s neurological. It’s the body still bracing for impact.

Sleep disruption and insomnia. Safety is a prerequisite for sleep. A nervous system that learned in childhood that the night was unpredictable. That footsteps in the hall meant danger, that waking could mean another confrontation. Often can’t fully downregulate enough for restorative sleep, even decades later. Insomnia in trauma survivors frequently involves hyperarousal at bedtime, difficulty staying asleep, and a quality of alertness even in sleep that leaves the body unrestored.

Heart palpitations and dysregulation. Palpitations. The awareness of one’s own heartbeat, often as racing, pounding, or irregular. Can be a straightforward expression of sympathetic nervous system activation. For women with emotional abuse histories, these often occur in interpersonal contexts that feel threatening: confrontation, evaluation, intimacy, criticism. The heart is quite literally responding to a perceived threat, even when no threat is present in the current environment.

Skin conditions. Psoriasis, eczema, hives, and rosacea are all associated with stress and immune dysregulation. And in the research literature, with childhood adversity. The skin is a boundary organ: it’s how we meet the world. For a child whose boundaries were chronically violated. Whose feelings were overridden, whose reality was denied. The skin sometimes becomes the site of that boundary wound.

What’s essential to understand about all of these presentations is that they’re not weakness. They’re not hypochondria. They’re not “just anxiety.” They’re the body’s extraordinarily intelligent response to a childhood environment that required it to stay in a state of constant readiness. The body that learned to brace, to clench, to hyperactivate and sometimes to shut down. That body saved your life. It did what it needed to do. The work of healing is not to blame it for those adaptations, but to gently, persistently show it that the emergency is over.

You can read more about the broader landscape of betrayal trauma. Including how early relational wounds create patterns that persist long into adulthood. In my comprehensive guide on that topic.

Both/And: Successful and Still Suffering

There’s a particular cruelty in the experience of driven women who carry somatic trauma: the very qualities that make them exceptional in the world are often rooted in the same nervous system that keeps them in chronic pain. The hypervigilance that makes Taylor brilliant at her job. The ability to read a room, anticipate needs, track multiple dynamics simultaneously. Is the same hypervigilance that won’t let her jaw unclench. These things aren’t separable. They grew from the same root.

This is the Both/And reality I want to name explicitly: you can be successful and still suffering. You can be functional and still in significant pain. You can be the one everyone else sees as “having it together” and still be carrying a body that is, in a very real sense, still living in the house you grew up in.

Lucia is forty-two, a physician and mother of two in Boston. She runs a busy internal medicine practice, is finishing a research fellowship, and is described by colleagues as “unflappable.” In reality, Lucia has had IBS since her early twenties, migraines that require her to step out of patient rooms, and a persistent skin condition on her hands that worsens significantly under stress. She’s seen gastroenterologists, neurologists, and dermatologists. She’s tried every medication. No one has ever asked her what her childhood was like.

When Lucia came to therapy. Initially framed as “leadership coaching,” because asking for help with emotional pain felt impossible for a physician whose identity was built on being the competent one. What emerged over months was a picture of a childhood dominated by a mother whose emotional volatility was extreme. Not physical violence. Nothing she could point to as obviously wrong. Just a pervasive atmosphere of rage and contempt, of having her reality corrected constantly, of learning that her feelings were too much and her needs were an inconvenience.

Lucia had built her entire identity around being needed and being competent because both kept her safe as a child. Being useful to her mother bought temporary relief from the contempt. Being excellent protected her from certain criticisms. But it also meant she’d never learned to rest, never learned to receive care, never learned to trust that she was acceptable when she wasn’t performing. Her body had been keeping score for forty years. The IBS was worst on call nights and before difficult family events. The migraines clustered around anything involving evaluation or conflict. The skin on her hands flared every November, the month her mother would visit.

The Both/And isn’t just “you’re successful and you’re struggling.” It’s deeper than that. It’s: the adaptations that got you here were also responses to real harm. Your success doesn’t mean the harm wasn’t real. Your success doesn’t mean your body is wrong. Your driven-ness and your suffering aren’t contradictions. They’re consequences of the same story.

For Lucia, that reframe was genuinely radical. She’d spent years using her success as evidence that her childhood “couldn’t have been that bad.” If she was fine, then it wasn’t serious. If she was a doctor with a thriving practice, then what right did she have to say she’d been harmed? Letting go of that logic. Letting the Both/And be true. Was the first crack through which healing could enter.

This tension is something I explore in depth through my work on the “fine childhood” that wasn’t. The way driven women often discount their own histories because the external conditions looked adequate.

The Systemic Lens: When Medicine Dismisses Women’s Pain

It would be incomplete to talk about somatic trauma in women without talking about the medical system these women navigate. Because what they encounter there is itself often a retraumatization.

The gender pain gap is well-documented and well-damning. Research consistently shows that women’s pain is systematically undertreated compared to men’s: women wait longer in emergency rooms, are less likely to receive opioid pain medication for the same complaints, and are more likely to have their symptoms attributed to anxiety or emotional causes. A 2001 study published in the Journal of Law, Medicine & Ethics found that women were significantly more likely than men to be undertreated for pain across clinical settings. A 2019 analysis of nearly eleven million hospital visits found that women waited an average of sixteen minutes longer than men to receive pain medication.

For women with trauma histories. Particularly women who present with diffuse, systemic, or medically “unexplained” symptoms. The dismissal is often compounded. “It’s probably just stress.” “Your tests all look normal.” “Have you considered therapy?”. Delivered not as a genuine trauma-informed referral, but as a way of ending the conversation. What gets communicated, even when the words are clinically neutral, is the same message many of these women heard as children: your experience isn’t real. You’re too sensitive. There’s nothing wrong.

This dismissal has a particular resonance for women who grew up with emotional abuse, where gaslighting. The systematic denial of their reality. Was a primary feature of their wounding. Being told by a physician that there’s nothing physically wrong, that stress is probably the culprit, can land as a re-inscription of the original trauma: the authority figure in the room denying what they know to be true in their own body.

There’s also a racial dimension to this that cannot be left unaddressed. Research on the racial pain gap shows that Black women’s pain is systematically undertreated compared to white women’s, rooted in long-standing medical racism including the debunked myth that Black people feel less pain. For women of color navigating somatic symptoms from trauma histories, the dismissal is often compounded by race, creating a double bind in which the most marginalized bodies are the least likely to be believed.

What this means for you, practically: if you’ve been told your symptoms are “just stress,” you don’t have to accept that as a complete answer. It may be partly true. Stress is absolutely involved. But stress has a history, and that history matters for treatment. You deserve clinicians who are trauma-informed, who ask about your childhood as part of your health picture, and who treat your body’s distress as the meaningful signal it is. Connecting with a therapist who specializes in somatic approaches, in addition to your medical team, can be part of advocating for yourself within a system that wasn’t built to see you fully.

Working with someone who understands the intersection of trauma and the body is part of what I offer through individual trauma therapy. For those navigating leadership demands alongside this kind of healing, executive coaching with a trauma-informed lens is another avenue worth exploring.

The Path Forward: Healing That Starts with the Body

Here’s what’s important to understand about healing from childhood emotional abuse when it lives in the body: talking alone won’t always do it. Traditional talk therapy. Sitting across from someone and narrating what happened. Can be enormously valuable, and it’s where many clients begin. But for trauma that’s been encoded at the level of the nervous system, in the muscles and the gut and the immune system, the healing often needs to include the body itself.

This isn’t a rejection of insight or narrative. Understanding your history is meaningful and necessary. But insight that stops at the neck. That knows the story without reaching the body. Often leaves the somatic symptoms intact. The nervous system doesn’t update through cognition alone. It updates through experience.

Somatic Experiencing (SE), developed by Peter Levine, PhD, trauma therapist and author of Waking the Tiger, works directly with the body’s sensations and the incomplete physiological responses that get “stuck” when trauma overwhelms the nervous system. SE helps clients track sensation in the body, titrate slowly toward charged material rather than flooding through it, and complete the fight-or-flight responses that were suppressed in childhood. For women with chronic tension, pain, and dysregulation, SE can be profoundly effective. Often reaching places that years of talk therapy couldn’t access. (PMID: 25699005)

EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) is one of the most rigorously researched trauma therapies in existence, with strong evidence for reducing the emotional charge of traumatic memories and their somatic correlates. For childhood emotional abuse. Which often involves multiple incidents, pervasive atmosphere, and complex layering of incidents. EMDR’s phased approach can help the nervous system integrate experiences that have been held in a raw, unprocessed state for decades. Many clients report significant reduction in physical symptoms. Chronic pain, gut reactivity, sleep disruption. As traumatic material is processed through EMDR.

Internal Family Systems (IFS), developed by Richard Schwartz, PhD, offers a framework for working with the internal parts that developed in response to abuse. The part that keeps the jaw clenched, the part that drives relentlessly to stay safe, the part that shuts down when intimacy gets too close. IFS treats these not as pathology but as protectors with real jobs and real histories, and works to build relationship with them rather than override them. Many clients find IFS particularly resonant because it honors what their adaptations were for. (PMID: 23813465)

Body-based mindfulness practices. Not generic meditation, but practices specifically designed to build interoceptive awareness and gentle tolerance of sensation. Can serve as foundational supports for formal trauma therapy. Learning to notice what’s happening in your body without being overwhelmed by it is a skill, and for many women with abuse histories, it’s a skill that was never developed. Practices such as yoga nidra, trauma-sensitive yoga, and body scan approaches can begin to build that capacity.

Addressing co-occurring medical needs in conjunction with trauma therapy is not optional. It’s essential. Working with trauma-informed physicians who understand the ACE-health connection, integrating appropriate medical treatment for autoimmune conditions, pain, and gut issues, while simultaneously addressing the nervous system’s underlying dysregulation, gives the body the fullest possible support for healing.

What I tell my clients is this: your body isn’t broken. It’s been doing exactly what it needed to do for decades. Healing isn’t about fighting it or overriding it. It’s about finally giving it something it never had: consistent, embodied safety. That doesn’t happen overnight. It’s a slow accumulation of experiences that teach the nervous system, through repetition and relationship, that the emergency is over. That your jaw can unclench. That your gut can rest. That you can sleep and wake and the morning will be okay.

If you’re ready to begin that work, Fixing the Foundations^™, my signature course for women healing from relational trauma, is one place to start. For those ready for more individualized support, I work one-on-one with clients navigating exactly this territory. And the Strong & Stable newsletter offers weekly writing on relational trauma, healing, and the internal life of driven women. A companion for the longer work.

You don’t have to keep pushing through alone. Your body has been asking for help for a long time. It’s worth listening.

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If any of this resonates. If you’ve found yourself reading this and thinking “that sounds like me”. I want you to know that’s information worth sitting with. You don’t have to have it all figured out to reach out. Many women find that simply naming what happened, in a space that can hold it, is where the body begins to exhale.

There’s a whole community of driven women doing this work. Untangling childhood from adulthood, body from history, symptoms from identity. You’re not as alone in it as it might feel right now. And the fact that you’re here, reading this, asking the question. That matters. That’s the beginning.

Related Reading

Felitti, Vincent J., Robert F. Anda, Dale Nordenberg, David F. Williamson, Alison M. Spitz, Valerie Edwards, Mary P. Koss, and James S. Marks. “Relationship of Childhood Abuse and Household Dysfunction to Many of the Leading Causes of Death in Adults: The Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACE) Study.” American Journal of Preventive Medicine 14, no. 4 (1998): 245, 258. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0749-3797(98)00017-8 (PMID: 16311898)

Van der Kolk, Bessel A. The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. New York: Viking, 2014.

Maté, Gabor. When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress. Toronto: Alfred A. Knopf Canada, 2003.

Porges, Stephen W. The Polyvagal Theory: Neurophysiological Foundations of Emotions, Attachment, Communication, and Self-Regulation. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2011.

Levine, Peter A. Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma. Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 1997.

Napadow, Vitaly, and Richard E. Harris. “What Has Functional Connectivity and Chemical Neuroimaging in Fibromyalgia Taught Us about the Mechanisms and Management of ‘Centralized’ Pain?” Arthritis Research & Therapy 16, no. 5 (2014): 425. https://doi.org/10.1186/s13075-014-0425-0

If any of this lands close to home and you’re ready for clinical support, you can reach out to Annie’s practice.

References

Peer-Reviewed Research (Vancouver)

1. van der Kolk BA, Wang JB, Yehuda R, Bedrosian L, Coker AR, Harrison C, et al. Effects of MDMA-assisted therapy for PTSD on self-experience. PLoS One. 2024;19(1):e0295926. doi:10.1371/journal.pone.0295926. PMID: 38198456.
2. Payne P, Levine PA, Crane-Godreau MA. Somatic experiencing: using interoception and proprioception as core elements of trauma therapy. Front Psychol. 2015;6:93. doi:10.3389/fpsyg.2015.00093. PMID: 25699005.
3. Porges SW. Polyvagal Theory: Current Status, Clinical Applications, and Future Directions. Clin Neuropsychiatry. 2025;22(3):169-184. doi:10.36131/cnfioritieditore20250301. PMID: 40735382.
4. Brenner EG, Schwartz RC, Becker C. Development of the internal family systems model: Honoring contributions from family systems therapies. Fam Process. 2023;62(4):1290-1306. doi:10.1111/famp.12943. PMID: 37924221.

Books & Cultural Sources (Chicago Author-Date)

• Maté, Gabor. When the Body Says No. A.A. Knopf Canada, 2003.

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