Writing poetry

“When I started talking to a therapist about my trauma, it affected me in ways I didn’t expect.

I’ve been writing professionally for over a decade at that point, and talking about myself online and in my books has always felt both creative and cathartic.

But the more I opened up about my trauma in therapy, the less I wanted to show up online, and the less I wanted to witness myself on the page. I could no longer sit down to write a personal essay – it was all too confronting and emotionally charged.

For some people, feeling unable to be creative might not be that much of a problem. But I’ve been creative all my life, and this strange creative block was a growing absence in my life. I hadn’t quite realised how much I needed a creative outlet until my usual format became something too scary to contemplate.

Part of me wondered if my resistance to writing about my trauma was something I had to push my way through with. Surely, to face the past you have to face it head on? Was my avoidance of writing just me trying to avoid something that would actually help me heal?

According to psychotherapist and Counselling Directory member Jen Parkin, this isn’t necessarily true. “It is often assumed that the best way to process Trauma is to talk about it, but recalling and exploring traumatic incidents, experiences, or even feelings can often mean a person is essentially reliving what they went through.”

When I began to understand what an emotional flashback feels like, I can see now that whenever I tried to write about my trauma, it would take me back there emotionally, which always triggered a freeze response and long periods of dissociation.

“Our brains cannot effectively tell the difference between real or imagined events” explains Jen, “so as somebody relives their Trauma, they may trigger the same release of stress chemicals and hormones, the same physical sensations and a reinforcing of the same neural pathways that were present the first time the event(s) occurred. We call this retraumatisation.”

Every essay writer knows that retelling your personal story involves getting intimate with your past. You must put a spotlight on your memories, sometimes from multiple perspectives, often repeatedly and at depth. It makes sense, then, that trying to construct a personal narrative around my trauma had been retraumatising me, which I had rightly been shying away from.

“For those suffering with PTSD the risk of re-traumatisation is high. Like all people seeking therapy, PTSD sufferers need to stay emotionally regulated in order to safely process their experiences. This means that they need to be able to tolerate the level of discomfort brought about by what they need to process and explore.”

While talking about trauma in my fortnightly therapy sessions was causing discomfort, it felt tolerable because I was with someone I trusted. But I craved another way to release some of the pressure through words – so I turned to poetry.

I hoped that the freedom of poetry might grant me access to a gentle form of healing. One that relied less on a coherent narrative, as my non-fiction work demands, and more on an energy, a feeling, and one that doesn’t have to be communicated with clarity or balance.

So, I wrote sprawling two-page poems about my experience of growing up queer in the 90s, I penned tiny little stanzas about the ways nature helped me feel connected to something hopeful. Over the course of many weeks my notes app became crammed with line upon line of metaphors, sarcastic quips, ethereal imagery, and rageful confessions.

After writing for a few months, I even signed up for a local poetry class and began sharing my work with strangers. Reading one of my poems aloud for the first time was such an empowering moment for me. I was able to hold what happened to me in a way that left me feeling in control, instead of spiralling into an emotional flashback. This was the kind of creative expression that just felt… right.

Creativity is something that Jen says is often a safe option for those undertaking talking therapy. “Engaging in creative pursuits, such as drawing, sculpting, and writing, has been proven to be regulating, calming and hugely beneficial to the nervous system as well as being a way to express and work through difficult emotions and traumatic experiences.”

“These emotionally regulating activities can also assist in expanding a person’s level of distress tolerance which can mean that they can explore their experiences more effectively in therapy.”

Certainly, I’ve found that looking back on my poems, rewriting them, editing them, and sharing them with others has been a sort of playful exposure therapy. Putting me in contact with the difficult emotions linked to certain events, but in a way that allows me full autonomy over the process, the potential for making something new, as well as the freedom to stop at any time.

“There is often a sense of empowerment derived from building/creating/expressing something from a place of pain into something tangible, meaningful, and separate from the person and what they have endured,” says Jen.

So how can you get started?

5 tips for getting started with poetry

1. I wish I’d known that you don’t have to (nor  probably could you) tell the whole story in one poem. You don’t need to begin with your most painful memory or write something deeply revealing. You might start with the view from your window today (getting into the present moment is a way to ground in an emotional flashback) an object you have kept for years, or a place where you feel at ease.
2. Forget about creating a finished poem. Begin with “Today, I noticed…” or “Right now, I feel…” and follow wherever the words take you.
3. Choose a concrete image – a tree, an empty chair, the sunset – and describe its colours, textures, sounds, or movement. You don’t have to explain what it represents. Repeating a phrase such as “I’m not going to”, “I want…”, or “There is…” to give your poem a loose shape while leaving you free to explore.
4. Read other poets. Notice the poems that make you feel seen, comforted, or curious about something. You might borrow their starting point or structure to see what emerges. You could even write a poem in response to theirs.
5. Most importantly, remember that you are in control of the process. You decide what goes on the page, whether you return to it, and if anybody else ever gets to read it. If writing brings up emotions that feel difficult to manage, you can stop, ground yourself in the present, or choose a subject that feels safer. Poetry can complement professional support, but it isn’t a replacement for it.

Your first poem doesn’t have to be polished or profound. See it as a container for your thoughts, a storage space for your self-expression.

Whether your poem stays in your notes app, is read aloud to a room of strangers, or finds its way into our competition, the words belong to you – and you get to decide what happens next.

And if you do create something you would like to share, the free Happiful Poetry Prize 2027 is now open to UK residents aged 18 and over.

About the Happiful Poetry Prize 2027

We’re inviting original, previously unpublished poems of no more than 25 lines that explore mental health and wellbeing in unique, engaging, and empowering ways. You don’t need any previous poetry or publishing experience to enter, and every entrant will receive a free place at an online poetry webinar led by poet Sophie Dumont.

The competition closes at 11.59pm on 30 October 2026. You can find inspiration, read the full terms and conditions, and submit your poem through the Happiful website.

About Fiona Fletcher Reid

Fiona is Features Editor at Happiful and has written extensively about mental health in her books Depression in a Digital Age, Out of Office, and Work it Out as well as for publications like Metro, DIVA, and Grazia. She believes in the power of personal storytelling as a way to make sense of our lives in the context of mental illness, and in particular, the way that poetry can help put words to complex emotions.