Transcript 

Hello — and thank you for being here.

If you’ve arrived at this recording through the website, or if it’s been shared with you by someone you trust, I want to start by saying this: there is nothing you need to do while listening.

This is not therapy. It’s not an assessment. And it’s not designed to tell you what your experience means.

It’s a guided reflection — a way of making sense of what many people notice in themselves after exposure to distressing events, including events involving deliberate acts of violence.

As you listen, it may help to briefly notice where you are right now — the space around you, the surface supporting you — and remind yourself that, in this moment, you are safe enough to be listening.

You’re welcome to listen all the way through, pause, come back later, or stop entirely. You’re in control of the pace.

After difficult events, people often expect a clear emotional response — shock, sadness, fear — and then a gradual return to normal.

What many people notice after acts of deliberate violence is something different.

A sense that safety itself has been shaken.

A nervous system that stays switched on.

A mind that keeps scanning, replaying, or bracing.

This reaction can be especially strong when the event feels close — close to where you live, work, or move through your daily life.

Or when it feels close to your fears.

Many people find themselves imagining:

What if I’d been there?

What if that had happened to someone I love?

What would I have done?

This isn’t a sign of weakness or morbid curiosity.

It’s how the brain tries to understand threat and restore a sense of predictability.

There’s another layer to deliberate violence that’s important to name.

For many people, it carries a kind of moral shock — a sense that something fundamental about how the world is supposed to work has been violated.

People aren’t supposed to do this.

Public spaces aren’t supposed to be dangerous.

Everyday routines aren’t supposed to carry this level of threat.

When that shared sense of safety or trust is disrupted, the nervous system responds by staying alert.

That response isn’t irrational.

It’s a human system adapting to a perceived break in how the world normally works.

Vicarious trauma describes the cumulative emotional impact of exposure to distress, threat, or suffering — even when we are not directly involved.

This exposure can come from hearing about events repeatedly, seeing footage or images, supporting others who are affected, or mentally placing yourself in the situation.

That last part matters.

Imagining yourself there — running through scenarios, visualising what might have happened — is a very common response after deliberate violence.

It’s the brain asking an unanswerable question:

How do I keep myself safe if this can happen?

Vicarious trauma isn’t a diagnosis.

It’s a way of naming what happens when the nervous system is asked to carry too much, for too long.

When people try to work out whether something is “serious enough” to pay attention to, they often focus on intensity.

How strong does it feel today?

How bad was that moment?

What’s often more helpful is noticing patterns.

What’s been persistent since the event?

What keeps returning?

What hasn’t quite settled, even when you’re distracted or busy?

It can also help to distinguish between monitoring and ruminating.

Monitoring is protective — staying aware of safety.

Ruminating is exhausting — getting stuck in loops of replaying or rehearsing.

Noticing which one is happening is often more useful than trying to stop either.

When these responses are acknowledged — even gently — many people notice subtle shifts.

A little more space.

Less reactivity.

A sense of choice returning.

When they’re not acknowledged, they often don’t disappear.

They simply become familiar — part of the background — quietly shaping how someone lives, works, and moves through the world.

Neither path is dramatic.

But one is lighter to carry.

For some people, awareness and time are enough.

For others, support makes a meaningful difference.

If you already work with a psychologist or therapist you trust, continuing that work is often the best place to explore what you’re noticing — especially if the event has felt close to home or close to your fears.

If you don’t currently have support and decide at some point that professional guidance would help, seeking a qualified, trauma-informed clinician is a reasonable option — not an obligation.

There is no urgency here.

And there is no single “right” next step.

I’ll finish with this.

You don’t need to make sense of everything today.

You don’t need to draw conclusions.

Even listening — even noticing your own reactions — is already a form of care.

Thank you for taking the time to pause.