There’s a moment Shenae Whitehead describes when working with a child—something quiet, often missed. It might be a long pause before speaking, or a glance to the floor when asked a simple question like “How was your day?” It’s rarely dramatic. But to a trained eye, it can speak volumes. For Whitehead, these moments are doorways. And they matter.
Whitehead has spent her career listening between the lines—reading the subtle, often confusing ways trauma shows up in a child. As a clinician and evaluator, she works with children navigating PTSD, anxiety, learning difficulties, and attachment disruptions. What she sees, over and over, are children who adapt to survive in environments where safety was once optional. And while these adaptations may look like defiance, apathy, or even charm, they often hide a nervous system on high alert.
Childhood trauma is not just the event—it’s what happens afterward. How the brain learns to manage fear. How the body carries tension for years. And how a child, still developing language and trust, turns pain into behavior. Some children lash out. Others go quiet. Many float between those states. But almost always, there’s a story buried beneath.
Whitehead’s approach is layered. She doesn’t just treat symptoms—she interprets them. Trauma-informed care, she explains, is about context. A missed assignment may not be laziness. A tantrum might not be manipulation. Often, the child is operating from a nervous system still shaped by survival mode. Fight, flight, freeze—they become habits before they’re choices.
In one case, a young boy refused to speak during sessions. He was labeled oppositional. But over time, using Theraplay and attuned play-based interaction, Whitehead uncovered a pattern of emotional neglect. His silence wasn’t defiance—it was protection. When that was seen, not punished, he began to speak.
I remember her saying once that trauma doesn’t always scream—it often whispers.
The science backs her up. Childhood trauma changes how the brain wires itself. Cortisol levels spike. The amygdala becomes hypersensitive. Memory formation, emotional regulation, and learning capacity all shift. These changes don’t vanish with age. They carry into adulthood, shaping relationships, self-perception, and physical health. People who’ve experienced childhood trauma are more likely to face depression, autoimmune disorders, and cardiovascular issues. It’s not a theory—it’s measurable.
Yet the signs are often missed. In classrooms, kids with trauma histories are seen as troublemakers. At home, they may be the ones who “always need attention.” But attention, as Whitehead gently points out, is not the same as connection. The child who clings might be trying to anchor themselves. The teen who pushes away may fear they’ll be left first.
What makes Whitehead’s work stand out is how she builds bridges—not just with the child, but with systems around them. She collaborates with schools, social workers, and families. She explains trauma in a way that doesn’t excuse behavior but explains it. This shift in understanding—seeing behavior as communication—can be a turning point in a child’s healing.
Even in complex cases involving multiple diagnoses—ADHD layered with trauma, or learning disorders intertwined with anxiety—Whitehead pushes for nuance. Labels help organize care, but they never tell the whole story. A diagnosis might describe symptoms. But it doesn’t capture the night terrors, the flinching at loud voices, or the calm that follows structured, predictable routines.
Her use of evidence-based techniques—EMDR, DBT, TF-CBT—adds clinical rigor to the work. But it’s the relational piece that seems to unlock the real change. The child must feel safe with her before their nervous system even begins to soften. That takes time, and patience most systems don’t reward.
She often talks about resilience not as a trait, but as a process. It’s not something a child just “has” or doesn’t. It’s something built—through consistency, validation, and space to tell their story without shame. And when that story is finally told, healing becomes possible.
Not fast. Not linear. But possible. And for Whitehead, that’s reason enough to keep showing up, session after session, listening for the moments when silence means more than words.
