My first Substack

Musings from a trauma, grief, attachment, equine therapist

My First Substack Musing

From a trauma, attachment, and equine therapist

Hello, static world…

I’ve been meaning to do this for a while now.

Start writing again.

Start telling my story again.

Start putting words to the things I’ve lived, witnessed, and survived—for myself and for the people I work with every day.

So here it is. My first post.

My name’s Angela Schellenberg. I’m a trauma, grief, attachment, EMDR, and equine therapist. I’m licensed in Washington, Arizona, and California, and I split my time between Santa Monica and Tucson.

But truthfully, I’m a lot more than my credentials.

I’m a twin mom—my boys are in their second year of college, one in California and the other in Arizona.

I’m a pug mom to three very important beings: Steve (he’s from Thailand), Hope (we got her when Donald Trump was elected), and Rubie (our pandemic pug).

I’m also married to a middle school principal, which means our dinner conversations are anything but dull.

I never thought I’d be a writer.

But maybe I always was.

In second grade, I had a poem published about icicles hanging from a coconut tree. I can still remember the feeling of seeing my words in print. But writing didn’t stick around long—I was too busy surviving. Like a lot of you, I grew up in an environment where survival was the priority. Creativity got buried under trauma.

I grew up in Puyallup, Washington, with my mom, my dad, Mike, and my younger brother Rollie. We had a dog named Nemo, and I had a horse named Destiny—fitting since Destiny would play a major role in my life.

When I was eight, my parents answered a nickel ad for used tires. That one decision introduced us to a couple named Frank and Harriet Cooper. They started coming over for Bible studies and slideshows about the end of the world. Before long, we were part of the Seventh-day Adventist church. I remember the vegetarian meat from Loma Linda and the slow, quiet changes in my mom—less makeup, long dresses, her eyes starting to fade.

At eleven, she had a nervous breakdown and was institutionalized. I became her caregiver.

At sixteen, my dad was murdered. We saw it unfold on the 5 o’clock news.

By twenty-two, both of my parents were gone.

I became an adult orphan before I knew who I even was.

I’ve lived a lot of lives since then.

I started working at Nordstrom when I was 15—barista, makeup artist, hairdresser.

Eventually, I became an elementary school teacher and taught first and second grade in Seattle.

Then I moved to Shanghai with my husband and taught at the Shanghai American School.

Looking back, I think travel saved me.

There’s something about being in a foreign place that forces your brain to rewire itself. You can’t control much, so you’re forced to surrender. That’s where healing started for me—far from home, far from the story I had always carried.

I started writing my memoir a few years ago—but the truth is, it traumatized me so much I had to stop. Instead, I went back to school to become a trauma therapist. That’s the twist, right? I couldn’t write about my pain until I learned how to hold it. And now, here I am—finally circling back to the page.

This is my re-entry into writing.

Not perfect. Not polished. But real.

There’s more to come.

This is just the beginning.

It’s getting late. I’m tired.

But I did the thing.

Thanks for being here.

More soon.

With love,

Angela

⸻