Why You Keep Attracting the Same Person: Repetition Compulsion and Relational Trauma

RELATIONAL TRAUMA & RECOVERY • April 13, 2026

LAST UPDATED: APRIL 2026

Maya sits across the small, candlelit table, the soft clink of cutlery weaving through the murmur of the bustling restaurant. The man before her — charming, quick with a witty remark — leans back slightly, one hand casually scrolling through his phone. His eyes meet hers intermittently, warm and engaging in one moment, then flickering away with a dismissive ease in the next. There’s a rhythm to his attention, a push and pull that tugs at the edges of her chest. The sensation is immediate and unmistakable: a tightness, a knot, a familiar ache that coils low beneath her sternum. It’s the same exact pull she’s felt before — the one that whispered promises of connection even as it seeded doubt and unease.

Her breath catches slightly, shallow and uneven, and she becomes acutely aware of the subtle tremor in her fingers resting on the tablecloth. The scent of her lavender perfume mingles with the faint tang of the man’s cologne — something woody, yet fleeting — heightening the sensory tapestry of this moment. The dim light casts shadows that dance across his face, highlighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maya recognizes the pattern now: the alternating warmth and dismissal, the intermittent attention paired with distraction. It’s a choreography she has unknowingly stepped into three times before, each encounter ending in the same quiet unraveling of hope and trust.

Despite the rising discomfort, the familiar pull anchors her in place. She knows, with an almost painful clarity, that she could stand, leave, break the cycle. Yet the magnetic tension in her chest holds her fast, a silent compulsion woven from past wounds and unresolved longing. In this moment, she is both observer and participant, caught in the delicate interplay of desire and self-preservation, not yet ready to sever the thread that binds her to repetition.

What Is Repetition Compulsion?

In my clinical practice, understanding repetition compulsion is essential for unraveling the complex ways in which early relational trauma or unmet developmental needs shape adult relational patterns. What Freud initially observed as a perplexing tendency for individuals to repeat painful experiences is now understood through the lens of implicit memory and neurobiology. This unconscious drive manifests as a powerful, often invisible force compelling people to seek out relationships that mirror their early attachment experiences — even when these dynamics are harmful or maladaptive.

Freud’s original conceptualization in Beyond the Pleasure Principle was groundbreaking. He described how individuals seem to be irresistibly drawn to reenact painful or traumatic events, suggesting there was a compulsion “beyond the pleasure principle” — a force that overrides the instinct to avoid pain and seek pleasure. Freud speculated this compulsion might serve an unconscious purpose: to master or resolve unintegrated traumatic experiences. Today, advances in neuroscience have elucidated how implicit memory traces embedded in the brain’s limbic system and attachment networks drive this phenomenon.

Clinically, repetition compulsion is distinct from the conscious, cognitive choice often described colloquially as “falling for the same type.” The latter suggests a person consciously selects partners who fit a certain pattern, perhaps due to preferences or beliefs about what is desirable or familiar. While conscious patterns certainly exist, repetition compulsion operates at a deeper, pre-conscious level, where the brain’s implicit memories and emotional templates formed in early childhood influence relational expectations and behaviors without deliberate intent or awareness.

This distinction is crucial in therapy. When clients report repeatedly entering relationships that are emotionally neglectful, controlling, or otherwise reminiscent of early adverse experiences, it’s tempting to frame this as poor decision-making or a failure of judgment. However, recognizing the neurobiological underpinnings of repetition compulsion reframes these patterns as predictable, automatic responses rooted in early attachment disruptions. This understanding fosters compassion, reducing shame and self-blame, and creating space for therapeutic intervention aimed at disrupting these unconscious cycles. This is particularly relevant for those healing from narcissistic abuse, where the intermittent reinforcement of the abusive dynamic makes repetition compulsion especially entrenched.

From a neurobiological perspective, repetition compulsion can be seen as the brain’s attempt to resolve “unfinished business” encoded in implicit memory. The amygdala, hippocampus, and other limbic structures store emotional memories that don’t always reach conscious awareness. When an adult encounters relational cues reminiscent of early experiences — whether a caregiver’s emotional unavailability or patterns of inconsistency — the brain’s implicit memory systems trigger affective and behavioral responses aimed at recreating the familiar emotional context. Although these reenactments often cause distress in the present, they serve the unconscious goal of seeking mastery over unresolved trauma.

The attachment system plays a central role here. Early relational experiences shape the development of internal working models — mental representations of self, others, and relationships — that guide expectations and interactions throughout life. When early attachments are insecure or disorganized, these internal models are maladaptive yet deeply ingrained. As adults, we unconsciously gravitate toward relationships that confirm these internal models, perpetuating cycles of relational dysfunction. This repetition isn’t willful but reflects the brain’s evolutionarily conserved mechanisms to preserve relational continuity and attempt repair at a neurobiological level.

In therapy, bringing these unconscious patterns into conscious awareness is a pivotal step. Through the therapeutic relationship, clients gain the opportunity to experience a corrective emotional experience that challenges entrenched implicit memories and internal working models. This process requires careful attunement, empathy, and patience, as clients often resist or feel threatened by the prospect of change due to the neurobiological imperative to maintain familiar relational patterns — even harmful ones.

The Neuroscience of the Familiar

In my work with clients, one of the most profound and consistent threads I observe is the magnetic pull of the familiar — those relational patterns and emotional dynamics that, often unconsciously, shape how we engage with others throughout our lives. This phenomenon is not merely a poetic observation; it’s deeply rooted in the neuroscience of attachment and relational development, a field pioneered by John Bowlby, MD, and enriched by the insights of contemporary clinicians and researchers such as Bessel van der Kolk, MD, and Daniel Siegel, MD. Understanding this neuroscience illuminates why our earliest relationships create a blueprint that our nervous system continuously references.

At the heart of this exploration lies Bowlby’s concept of the Internal Working Model — a foundational idea that explains how early relational experiences become encoded in our nervous system as unconscious templates for future relationships. These internal working models are not simply cognitive memories but embodied, implicit ways of predicting and responding to emotional connections. They function as the brain’s anticipatory map, guiding us in how we expect others to behave and how we, in turn, should behave in intimate interactions. This model is formed predominantly in childhood through repeated interactions with primary caregivers, where the nervous system learns to predict safety, threat, availability, rejection, or attunement.

Bessel van der Kolk, MD, extends this concept by emphasizing how early relational dynamics are not just stored as narrative memories but are embedded somatically within the body’s physiology. In The Body Keeps the Score, van der Kolk elucidates how the nervous system retains the “memory” of early attachment experiences in the form of implicit somatic sensations and emotional states. These embodied memories can trigger automatic responses — hypervigilance, dissociation, or emotional shutdown — when relational cues echo past patterns of safety or threat. This somatic memory explains why, even when you intellectually recognize a relationship as healthy or safe, your body may respond with anxiety or distrust if it mirrors the neurobiological imprint of earlier relational trauma. Somatic tools drawn from van der Kolk’s work offer one of the most direct routes to reshaping this embodied memory.

This somatic imprinting is critical to understanding the neuroscience of the familiar because it reveals that our relational templates are not just psychological constructs but lived, physiological experiences that shape our moment-to-moment responses in intimate relationships. When you describe feeling inexplicably anxious or shut down in moments of vulnerability, what’s often occurring beneath the surface is the activation of these deep-seated somatic memories. The nervous system, in its primary role of survival, instinctively reacts to familiar patterns it has learned to associate with threat or unpredictability. The familiar, even if maladaptive, provides a kind of neurobiological predictability that the brain prefers over the uncertainty of new relational experiences.

Daniel Siegel, MD, further enriches this understanding through his concept of “implicit relational knowing” — the nonverbal, unconscious knowledge we carry about relationships. Siegel describes this implicit knowing as a form of procedural memory — an automatic, experiential understanding that cannot be easily verbalized but profoundly shapes how we engage with others. Implicit relational knowing is formed through countless microinteractions with caregivers — gestures, tones of voice, attunement or lack thereof — that collectively program the nervous system’s expectations for safety, trust, and connection. This form of knowing operates below conscious awareness but is accessible through therapeutic attunement and relational repair.

In integrating these perspectives, the neuroscience of the familiar reveals a complex interplay between cognitive expectations, somatic memory, and implicit relational knowing. Our nervous system continuously seeks to confirm its predictions about relationships, and this confirmation bias often leads us to recreate relational patterns that mirror our internal working models — even when these patterns cause distress. In therapeutic work, recognizing the neuroscience of the familiar allows for a compassionate stance toward clients who struggle with attachment wounds and relational challenges. It provides a framework for understanding that these patterns are not flaws or failures but deeply ingrained survival mechanisms. Somatic Experiencing and EMDR are two modalities particularly effective at working with these embodied relational templates at the level where they actually live.

How This Shows Up in Driven Women

In my work with driven women, I often witness a complex and poignant pattern that shapes not only their external achievements but also their internal lives. These women frequently present as high-functioning, resilient, and goal-oriented individuals who’ve cultivated a powerful sense of competence and control. Yet beneath this polished exterior lies a persistent undercurrent of restlessness, self-doubt, and an unrelenting drive that is less about aspiration and more about survival — an ingrained response rooted in early relational experiences. To illustrate, let me return to the story of Maya, a woman I first met in my practice who exemplifies this dynamic in vivid detail.

Maya is a successful marketing executive in her mid-thirties, known among colleagues for her tireless work ethic and unwavering commitment to excellence. On the surface, she embodies everything society celebrates: ambition, intelligence, and an ability to navigate high-pressure environments with seeming ease. Yet when Maya first came to therapy, she described a profound sense of exhaustion and an almost compulsive need to prove herself — first to others, and more painfully, to herself. She recounted growing up in a household where emotional expression was limited and where her mother, though loving in her own way, was often emotionally unavailable, consumed by her own struggles. Maya learned early on that to gain her mother’s attention and approval, she needed to be “the good girl”: successful, reliable, and silently enduring. Her childhood became a crucible in which her self-worth was inseparable from achievement and emotional suppression.

What is crucial to understand — and what I emphasize to many clients like Maya — is that insight alone rarely interrupts this pattern. Maya had, from a young age, developed an intellectual awareness of her emotional landscape. She could articulate the ways in which her upbringing shaped her internal critic and her relentless standards. She knew that her drive was fueled by unmet attachment needs and a deep-seated fear of abandonment or rejection. Yet despite this clarity, the cycle persisted. Maya’s story aligns with Janina Fisher’s description of the empathic paradox — the very parts of us that seek relational resolution may simultaneously engage in behaviors that push others away. Insight provides the cognitive map, but it’s the emotional and somatic processing that enables true transformation. This is closely related to why perfectionism functions as a trauma response — it’s not a personality quirk but a survival strategy that outlived its usefulness.

Maya’s relentless striving wasn’t simply about ambition; it was an unconscious strategy to manage the unbearable feelings of vulnerability and disconnection that had been internalized during her formative years. As Fisher explains, trauma often leads to a compartmentalization of experience: the mind knows one thing, but the body and emotions carry unresolved distress. Maya understood her history, yet the emotional imprint — the somatic memory of being emotionally neglected — continued to drive her behavior. This is why her attempts at slowing down, practicing self-compassion, or setting boundaries felt so fraught and difficult. It was as if a part of her was wired to keep pushing forward, to avoid the painful void that emerged when she stopped striving.

The insights of Alice Miller, PhD — Swiss psychoanalyst and author of The Drama of the Gifted Child — further deepen our understanding of this phenomenon. Miller’s groundbreaking work illuminated the ways in which children, in order to survive emotionally, organize themselves around a caregiver’s needs and emotional states rather than their own. This self-organization is a profound act of adaptation; it’s the child’s way of preserving attachment and safety in an environment that is unpredictable or emotionally neglectful. For driven women like Maya, this early adaptation manifests as hyper-responsibility toward others, suppression of their own needs, and an internalized mandate to succeed or be worthy. This dynamic is especially common in those who grew up as the golden child in a family with narcissistic dynamics, where performance was essentially currency for love.

Maya’s journey reflects this dynamic vividly. She described growing up feeling invisible unless she excelled or behaved perfectly, internalizing the belief that her worth was contingent on meeting external demands rather than on her inherent value as a person. This internalized message became a driving force behind her adult life, shaping her relationships and career choices. Yet it also left her deeply disconnected from her authentic self, trapped in a cycle of striving that felt both necessary and suffocating.

In clinical practice, it’s essential to recognize that these patterns aren’t simply maladaptive habits to be overcome by willpower or intellectual understanding. They’re deeply embedded survival strategies, developed within the context of early attachment wounds and emotional neglect. This integration often involves developing a new relationship with the internalized child who once had to organize around a caregiver’s emotional needs. It calls for creating a therapeutic space where the vulnerable parts of the self can be acknowledged, held, and soothed, allowing for a gradual disarmament of the hypervigilance and self-criticism that have long protected — but also imprisoned — the individual. Through consistent work combining insight with somatic awareness, mindfulness, and relational repair, driven women like Maya begin to experience a gradual loosening of the compulsive drive that has dominated their lives. Reparenting work is often central to this process.

Both/And: Understanding the Pattern Does Not Automatically End It — AND Understanding It Is Still the First Essential Step

In my work with clients, I often encounter a profound paradox that can be both frustrating and liberating: understanding a deeply ingrained relational pattern does not automatically dissolve it, yet without that understanding, genuine change remains elusive. This “both/and” truth sits at the heart of therapeutic transformation. It acknowledges that insight, while indispensable, is only the beginning of a complex journey toward rewiring emotional habits and creating new relational experiences. It is the paradox of knowing and not yet being free — a tension that many clients wrestle with in the process of healing.

Take Camille, for example — a 38-year-old marketing executive who’s been in therapy for three years. She’s worked diligently to identify and understand her recurring relational patterns, patterns that have repeatedly led to disappointment, anxiety, and eventual heartbreak. Camille is currently six months into a relationship with a man who, on paper, embodies stability, kindness, and consistent communication. Yet despite all these positive qualities, Camille finds herself miserable. She feels no spark, no “chemistry,” and is teetering on the edge of ending the relationship altogether. One afternoon, she calls me from her office, her voice heavy with confusion and frustration. As we speak, she says something that marks a pivotal moment in her self-awareness: “What if what I’ve been calling chemistry was actually anxiety?”

This moment invites us to explore the complexity of understanding versus transformation. Camille’s insight — that the intense emotional charge she once mistook for chemistry was, in fact, anxiety — represents a crucial breakthrough. For years, she’d equated the rollercoaster of emotional highs and lows in her past relationships with passion and connection, unaware that these feelings were more about her internal nervous system reacting to stress and fear of abandonment than about genuine intimacy. This realization, however, doesn’t instantly resolve her distress or make the new relationship feel right. Instead, it opens a door to a new kind of awareness — one that acknowledges the emotional undercurrents shaping her experience.

Understanding a pattern is like finally seeing a map of a terrain you’ve been wandering blindly. It gives you orientation, a sense of where you’ve been, and clues about where you might go. But knowing the map alone won’t get you out of the woods. You still have to take the steps — often uncomfortable and uncertain — to follow a new path. Camille’s situation illustrates this vividly. She understands why her previous relationships felt electrifying yet toxic, and she recognizes that her current partner’s steadiness is a healthier foundation. Yet her body and heart have been conditioned to seek out the adrenaline-fueled anxiety disguised as passion. Her nervous system has learned to equate intensity with connection, and shifting that pattern requires more than intellectual insight — it demands rewiring through experience and patience. This is the core of what I write about in relation to people-pleasing as a trauma response — understanding the why doesn’t automatically change the what.

In therapy, we often emphasize the importance of insight as a foundational step. Without it, clients remain captives to unconscious scripts that replay over and over, sabotaging their attempts at happiness. Camille’s newfound understanding that “chemistry” might be anxiety is a vital step toward disentangling herself from the old story. It allows her to question her assumptions and opens the possibility of redefining what connection and attraction can look like. But insight alone doesn’t change the body’s conditioned responses or the emotional reflexes shaped by years of relational trauma and attachment wounds.

This is where the “both/and” nature of healing becomes so essential to hold gently but firmly. We need to honor the power of understanding while simultaneously recognizing its limits. Clients like Camille must learn to live with the discomfort of not immediately feeling the “spark” they once chased, to tolerate the ambiguity of a relationship that is safe yet lacks the old emotional fireworks. This discomfort is part of the process of recalibrating the nervous system — shifting from reactive anxiety to secure connection. It’s the slow, often invisible work of rewiring implicit memory, of teaching the body and brain that safety and calm can feel as rewarding as chaos and intensity once did. Understanding this intersection with betrayal trauma can be especially clarifying for women whose “chemistry” was built on cycles of rupture and repair.

The truth that understanding doesn’t end the pattern, yet is the first essential step, is a paradox that requires patience and compassion. It is a process that unfolds over time and through repeated acts of courage: choosing presence over escape, tolerating discomfort rather than seeking distraction, and embracing vulnerability rather than armor. In sum, the therapeutic journey is a delicate dance between insight and integration — and Camille’s story reminds us that healing is not a single epiphany but a series of both/and moments where each step toward awareness lays the groundwork for eventual transformation.

The Systemic Lens: What Happens When “Love” Was Defined by Inconsistency

In my work with clients, I often find it essential to step back from the individual experience and consider the broader cultural and systemic frameworks that shape how love is understood, expressed, and internalized. When love is defined by inconsistency — by moments of intensity, drama, and a perpetual struggle to earn approval — it’s not simply a personal or relational challenge; it’s a dynamic rooted deeply within family systems and cultural narratives that perpetuate these patterns across generations. This systemic lens reveals why, for many, the concept of healthy love, characterized by consistency, calmness, and reciprocity, can feel neurologically unfamiliar and therefore less compelling, even threatening to the psyche.

At the core of this phenomenon is the way early relational experiences sculpt the neural pathways associated with attachment and emotional regulation. In families where love manifests as unpredictable, where affection is dispensed sporadically and contingent upon performance or compliance, the brain learns to associate love with the thrill of intermittent reinforcement. This pattern mirrors the psychological mechanisms seen in gambling or addiction: the unpredictability of reward creates heightened arousal and engagement, compelling the individual to continually seek the next “dose” of approval or affection. The drama and intensity — arguments, reconciliations, emotional highs and lows — generate a neurochemical cocktail that feels intensely alive, even if it’s exhausting or painful.

From a cultural perspective, many societies have historically romanticized this form of love. Popular media, including movies, television dramas, and literature, often glorify relationships marked by volatility and passion. The narrative arc of “will-they-or-won’t-they” tension, breakups followed by passionate reunions, and love that must be won against all odds taps directly into the intermittent reinforcement model. For individuals raised within a family system where love was conditional and inconsistent, these cultural scripts serve as a validation — a mirror that reflects their own relational experiences as normal, even desirable. The mother wound is frequently at the root of this: when the first experience of inconsistent love came from a mother figure, the nervous system encoded that inconsistency as the definition of love itself.

This confluence of personal history and cultural messaging creates a powerful, often invisible barrier to embracing healthy love. When a client tells me that a calm, predictable relationship feels “boring” or “not real,” they’re describing a familiar neurological and emotional landscape shaped by their past and reinforced by cultural norms. The consistency of healthy love — marked by reliability, mutual respect, and emotional safety — registers as flat or dull precisely because their nervous system has been trained to respond to the unpredictability and intensity of inconsistent affection. This doesn’t mean healthy love is inherently less rich or meaningful; rather, it challenges the brain’s conditioned expectations and demands a rewiring of attachment patterns and emotional responses.

Moreover, the systemic nature of these dynamics means that individuals often unconsciously repeat the relational patterns they experienced growing up. The need to earn love, to prove worthiness through performance or endurance of emotional chaos, becomes a default template for connection. In romantic relationships, this can manifest as a cycle of conflict and reconciliation, where love is continually “tested” through drama. The partners may not consciously choose this pattern; rather, it’s a deeply ingrained script that feels familiar and therefore safe — paradoxically, because the nervous system anticipates and is prepared for the emotional rollercoaster. Many clients in this pattern also carry the exhaustion of chronically ending people-pleasing attempts that never quite worked, yet couldn’t stop trying.

It’s also important to recognize that these systemic patterns are reinforced by broader societal structures. In cultures that prize emotional expressiveness and valorize intense romantic experiences, the message that “true love” must include hardship and struggle becomes pervasive. This cultural endorsement can make it difficult to even conceptualize love as something stable and nurturing. In therapeutic work, one of the most profound challenges and opportunities lies in helping clients expand their relational vocabulary — to recognize that the absence of drama and the presence of consistency are not signs of love’s absence but its deeper expression. This process involves not only cognitive reframing but also somatic and emotional recalibration. By cultivating experiences of reliable, reciprocal connection within the therapeutic relationship and in clients’ broader social networks, the brain can begin to rewire its expectations and responses.

How to Interrupt the Pattern

In my work with clients who struggle with recurring patterns in their intimate relationships, I’ve found that interrupting these deeply ingrained dynamics is both an art and a science. The repetitive cycles often feel as though they’re running on autopilot, driven not by conscious choice but by the nervous system’s implicit memory and somatic signals. To effectively interrupt these patterns, you must begin with cultivating somatic awareness — a practice of tuning into bodily sensations that serve as the earliest and most authentic messengers of emotional and relational states. This somatic awareness isn’t simply mindfulness in a generic sense, but a focused, embodied attunement to the subtle shifts in tension, temperature, breath, and visceral feeling that signal the nervous system’s activation.

When a familiar relational pattern is about to unfold, the body typically sends a warning through what I call the nervous system’s “familiar” signal. This signal might manifest as a tightness in the chest, a sinking feeling in the stomach, a sudden constriction in the throat, or even a vague sense of dread or agitation that feels more like a premonition than a fully formed thought. Recognizing this signal is crucial because it functions as an internal alert system, designed to protect you from perceived threat based on past experiences of relational pain or trauma. However, the paradox is that this protective signal often propels the individual toward automatic behaviors that perpetuate the very pattern they wish to change. Developing fluency in these signals is one of the core skills I teach — and somatic exercises are among the most effective tools for building it.

The challenge, then, is to build the capacity to tolerate the discomfort that arises when engaging with partners who embody unfamiliar, healthier relational dynamics. Such partners may offer attunement, vulnerability, and emotional safety that initially feel foreign — and thus unsettling — because they don’t trigger the nervous system in recognizable ways. This discomfort is a sign of growth, not failure. In my clinical experience, clients often report that the sensation of “something is wrong” arises not from the partner’s actual behavior but from the nervous system’s habitual expectation of relational threat. Learning to sit with this discomfort without immediately reacting or withdrawing is a core skill in interrupting the pattern.

Practical clinical guidance begins with grounding exercises that anchor you in the present moment, allowing you to notice subtle somatic cues before the pattern unfolds. For example, focusing on the rhythm of the breath or the feeling of the feet against the floor can create a physiological pause — a momentary space where choice can enter. From this place of somatic attunement, you can ask yourself: What is my body telling me right now? Am I responding to the present reality or to echoes from the past? This curiosity invites a shift from reactive to reflective engagement. This is also where understanding the freeze response becomes clinically important — what looks like “going along with it” is often a nervous system in freeze, not consent or preference.

Another essential element is psychoeducation about the nervous system’s role in relational dynamics. Understanding that fight, flight, or freeze responses are automatic survival mechanisms rather than conscious decisions cultivates self-compassion and reduces self-blame. It also opens the door to intentional nervous system regulation strategies such as deep diaphragmatic breathing, progressive muscle relaxation, and vagal nerve stimulation techniques. Building relational capacity also involves incremental exposure to healthy relational experiences within a safe therapeutic container or supportive community. Each successful relational experience — no matter how small — strengthens the nervous system’s tolerance for safety and connection. Over time, you internalize a new template for relationships, one predicated on mutual respect and emotional attunement rather than survival.

It’s also vital to address the cognitive and emotional narratives that accompany these patterns. Clients often carry beliefs such as “I am unlovable,” “People will always leave me,” or “If I show my needs, I will be rejected.” These narratives are frequently intertwined with the somatic cues and relational patterns, reinforcing the cycle. Therapeutic interventions that combine somatic awareness with narrative reframing — such as Internal Family Systems therapy or elements of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy — can help disentangle these beliefs from current relational reality. The five domains of post-traumatic growth offer a useful frame here: interrupting the pattern isn’t just about reducing harm, it’s about what becomes possible on the other side. Finally, patience and persistence are indispensable — interrupting entrenched relational patterns rarely occurs in a linear fashion.

As you consider these steps, I warmly invite you to explore the Relational Trauma Recovery Course, a comprehensive program designed to guide you through fixing the foundational wounds that shape your relational patterns. This course offers structured support, practical tools, and a compassionate community to accompany you on your journey toward healing and connection.

Related Reading

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.

Ogden, Pat, Kekuni Minton, and Clare Pain. Trauma and the Body: A Sensorimotor Approach to Psychotherapy. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.

Siegel, Daniel J. The Developing Mind: How Relationships and the Brain Interact to Shape Who We Are. New York: Guilford Press, 2012.

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