Recently, I had a rupture repair session with one of my most trusted healthcare practitioners. About ten days before, we had a misattunement rupture when he dismissed what I said about my lived experience. I told him I was struggling, that I felt like I was in decline. Instead of hearing me, he went into left-brain mode and gave me reasons why I shouldn’t believe what my body was telling me through everything I notice every minute of my day: how much I’m walking or moving, what I eat and drink, whether I’m constipated, if I fill or empty my pill minder, whether I can keep up with laundry, change my bed sheets, keep appointments, handle new health issues, or ask for weatherization assistance. All of that is a lot of stress on my nervous system. And for him to dismiss that disturbed my sense of safety. Especially because over the course of years he’s been so attuned and right on with his responses that it hit me like a shock.

So for the last ten days, I worked on that rupture, developing an approach to address it in a way that honored the usual energy and flow between us, while letting him know the impact it had on me.

During that time, I dove into painting for my next “Della the IPNB Ladybug” book. This one’s different, a story first, neurobiology second. It’s based on a true experience with a shipmate from my days aboard KALMAR NYCKEL. We had a strong connection as shipmates, but then something ruptured. His apology was powerful. It was the best apology I’ve ever received, especially from a man. It soothed my nervous system like nothing else. Even nine years later, that repair still feels good inside me.

My shipmate showed me that he cared more about our connection than holding onto his own picture of what happened. He chose to come toward me when I expressed my pain, instead of turning away. That repair made everything better, stronger than before. Even though we’re worlds apart politically and religiously, I believe if either of us really needed something, the other would step up. We don’t interact much now, not even on Facebook, but that bond endures.

Working on the paintings for this book brought back a flood of memories: the fun times, the support, the joy of being true shipmates. It also brought grief for what’s been lost. KALMAR NYCKEL is a concrete symbol of everything stolen from me by medical harm, everything I dreamed of, every possibility ripped away. I can’t sail again. That hurts so deeply. But it’s not just the ship and my lifelong dream of sailing tall ships. It’s everything I lost: my health, my freedom, my connections, my plans. Most of my savings have gone just to survive the last seven years since the trauma train rolled over me, starting with psychiatric abuse disguised as standard treatment. The massive grief and the remnants of joy exist side by side, and painting helped me touch into both.

So, when I saw my practitioner, who had been unable to attune, I started by showing him those paintings. They don’t have words yet, but the story is clear: how relationships are built through trust, shared focus, helping and caring, and playful competition. Then comes the rupture, normal, human, inevitable. And then the repair, that moment that makes everything different. Repair doesn’t just fix what broke; it makes the relationship stronger, deeper, and more resilient. That’s the neural reality.

My doctor took his time looking at the paintings. I told him briefly about our rupture and said I wasn’t blaming him. I know it’s a protective mechanism, but I hoped he could be aware and stay with me as much as possible. I could tell it was a lot for him. After the craniosacral session, he put his hand gently on my shoulder to comfort me just for a second. During the session, I had touched into the most degrading trauma from childhood, and he had felt it. He gave me a tissue so I could wipe my tears and said, “I’m sorry you didn’t feel seen last time.” His tone, his speed, his facial expression, and the depth of his voice carried meaning that my nervous system understood deeply. That was the repair.

When we hugged goodbye, I sensed a new drop of tenderness between us, a warmer, safer feeling. It was brief, but it was real. I’m so grateful to have a man in my life who can be that safe for me, even if just for a few seconds. That’s deeply healing for my body.

I’ve lost so many men who used to hold that safe space for me. My dear shipmate friend Ed passed away six years ago. My male shipmates are now out of my realm, sailing ships while I languish ashore. My political friends are back in Virginia. Here in Delaware, I couldn’t build those connections due to the impact of medical abuse. The trauma and betrayal have weaponized connection to men; it’s a threat now. Especially because of the gynecologist who cut me without consent, and the people and systems that protect him instead of me.

That repair from my doctor was profound. I feel it ripple through me. It’s helping me feel more solid, less in decline.

This is what I need from all my practitioners: genuine attunement, connection, and repair of the ruptures life inevitably brings.

Ruptures aren’t endings. When we handle them as we evolved to, with genuine repair and care, they are opportunities. Opportunities to deepen trust, strengthen connection, and build resilience. The relationship after repair isn’t just back to what it was. It’s better because true repair makes individuals and relationships stronger.