If you ever wanna talk to me, I will always talk about The Hunger Games and Spirk I do not tag reliably 28 Empty blogs are blocked, minors are soft blocked
My fellow misophonia havers, I hold your hand so gently, please try to figure out the general frequency of some of your triggers, and listen to blue, white, pink, or red/brown noise depending on it.
Example: Sometimes I hate talking sounds. That’s usually lower frequency. Brown noise and it’s gone. Blocked out by the brown noise.
Lip-smacking/tongue-clicking in sentences? Mouse clicking? Higher frequency. Blue or white noise. Pink noise usually works too if those two are too harsh
Basic list is like this: Blue is the highest, white is equal, pink is a little lower, brown/red is the lowest. You just kind of have to play around and figure out which work best where and when.
If you have headphones/earbuds that allow you to still hear through them, you might be able to hear what you need to while also blocking out specific triggers. Sometimes.
It gets tiring listening to music at full blast that doesn’t even block out most trigger sounds, so these helped me a lot before I got hearing aids that do kind of the same thing but a little more precise
Ignoring ongoing covid paved the way for this change and put millions more in worse danger because of it. Mask up. Keep people developing debilitating long-term illness the government wants you to die from.
“So, uh… Dad?” Hiccup said, nervously, but that was mostly just normal for him. “I’ve got a… question.”
“What sort of question, Hiccup?” Stoic replied, not unkindly – for him, anyway.
That was sort of how their family relationship went a lot of the time, as it happened. The two of them being at pains to be normal with one another.
“So… how exactly do we know that dragons are, uh… monsters, evil, want to hurt us, want to destroy us?” Hiccup asked, rattling off the normal dragon description from the Book of Dragons. “Extremely dangerous, and so on?”
Stoic blinked, then looked at Hiccup with the sort of look that – normally – would be reserved for a relative who’d said something extremely thick.
He wasn’t used to turning it on Hiccup.
“They keep… attacking us,” he said. “Raiding us. Carrying off our sheep.”
“Yeah, about that,” Hiccup replied. “Because, I’ve been a Viking teenager for a while now and the general impression I get is that that’s how Vikings show that they want to become friends.”
Stoic snorted.
“Not getting on well with your friends?” he asked.
“That plural is assuming a lot, Dad,” Hiccup replied. “That… word is also making some assumptions, actually! Though you did keep telling me that all the punches and stuff were just a way of making friends – but, I wasn’t actually talking about my friends, I didn’t mean them, I was meaning to talk about the dragons.”
“And?” Stoic said.
“The point I’m making, Dad, is that… so, uh, I tried putting myself in the place of the dragons,” Hiccup said, shaking his leg and leaning awkwardly on the door frame. “And I wondered what Vikings would think if we went somewhere and the people there were firing catapults at us and shooting flaming rocks at us, and that sort of thing, and… I’ve met Vikings, dad. I’m pretty sure you’ve met Vikings!”
Stoic paused, to actually consider that.
It was one of the increasingly large number of things about this conversation which was not Normal, but he was willing to give it a go.
“...hm,” he said. “That sounds like a pretty good night out, actually.”
“That’s what I’m getting at!” Hiccup agreed, now leaning over more. “Hold on.”
“What is it?”
“Not you, I mean-” Hiccup said, then gestured at someone Stoic couldn’t see.
Or possibly just nearly fell over, the lad was gangly.
“Anyway – uhm – I think the dragons just want to be friends,” Hiccup went on, speaking very quickly. “And that they’re enough like Vikings that all we’re doing is just making them more interested.”
“Nonsense,” Stoic replied.
“Really?” Hiccup asked. “Because – uh – are you at least going to think about it before you decide that I have to be wrong?”
“I don’t need to think about it to know it’s nonsense,” Stoic said, firmly.
“Yeah, that sounds pretty Viking too,” Hiccup muttered. “Stubborn and unwilling to admit that you might be wrong about something… so, uh… what about an experiment?”
“Is this some of that scientific method stuff Gobber had you learning?” Stoic checked.
It sounded a bit suspect, to him.
“Yeah, actually,” Hiccup agreed. “But if something happens you can’t say it’s impossible, right?”
Stoic carefully considered the question.
If something happens, you can’t say it’s impossible.
“All right, so let’s accept that for the sake of argument,” he allowed. “What kind of thing?”
“So I gave a Terrible Terror a fish,” Hiccup said. “Once. And now I literally cannot get it to stop rubbing against my ankles, making a kind of purring noise, and curling up next to my bed when I go to sleep.”
Stoic blinked, looking Hiccup up and down.
“...there doesn’t seem to be a Terrible Terror rubbing against your ankles,” he said.
“Yeah, because I can’t stop it, but Toothless can,” Hiccup explained. “Because, uh, there’s this Night Fury…”
“A Night Fury?” Stoic repeated, then went back over the conversation and reprocessed this new information through it.
“...are you telling me you befriended a Night Fury?” he asked. “How?”
“I shot it down,” Hiccup replied. “And, uh… since then I’ve kind of been testing the hypothesis, that’s more of the whole science thing, and it took like eight seconds to convince the Monstrous Nightmare in the training pens that I was a cool guy to be around. I just kind of smiled and that was it?”
He shrugged, then finally lost the battle against keeping the Night Fury out of the doorframe, and the Unholy Offspring of Lightning and Death Itself slowly pushed the leaning Hiccup across the doorframe.
Then spotted Stoic, groonked something, and sat on his haunches like a giant, attentive dog mixed with a curious cat possessed of a penchant for pushing things off tables.
Stoic spent several seconds contemplating what to do, then – experimentally – threw his hammer at the beast.
It ducked, letting Hiccup topple over with a thump, then loped off after the hammer. A few seconds later, a Terror sat on the prone Hiccup’s side and curled up before visibly and very quickly going to sleep.
“You, uh… see what I mean?” Hiccup asked.
The Night Fury came back, tail swishing from side to side, and deposited the thrown hammer eagerly in front of the door before making a pleased sort of gronk-chirp.
Stoic gave up.
This was now Normal.
Making that new categorization was going to save a lot of time.
“My working theory is that, to dragons, we’re friend shaped,” Hiccup said, still trapped under the snoozing Terror.
Mental health problems, especially among youth, have exploded together with major expansions in mental health awareness efforts. The theory of concept creep, or when harm-related concepts broaden their meanings over time, describes this phenomenon but is agnostic about the mechanisms behind the harms. We suggest that this lack of clarity is due to a fragmented literature with proposed mechanisms spread across adjacent fields. Across theories and explanatory frameworks of concept creep, nocebo effects, prevalence inflation, and illness self-labeling, we identify three common mechanisms through which mental health awareness may unintentionally cause harm. These include (a) lowering the threshold for what counts as a mental disorder, (b) increasing attention to internal states and pathologizing ambiguous experiences, and (c) reinforcing negative expectations and identities over time. We describe these shared mechanisms, propose a path forward for research priorities, broaden the evidence for harms from mental health awareness, and offer options for effective multifaceted interventions to reduce them
Sacred Rest is Resistance: Why Sunday Stillness is Ancestral Medicine in Mental Health Awareness Month
By Michele Judith Mitchell, Founder — Ubuntu Village USAMay 3, 2026 · Health & Wellness · Ancestral Wisdom & Spiritual Exploration
It is Sunday morning. The light is soft. Somewhere, a kettle is on. Somewhere else, an alarm is going off because someone must answer one more email, finish one more load, and prove worthiness one more time.
I want to ask you something, and I want you to sit with it…
Ancestral Memory, Nervous System Repair & the Yoga of Coming Home
You Are More Than You
You are more than your own story.
You are the echo of forest women, of salt-harvesters, of weavers and warriors, of those who sang in the dark.
You are the breath of those who never got to exhale.
You are the tears of those who had to hold it all in.
You are the prayer your ancestors didn’t have the language to speak.
Their breath is in your breath.
Their resilience is in your marrow.
Inheriting is remembering.
Remembering is how we heal.
Through presence.
Through pause.
Through gentle movement.
Through practices that do not impose but invite.
That do not fix but honour.
Through spaces where no one is touched without consent.
Where no one is forced to perform.
Where bodies are not aesthetic projects but living repositories of ancestral gold.
That do not shape the body into silence, but allow the silence within the body to speak.
This is the yoga that matters now.
Our Histories In Bone And Tissue
Somewhere beneath the rhythm of breath and the layers of doing, beneath the choreography of postures and the habits of holding, lives a deeper story, written not in words but in tissues, in fascia, in marrow. The body is not merely a vessel for our lives. It is a record of them. A spiralling, living archive of all we have endured, inherited, and remembered.
Trauma Wears Many Faces
Trauma is not limited to the battlefield.
It takes many forms:
abandonment
enmeshment
systemic oppression
spiritual bypassing
medical neglect
coercive control
cultural dislocation
chronic anxiety of living in the modern world
digital overload and overwhelm
burn-out
Some histories are too quiet to be heard. They tremble beneath the breath, coil inside our shoulders, tighten the jaw, curl the spine. It’s the sudden drop in the belly when a door slams.
It’s the vigilance of the nervous system scanning for danger. They live in the myofascia, the soft tissues, the tremor of a hand that forgets how to unclench.
Even if our lives seem “safe,” trauma can be inherited, absorbed, or silently activated by the chronic anxiety of being alive in a modern world bombarded by climate crises and digital disconnection. If left unchecked, like a leaking tap, our inherited or personal experiences, drip by drip, slowly wear down the vagus nerve, the great wandering highway of the parasympathetic system.
Our patterns, our ancestral memories, those conditioned grooves etched into the mind-body, are not random. In yogic language, they are saṃskāras. Saṁskāras are more than memory, they are energetic grooves. Every thought, action, or emotion - especially those charged with intense emotion, unprocessed or overwhelming - leave a trace, a subtle impression or residual imprint carved by experience into our citta (the field of mind and feeling). Over time, these traces coalesce into patterns: beliefs, reflexes, fears, postures, identities. They shape how we relate to the world, often without our conscious awareness.
Modern science is beginning to echo what many yogic, Indigenous, and earth-rooted traditions have long intuited: the body is not separate from memory. It holds the residue of what we’ve lived, and sometimes, of what those before us never got to fully process.
The Body Is Not A Vault We Escape, It Is A Living Archive.
We inherit more than the colour of our eyes or the length of our limbs. Emerging fields like epigenetics, the study of how environmental factors influence gene expression without changing the DNA sequence, show that trauma can imprint itself across generations (Yehuda et al., 2018); stress-related adaptations are passed on at a cellular level, altering how the nervous system and immune system respond to the world (Heijmans et al., 2008); somatic psychology (Levine, 2010), and interpersonal neurobiology (Siegel, 2012) now confirm what many ancient cultures have always known:
Our bodies carry ancestral memory.
Not just metaphorically, but biochemically, neurologically, somatically.
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