Life Within The Lines: On Complex Trauma, Permission, and Learning to Trust the Open Space after Survival

By Megan Margherio

Megan Margherio is a writer, speaker and trauma-informed embodiment coach whose work explores trauma recovery, estrangement, joy, and the long road back to self-trust. She is the author of Everwoven: A Memoir. A Reckoning. Available at Amazon.ca

I’ve always loved coloring. I didn’t have to imagine what something could be because it was already there. Instead, I got to visualize what it would look like. That felt safer because it was contained. The black lines on the page weren’t just the border for the shape, they were the edge. A cliff, in line form, that kept me safe from the void of white space.

I never colored beyond the edge. In fact, I would create a secondary border of color just inside the black lines to ensure I never strayed. Another layer of protection between me and the void. It’s not that I thought something bad would happen if I crossed into the white space, but that I didn’t know if it was “allowed.” Sure, other kids would doodle on the edges, creating freely. It was messy. Uncomposed. They never got in trouble for it, but I always wondered if the teacher was quietly annoyed they drew outside the lines.

I color the same way as an adult. Creating secondary borders on the page and in life. Insulating me from the unknown. From wanting the wrong thing, making the wrong choice, or becoming visible in a way I can’t control.

I’ve always loved rules, though love may not be the right word. I trusted them. Rules told me where the danger was supposed to be. They revealed the edges so I could color within them. When safety is inconsistent, predictability can become its own kind of border.

I followed the rules for how to be a good student. How to get an A. How to pass the test. My secondary border? Overachieve. Set the bar high and exceed it. Every time. No matter what.

I followed the rules for how to be a good person. Be kind. Show up for others. Include everyone. Share what you have. I learned to become someone that’s easy to approve of.

I gave more than I received. Compliments, affection and attention were only allowed to flow one way. If the direction changed, I’d recoil. Internally rejecting what had been given freely. Giving it back in the form of flattery. “Oh, that’s high praise, especially coming from you.”

It’s not that I didn’t like what people were saying about me or the ways they were trying to love me out loud. I did. I just didn’t feel like they were mine, at least not really. I felt like I had to be more before I could receive their love. It never occurred to me that maybe I was already enough.

When you grew up in a house that treated joy as suspicious, it can be hard to settle into the calm parts of life, even if they’re exactly what you want. It feels like when a car alarm finally stops. It’s quiet again, but not peaceful. It feels like an edge. Like testing a boundary.

Am I allowed to feel this peace?

Will I be punished for feeling good?

I remember when we moved, we drove our dog and our more sentimental items from St. Louis to Seattle. I had this bubble of enthusiasm that grew with each mile added to the odometer. I couldn’t wait to get to Seattle and start the next chapter in our lives.

Tears started streaming down my face when we crossed the border from Oregon to Washington. We’d spent over a decade thinking about moving to the Pacific Northwest and it was finally happening.

My husband, Jason, squeezed my hand. His silent way of telling me he felt it, too.

My eyes kept shifting, taking in the deserts of eastern Washington and then looking at Jason.

My heart sank.

In an instant, I became worried I’d lose him. Not in any specific way, just that he would be the price I’d have to pay for getting everything I wanted.

Suddenly, every bump on the road felt like it might swallow us.

The bubble of enthusiasm was quickly replaced with the weight of dread. Like my heart was wearing concrete shoes and I was dangling it over water.

The tears continued to fall. All that changed was the reason.

I didn’t tell Jason the truth.

I didn’t lie either.

I just stepped back to the edges.

That’s what survival does in me sometimes. It lets me walk toward the life I want, but only so far before it starts calculating the cost. It scans my joy for danger. It treats my peace like a setup. It asks, quietly but urgently, How am I going to lose this?

For a long time, I thought healing meant the question would disappear. That someday I would arrive into a life full of goodness, love, wonder, and delight and trust it immediately. But living after survival has been less like crossing a finish line, and more like letting myself color without always looking for the teacher’s approval.

It’s been about learning the white space is not always a void. Sometimes it’s freedom. Sometimes it’s possibility. Sometimes it’s the part of the page I would never let myself touch without permission.

No one taught me that goodness can feel ordinary.

No one taught me that love could arrive without conditions.

No one taught me that peace could exist without punishment.

No one taught me that wanting more did not make me greedy or arrogant.

So I learned the rules. I stayed inside the lines. I got good at being good, careful, useful, impressive and always prepared.

I used to think I needed to arrive and pass someone’s imaginary checklist before I was allowed to fully feel alive. Survival taught me to mistake permission and containment for safety. So when I didn’t know where to go or what to do, I made myself smaller and waited for someone to come along with a plan. I didn’t even notice this was a secondary border I kept drawing to protect myself.

I’m trying to draw fewer borders, but many are still there. I feel them when life becomes too beautiful too quickly. My mind races toward loss, but now my hands find my heart and my body helps me remember that fear is not proof something bad is going to happen. Sometimes it’s just the echo of a life where good things didn’t feel safe in my hands.

I’m still learning to trust the white space.

I’m still learning to color all of the way to the edges of my life.

Some days, I even cross them.