The Carrying of the Cross: A Somatic Meditation Through the Lens of Spiritual Trauma

By Ashley E. Schumacher, MS, LAPC

Music Suggestion: “Kyrie Eleison” and “Restore” by Salt of the Sound

youtu.be/NJMqWfs0zQ4?si=Q-SCsmHfSnfIfJzW 

https://youtu.be/BWLyjhLwwlM?si=XCaH2GulcRKcVXW6

Begin by finding a seated or standing position where you feel grounded. Allow your body to sink into the surface beneath you. Let your breath be slow and steady, drawing you into the present moment.

Feel the weight of your body against the ground, and with each breath, allow yourself to soften into the support that surrounds you. Let go of any tension, even if just for a moment. Feel the rise and fall of your chest. Let your breath deepen.

Now, envision the scene before you.

The air is thick with the stench of sweat, blood, and dust. The crowd is shouting, jeering. The sound is deafening, but there is one thing you cannot ignore: the weight of the cross. Jesus is carrying it. 

He stumbles forward, each step labored, his muscles trembling under the strain. The rough, splintered wood of the cross presses painfully against His shoulder, digging into His skin.

Each step is a battle. His breath is shallow, quick, as if each movement demands the last of His strength.

Feel this weight. Not just in your mind, but in your body. Imagine the roughness of the wood against His torn flesh, the pressure on His shoulders, the way His feet drag across the stones, barely able to find traction.

Every time He moves, there’s an overwhelming force of exhaustion pulling Him down. His vision is blurred, not just from sweat stinging His eyes, but from the crown of thorns pressing against His brow, each sharp spike a reminder of the mocking, the rejection.

As you breathe, feel the exhaustion in your own body—the heaviness that comes from carrying something too great to bear. The weight of the cross presses upon you too. You are right there with Him, stumbling, each step pulling you further into the depths of His suffering.

This weight, this exhaustion—this is the somatic echo of spiritual trauma. The trauma that comes when we have been wounded not just in the body, but in the soul. When the very place we sought safety—our faith, our Church, our God—was the place where pain found us.

But then, amidst this overwhelming struggle, He sees her.

Mary.

She is there, standing in the crowd. Her face is full of agony, but her eyes—her eyes are fixed on His. They meet.

Pause here.

In this moment, you may feel a wave of emotion rising as you think about the look they exchange. A mother’s gaze, full of love, full of sorrow. A son’s eyes, full of pain, full of recognition.

And yet, deeper still—there is more. Within the split second of this gaze, an entire eternity opens.

There is the flash of unspeakable relief, the kind that comes only from being seen in the truth of one’s suffering. He sees her. She sees Him. Their eyes lock in the unshakable truth of shared agony and undying love. But it is not gentle—it is devastating.

Their faces distort, not from shame, but from the rawness of holding agony and love in the same breath.

Mary’s lips tremble. Her whole being shudders as her eyes brim with a storm of anguish and devotion. His mouth opens slightly—not in speech, but in a silent exhale of recognition, the cry of a child who no longer has the strength to cry aloud.

Their humanity is disfigured by the weight of divine suffering. Their expressions strain under the pressure of love that hurts so deeply it must break something open.

And yet—if we stay here, if we surrender to this unbearable mercy—

What is disfigured becomes transfigured.

What is marred becomes radiant.

What is lost is not gone.

This is the heart of spiritual trauma: the disfigurement of the soul, the unbearable distortion of what we thought faith and love should look like. But in the gaze of mercy—this gaze between Jesus and Mary—there is a holy undoing.

The distortion of their faces becomes a mirror of our own pain, our own disfigurement by sin, betrayal, and loss. And yet in the gaze of mercy, it is reclaimed. Innocence is not just mourned—it is reborn. His gaze into hers, and hers into His, becomes the very place where human pain is kissed by divine compassion.

Now titrate and pendulate this moment. You may feel the weight of both their suffering.  

The pain, the exhaustion, the grief—all of it intertwines. Pendulate between the sharpness of the crown of thorns, the searing exhaustion of each step, and the profound depth of their exchange.

Allow yourself to feel both the heaviness and the tenderness in this sacred moment.

Mary, gazing at her Son, has a flashback—a memory of Him as a child. He is small, innocent, untouched by the brutality of this moment. Now, feel the stark contrast. She remembers His first steps, His smile, the love, and joy that once radiated from Him. And now—this.

In her eyes, we see both the loss of innocence and the knowledge of the unimaginable pain He must endure. She, too, understands the weight of spiritual trauma—the loss of what was once pure and whole. No longer unknowing. She, too, feels the rupture—the deep fracture of what was and what now is. 

The cross is not only physical but spiritual: a journey from innocence to deep suffering. The crown of thorns is not only for His head but for the innocent mind, the innocent heart, that has been broken by the reality of the world.

This is the journey of the traumatized soul—one that has seen too much, lost too much, and yet still loves. This is Mary’s trauma too: the trauma of bearing witness, of being helpless to stop the pain. And yet not looking away.

Feel it. As you breathe, allow the contrast of Mary’s memory of her child, of love untainted, and the present suffering of her Son, to flood your body. Pendulate between the innocence of that memory and the brutal reality before her. Feel the deep, emotional ache—the rawness of spiritual trauma—that comes when innocence is shattered.

Her Son, the same Son who once held her in His arms, now stumbles beneath the weight of the world.

But then, in the very same breath, her hand reaches out, gently cradling His face.

Feel this touch.

Her hands, warm and steady, hold Him with tenderness, despite all that has happened. She does not withdraw in fear or horror. Her love reaches out to Him, and she holds His face with the same love she held Him with as a child.

Their eyes lock again—flooded with both grief and grace. For a moment, there is both relief and devastation—a terrible, holy ache that distorts the face with emotion. Her brow furrows, her lips tremble. His eyes close, not from exhaustion but from the rawness of being seen. The human body strains to hold such depths of pain and love simultaneously. 

And yet, in this moment of disfigurement, there is no shame. Only recognition. 

Their faces—etched by sorrow, swollen with tears, weathered by agony—mirror the sacred paradox of trauma: that which rends also reveals.

This is the face of spiritual trauma. When the soul has been wounded by what was supposed to be safe. When what once consoled has betrayed. When love and pain blur so deeply, you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

Now, titrate and pendulate between the agony in His body, the depth of the cross, and the warmth of her hands. This is the paradox of spiritual trauma: the agony and the love, the unbearable pain and the soft presence of healing. 

Pendulate between these extremes—the weight of suffering and the comfort of a mother’s love. Her hands, gentle and firm, cradle His face, reminding you that even in the deepest suffering, there is an invitation to tenderness, to being held, to being seen.

Feel her love for you, her child. Feel her presence in this moment of overwhelming darkness.

Titrate between the weight of the cross and the warmth of her touch. With each breath, let her love transform you.

She holds Him, and she holds you. Just as she sees Him, she sees you—every wound, every fear, every grief. And her love is enough. It always has been.

Their eyes lock again, and in that silent, sacred gaze, there is more than just pain—there is a promise. A wordless vow rooted in eternity.

And then—His voice, through cracked lips or maybe only in the heart, speaks:

“See, Mother, I make all things new.”

These words do not erase the pain, but they breathe through it—like a promise seeded in blood-soaked soil. For those who have endured spiritual trauma—the violation of what was once holy, trusted, or pure—these words speak directly into the aching wound.

“I make all things new” is not a denial of your suffering. It is a divine acknowledgment of it. It is a declaration that even the most disfigured parts of your spirit—the confusion, betrayal, shame, and grief—are not beyond redemption.

This is the slow, sacred work of transfiguration: where what was once desecrated becomes holy again. Where innocence, once shattered, begins to glimmer with resurrection light.

Slowly, gently bring your awareness back to the present. Feel your body, grounded and supported. Feel the weight of yourself, still here. Still breathing. Still loved.

And in this sacred moment, remember that you, too, are held by the hands of the one who witnessed her Son’s suffering. Just as she held His face, she holds yours. You are not alone.

Let your breath deepen now.

Feel the ground beneath you—the earth that bore the cross, that received His blood, that held the Mother as she watched and wept.

Feel it holding you now.

Notice your body—your weight, your breath, the places where pain still lives, the places where love is returning.

Let yourself rest in that quiet space where suffering and grace touch, without needing to resolve or explain.

Take one more breath.

And in that breath, remember:

What is disfigured becomes transfigured.

What once bore shame, now bears light.

What once bowed under unbearable weight, now rises with unbreakable dignity.

This is the paradox of the Cross.

This is the promise of mercy.

This is your story, too.

Her hands, warm and steady, hold Him with tenderness, despite all that has happened—just as they hold you now. In this sacred space of suffering and love, you are held. Not for what you were, but for who you are, in your fullness—your brokenness and your beauty. 

And despite all that has happened, you are held in the tender embrace of the Mother and Son, who see you in your pain, and who will never turn away. This is the heart of healing from spiritual trauma: to be held, as you are, despite all that has happened.

Stay here as long as you need.