Ayeka: 

A Somatic Meditation for Spiritual Trauma 

on Hiding, Integration, and God Walking Towards Us

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC 

“Take Me Broken" and "Restore" by Salt of the Sound

https://youtu.be/i7KdI6Pfe1M?si=0O1MVN9J5cjRlxFn

https://youtu.be/BWLyjhLwwlM?si=FBvFMzJVYrslnqhH

“Then the Lord God called to the man and said, 'Where are you?’” —Genesis 3:9 

Come to Stillness 

Find a quiet, warm space. Let your body come into gentle rest. 

You might lie down or sit with a hand over your heart, another on your belly. Let your shoulders soften. Let your jaw unclench. Let your spine feel supported. 

Maybe you sit in a soft chair, your back supported, your arms resting gently in your lap. Maybe you lie down, covered by a blanket. However you arrive, let your body know this: 

You do not have to hold anything right now. 

Not clarity. 

Not strength. 

Not answers. 

Close your eyes if you feel safe. 

Let the ground beneath you rise to meet your weight. 

Let yourself be held. 

Take a breath in... 

and let it gently release in an exhale longer than it came. 

There is nothing required of you here. 

Nothing to prove. 

Nothing to manage. 

Only your presence. 

This is enough. 

Inhale… 

Exhale, longer.

Let your breath be a witness: 

You are here now. 

You are safe enough. 

You are not alone. 

There is nothing to perform. 

There is no posture of perfection to assume. 

This is holy ground. 

The Garden and the Hiding 

Let yourself be carried, gently, into the garden. 

Not a mythical Eden. 

But the sacred inner terrain—the space within you that still remembers harmony. Innocence. Intimacy. 

There is green here. Breath. Beauty. 

And the memory of walking freely—unafraid, unashamed—before God and with yourself. It was once safe to walk freely. 

Uncovered. Known. Delighted in. 

But something… shifted. 

Not just a single act, but a deep rupture. Not just in the story, but in you. 

A distortion of trust. A misnaming of love. A subtle wound that slowly shaped the way your nervous system learned to survive. 

Someone may have said God wanted your obedience, but gave you control. Someone may have spoken of love, but withheld it unless you shrank. 

Maybe someone claimed to speak for God but used that Name to dominate. Maybe what was sacred became distorted—subtly, then entirely. 

Maybe your trust was called rebellion. 

Your fear was called pride. 

Your confusion was called disobedience. 

And so something in you went silent. 

Something beautiful went into hiding.

You covered over the parts of you that doubted, that burned with anger, that grieved what was lost. 

These parts are not broken. 

They are exiled. 

And they have waited a long time to be seen. 

You did not choose exile. 

It was your body’s act of wisdom. 

It reached for whatever could protect you: 

Composure. Compliance. 

Fury. Distance. Fig leaves… 

You learned to disappear in plain sight. 

To perform holiness. 

To second-guess your own knowing. 

To become small enough to survive. 

These parts of you—the protectors, the managers, the exiles—they are not sinful. They are sacred. 

They are the story of how you loved yourself in unbearable places. 

Ayeka—Where Are You? 

Now, hear it: 

There is a sound—gentle, steady, unmistakable. 

God is walking. 

Not away from your hiding. 

Toward it. 

Not running. Not roaring. Walking. 

Not toward the innocent. 

But toward the hidden. 

God is coming toward the very place you went to disappear. 

And He speaks. Softly. 

A question, heavy yet simultaneously light with tenderness: 

Ayeka? 

Where are you?

Not—Where should you be? 

Not—Why did you do this? 

But—Where are you? Right now. As you are. As you feel. As you tremble. 

It is not a question of accusation. 

It is not a test. 

It is the voice of the One who still wants you. 

Not after you’ve healed. 

Not once you’ve forgiven. 

Not when you’ve finally let go. 

But here. 

Now. 

In the very place you believed you had to disappear. 

Let that question echo through your body. 

Let it reach the part of you that still flinches at the word God. 

The part that once trusted spiritual authority and now fears it. 

The part that speaks confidently, but underneath, still aches for safe belonging. The part that once collapsed in trauma and still believes she/he is weak. 

God is not confused about where you are. 

But He knows that you may not know. 

So He asks—not to expose you, but to draw you back into relationship with Him and with yourself. 

What Is Hiding? 

Let yourself breathe. 

Let the question settle in your body. 

What part of you answers first? 

The one who lashes out, because it’s the only way she/he ever felt heard? The one who clings to certainty, because confusion was used against her/him? The one who fled the church but still dreams of being held by a God she/he can trust? 

The one who believes that if anyone knew the whole truth, they would turn away? 

You do not need to fix her/him. 

You do not need to make her/him speak kindly. 

You only need to listen. 

Let her/him speak. 

Let all of her/him- all parts speak. 

You do not need to strip yourself of fig leaves. 

God never asked Adam or Eve to. 

He does not shame your defenses. 

He kneels beside them. 

He does not tear away your coverings. 

He waits with you underneath them—until the hiding no longer serves you. You are allowed to be hidden, and still entirely loved. 

Let yourself speak this truth. The One who walks in the garden says, “I was there. I saw what they did in My Name. And it was never Me.” 

This is not your failure. 

It is your body’s truth. 

Let the longing rise again—however quiet. 

For the God you hoped was real. 

For the love you ached to be true. 

That ache is not a betrayal. 

It is the truest part of you still reaching. 

Let the Parts Answer 

Begin to notice. 

What arises in you at the sound of that question? 

Who answers- which part answers first?

Is it the angry protector, who says: I had to push everyone away to stay safe? Is it the perfectionist manager, who says: I tried everything to earn love and avoid shame? Is it the small, frozen exile, whispering: I was never enough to keep them close? 

Let each part speak. 

You do not need to silence them. 

You do not need to correct them. 

You only need to listen. 

This is how integration begins. 

Each part of you—so long unseen—being gently welcomed into awareness, into compassion, into Presence. 

If Tears Come, Let Them 

If your chest trembles… 

If your throat tightens… 

If your eyes brim— 

This is not regression. 

This is release. 

This is what happens when the part holding shame too, receives compassion and tender presence. 

Let the tears fall. 

You are not crying too much. 

You are finally safe enough to cry. 

Every tear is a door opening, a part emerging. 

God Does Not Tear the Fig Leaves 

Let your attention return to Eden’s first hiding. 

To Adam. To Eve. To the trembling beneath the trees. 

To the moment after the rupture—when fear entered the body, and shame reached for cover. 

And see this: 

God does not strip the fig leaves away.

He does not demand their nakedness. 

He does not tear away the coverings of fear. 

He does not require vulnerability as a prerequisite for mercy. 

Instead, He walks toward them. 

Still asks. 

Still stays. 

You are not required to strip yourself of the protective parts. You do not need to dismantle your defenses before you are loved. You are only invited to notice: 

These parts are not shameful. They are stories. 

These coverings are not sins. They are survival. 

And when you let yourself be seen—even clothed in fear, even hidden— something shifts. 

Shame begins to melt—not in exposure, but in mercy’s gaze. 

The compassion of God does not condemn your hiding. It holds it. 

Until you no longer need to hide. 

The Invitation Is Not Vindication. It Is Wholeness. 

In your healing journey, you may have once said: 

“It was never me. It was them.” 

“I was just reacting.” 

“They were sick, unstable, wrong.” 

And maybe that was a holy phase. 

To stop blaming yourself was a breakthrough. 

To recognize abuse was lifesaving. 

But now, the invitation is deeper. 

Not to blame yourself again—never that. 

But to turn toward the parts that reacted, and listen.

What did I come to believe about God in that place? 

What part of me had to be strong, and never grieve? 

What exile is still waiting for me to return? 

This is not self-judgment. 

It is sacred curiosity. 

Not to decide who was good or bad, but to become whole again. 

This is the work of love. 

This is the mercy of God made somatic. 

God does not demand that Adam and Eve tear away their fig leaves. 

He does not force their exposure. 

He allows their coverings. 

He acknowledges their fear. 

And He draws near—even there. 

Likewise, you are not required to strip yourself of the parts that have protected you. You are not asked to dismantle your defenses before you are loved. 

You are only asked to know where you are, who you are, and Whose you are. 

Not in shame or condemnation but in self awareness To witness all your parts and your true self in humility and merciful compassion. 

To let God find you—not beneath the fig leaves, but within them. 

To let yourself be seen in your hiddenness, not in spite of it. 

These coverings—your perfectionism, your silence, your need to be right, your withdrawal— they are not sinful. They were born from wisdom. They served to preserve your dignity in systems that could not hold your truth. 

And when mercy meets these places, 

shame is not exposed. 

It is subsumed into compassion. 

Transformed by the gaze that knows exactly why you hid— 

and still calls you beloved. 

Let Him Find You There 

Let that question rest in your body now.

Ayeka? 

Where is the part of you who believed God left? 

Where is the part who hasn’t cried in years, because crying meant weakness? 

Where is the part who keeps looking for a new system, a new theology, a new defense to prove you’re not wrong? 

Where is the part who still wonders if anyone would love you if they knew the whole truth? 

Breathe. 

God is not afraid of what you feel. 

You do not need to let yourself be found. 

He has already found you. 

He is not waiting for you at the edge of the garden. 

He is already curled beside you in the dark, 

behind the fig leaves, 

where your knees pulled to your chest, 

where your breath grew shallow, 

where your spirit said, “No one will love me if they see me here.” And He whispers— 

I see you. I always have. 

You never had to hide from Me. 

You do not need to prove you are good. 

You do not need to explain why you hurt. 

I know. 

And I’m not going anywhere. 

He is walking… still walking… 

into the cool of the day, 

into the wreckage of betrayal, 

into the garden of your own body… 

and He is asking…

Where are you? 

Closing Blessing 

Rest now. 

You do not have to come out of hiding all at once. 

You may never feel ready. That is okay. 

He will stay. 

Even the hiding is holy now—because He is there. 

You are not asked to forgive before you are ready. 

You are not asked to rebuild what broke you. 

You are not asked to prove you’re healed. 

You are only asked to stay. 

And to let Love keep watch beside the fig leaves 

until the day you no longer need them. 

You are not disqualified by what you had to do to survive. You are not defined by the masks you wore to stay safe. You are not forgotten in your hiding. 

The God who still walks in the garden comes for every part of you. 

Even the parts that were told they were dangerous. Even the parts who lashed out or shut down. 

Even the parts you’ve never shown to another soul. Let yourself be found. 

Let your breath steady. 

Let the fig leaves fall—not by force, but by trust. 

Not in shame, but in reverence. 

Not for exposure, but for embrace. 

Ayeka. 

Where are you? 

You are here.

You are seen. 

You are already being gathered. 

Because you beautiful soul, are and have always been unspeakably loved.