The Twist and the Cringe

How a Split-Second Trauma Shaped My Body for Twenty Years

My body reacted before I even knew what was happening.
One instant I was racing down the road on my Triumph Daytona — the next I was tumbling across the asphalt. My head tucked, my shoulders shrugged, and my entire body curled sharply to the left. I didn’t choose any of this. My nervous system did.

I remember the world spinning: sky, fields, asphalt, gravel — over and over.
I felt myself rolling like a stone skipping across water. I wasn’t resisting; I felt nothing, but saw everything. I was witnessing it happen as if it were a dream playing in the background.

My only conscious thought was, “Just stop rolling. just stop rolling…”

When I finally came to a stop, I stood up in shock. My shoes and socks were gone. My shirt shredded. My pants torn. And my motorcycle — the one I had so many close calls on — lay twisted on the ground in front of me. I had rolled directly behind it the whole way, watching it flip through the air as I tumbled after it.

I couldn’t believe where I stopped rolling — and that I did — for that matter. It was endless, I rolled so far, how I lived, I have no idea.

The Place I Crashed Was the Place I Once Found Peace

As I stood there shaking, adrenaline flooding my system, I looked around and realized exactly where I was.

The crash had happened right at the entrance of the Isaac Walton Wetland and Conservation Area — the place where I walk my dog, Murphy, almost every single day. I was here all the time, I loved this space, and would get lost there for hours. As I stood in the parking lot I looked back, the curve where I whipped out, was a long way away. How far did roll?

I knew that area so well.
I knew the fields, the river, the forests.
I had walked that path countless times.

Every time I drive there I come from the east, always entering the lot from the opposite direction — never from the side I rode in from that day. The curve was sharper than I anticipated, I hit gravel, and my bike disappeared from underneath me.

I was surprisingly unbroken, barefoot and trembling, I stood in the parking lot where my daily walks used to begin… except this time, my motorcycle was lying wrecked beside me, and my body was buzzing with shock, and ripped with road rash.

A place that had once been part of my routine, a place of familiar comfort, suddenly became the scene of a violent trauma.

And after that day —
after the rolling, the tumbling, the impact, and the month in the hospital —
I never returned.

It wasn’t a conscious choice.
My nervous system made that choice for me — drawing a boundary around the place where danger became real. Even years later, I stayed away without fully understanding why.

It would take two decades before the deeper significance of this accident, finally revealed itself.

The Imprint That Never Left

It wasn’t until twenty years later that I began to feel the echo of this trauma.
One day, while practicing Mountain Pose, I felt a subtle internal pull. I let it happen — curious, patient, open — and my body moved on its own:

My chin tucked left.
My shoulders spiraled left.
My abdomen cinched and braced left.
My entire left side curled inward.

And instantly, the memory of the motorcycle accident rushed back.

I had completely forgotten how violent the crash was. I always focused on cancer as the major trauma of my life. I never considered that this accident had shaped my posture, breath, and health just as much — maybe even more.

But in that moment, it was undeniable.
My body had been remembering all along.

Trauma Changes Posture

The protective shape I curled into during the crash became the pattern I lived in for decades. It became the hidden blueprint for how I stood, moved, breathed, and coped.

That twist became:

• chronic low back pain

• shoulder and neck tension

• emotional heaviness

• fatigue and depression

• digestive issues

• breath restriction

• a constant sense of imbalance

Working in a kitchen amplified it.
Cancer amplified it.
My lifestyle amplified it.

I believed that training hard, eating paleo, and pushing myself mentally would heal me.

It didn’t.
It made the trauma pattern stronger.

I didn’t understand that trauma lives not in memory but in shape.
I didn’t understand that the nervous system stores protection in posture, and breathing.
I didn’t understand that the body keeps reenacting the moment it braced — until it feels safe enough to unwind.

The Nervous System Never Forgets

Even when the mind forgets, the body doesn’t.
When trauma goes unresolved, the nervous system keeps replaying the event — not through conscious memory, but through:

• tension

• posture

• reflexes

• breath

• emotion

• movement patterns

Mine replayed as a leftward spiral.
A kink.
A guard.
A cringe.

A shape learned in a split second and practiced unconsciously for twenty years.

Somatic Awareness: A Way Back

When I finally let my body show me its truth, something shifted.
Somatic practice taught me to:

• feel the twist instead of collapsing into it

• follow the pull without fear

• explore the protective shape gently

• unwind the trauma pattern slowly

• retrain my breath and posture

• rebuild a sense of internal safety

It’s not easy to sense misalignment when it’s all you’ve ever known. Even after a tremendous amount of practice. It can veil itself from our focused awareness with ease, and requires patience, persistence and positivity to shine the light into our darkest areas.
And, as awareness grows, the body reveals its story.

And with that story comes the possibility of change.

We can reprocess old experiences.
We can rebuild safety.
We can retrain the nervous system to let go.

A Shape of Protection, Not Failure

That twist — that cringe — was not weakness.
It was survival.
It saved my life. And is deeply ingrained in my being.

But survival mode is not meant to be permanent.

Yoga therapy, somatic movement, and breathwork helped me release the imprint, retrain my system, and come back toward center.

I’m still working on it.
Twenty years of a trauma pattern doesn’t disappear overnight.
But with consistent, dedicated work I continue to learn a new way, a way that not only feels great, but is reshaping the entire fabric of my well being. I know I will only continue to improve up until the day I die.

Healing isn’t magic. Your body IS the magic.
And every step — every breath — every moment of awareness can reshape your existence.