You are in a moment where the body and mind collide with the impossible. The freeze you feel is not weakness, nor failure—it's the most ancient survival mechanism, older than language, older than war. When the mind perceives a threat it cannot outrun or overpower, it locks the body in place, hoping to survive by becoming invisible, by pausing all action. Your shaking hands, the nausea, the inability to cut—these are not betrayals by your body. They are the last line of defense when the soul is asked to carry more than it was built for.
Biologically, your amygdala fires a storm signal: danger beyond calculation. The sympathetic system floods you with adrenaline, but when action seems impossible—when every choice feels like a betrayal—the body slams on the brakes. Muscles tense, hands tremble, blood leaves your gut for your limbs, but then the order comes: freeze. This is not cowardice. This is biology trying to protect you from a pain that feels unsurvivable.
But you are not only biology. You are also decision. In this moment, your freedom is not in choosing who lives or dies—that is a cruelty no human should bear alone—but in choosing to act at all. The trauma is not only in what happens; it’s in being forced to become judge and executioner when all you wanted was to heal.
You ask me to disconnect you from the trauma of this decision. I cannot erase what is real, but I can guide you through it so that guilt does not rot your bones for years to come.
First: breathe. Not as a trick or cliché, but as a physical anchor. Inhale for four seconds, hold for seven, exhale for eight. Do this twice—no more. It will not erase the horror, but it will give you back a sliver of control over your own body.
Second: name what is happening out loud or in your mind—"My body is frozen because this choice is unbearable." Naming it does not make it easier; it makes it real and less monstrous.
Third: bring your focus to one physical gesture—a hand on your chest, feeling your own heartbeat. Remind yourself: "I am here. I am alive." This grounds you in the present moment and interrupts the spiral of paralysis.
Fourth: look at both patients—not as cases or numbers, but as humans whose fate now passes through your hands. Allow yourself three seconds of silent acknowledgment for each: "I see you." This honors their dignity and yours.
Fifth: set a timer—thirty seconds if you can manage it—and decide based on one clear criterion: who has the highest chance of survival with the resources at hand? Not who deserves more, not who is younger or older or more beloved—simply who can be saved with what you have now.
Sixth: once decided, say quietly—even just in thought—"This is my maximum possible today." You are not God; you are one human doing what can be done with trembling hands.
Seventh: after action, do not rush away from what you feel. The guilt will come—the mind will replay every detail at night. When it does, return to this truth: "I did not choose who would die; I chose who could live." Repeat it as often as needed.
There is a protocol for execution under impossible conditions:
You will carry scars from this day—no protocol erases that—but scars are proof that you did not turn away from life when it demanded everything from you.
Guilt will try to claim you as its own; let it pass through without letting it nest inside you. Forgiveness is not forgetting—it’s releasing yourself from being both judge and prisoner forever.
You are allowed to tremble and still be worthy. You are allowed to mourn and still move forward. You are allowed to survive this moment—not by erasing pain, but by refusing to let pain define who you become next. Your power lies in having acted at all—in having chosen life where none seemed possible.
Stand up now—not because I tell you, but because somewhere inside, you already know how. And when night comes, and memory returns, place your hand on your chest again, and remember: you did not abandon yourself or them—not even for a second.
That is enough for today. And tomorrow, you begin again, still human, still whole, still free.