In this episode, we delve into the neurobiological underpinnings of resilience in the face of trauma. Drawing insights from the recent article “Brain Connectivity and Resilience Across Trauma,” we explore how the brain’s connectivity patterns before, during, and after traumatic events influence individual responses. Discover the roles of key brain regions like the ventromedial prefrontal cortex and the amygdala, and understand how their interactions can determine whether one succumbs to stress or emerges resilient. Join us as we navigate the intricate pathways that shape our capacity to withstand and recover from life’s most challenging experiences.
Welcome to the show. I want to start today’s episode with a question: Why do some people walk away from trauma stronger, while others find themselves haunted by it? Why is it that two people can face the same catastrophic event—war, abuse, a car crash—and yet one recovers while the other develops PTSD, anxiety, or chronic stress symptoms? The answer, as it turns out, may lie deep within the architecture of the human brain. Not just in how it works when under pressure, but in how it’s wired long before the trauma even occurs.
Let me take you on a journey—a journey through a neurobiological map of survival. We’re going to look inside the brain, across three critical windows of time. First, before trauma strikes, where hidden vulnerabilities and strengths are quietly forming. Then, during the traumatic experience itself, when circuits fire and decisions—unconscious ones—are made that could shape a lifetime. And finally, in the recovery phase, when the brain either reorganizes in a healthy way or locks itself into patterns that perpetuate suffering.
Before trauma even occurs, the brain’s resting state can provide insight into how well someone might cope with future stress. In some people, the brain’s circuitry is like a flexible, well-organized orchestra—emotions are processed in harmony, memories are sorted, and threats are evaluated with balance. In others, certain areas might be overactive, ready to light up at the slightest sign of danger, even if the danger never comes.
Take the dorsal anterior cingulate cortex, or dACC. This region helps monitor conflict and regulate the body’s automatic reactions to threat. Think of it as the brain’s alert system, always scanning the environment for potential problems. But when this area is hyperactive, it can signal too much. People with high activity here often have lower resilience—they’re more prone to perceive conflict even when it’s not there, to overreact physiologically, to feel constantly on edge. That’s a brain wired not for calm, but for alarm.
Then we have the ventromedial prefrontal cortex, the vmPFC. This is one of the heroes of resilience. When it’s well-developed—thick, voluminous, and well-connected—people tend to be better at regulating emotions. They can tell themselves they’re safe even when a loud noise or a stressful memory tries to convince them otherwise. They’re better at extinguishing fear. That’s critical, because trauma often embeds itself through fear memories. A strong vmPFC helps quiet those down, reminding the rest of the brain that the danger is over.
The frontal pole is another important area. It’s involved in big-picture thinking, in evaluating options, in overriding immediate emotional responses with thoughtful choices. When that part of the brain is strong, people can step back during stress and think: “Okay, this is bad—but what are my options?” That’s a sign of adaptive coping. But in people who are prone to trauma-related disorders, the frontal pole may be quieter. Instead, the brainstem’s locus coeruleus—the LC—might be doing the shouting.
The LC is where the fight-or-flight chemicals come from. Norepinephrine, arousal, readiness—it all pours from this small nucleus in the brainstem. When it’s overactive before trauma even occurs, it creates a kind of high-alert baseline. The world feels risky. The mind races. The body never fully relaxes. And so when trauma does come, there’s no buffer. No ability to say, “This is overwhelming, but I’ve got this.” Instead, it’s a storm of physiological chaos.
Let’s talk about the amygdala and hippocampus. These are household names in neuroscience now. The amygdala detects danger. The hippocampus places that danger in context—where did it happen, when, under what circumstances. Together, they form the emotional memory center. In people who go on to struggle after trauma, these areas may already be structurally different. Maybe they’re too reactive. Maybe their connections are faulty. Whatever the reason, they respond strongly and store those responses deeply. And those stored memories? They’re what come back later, in nightmares, flashbacks, and intrusive thoughts.
So what does all this tell us? It tells us that resilience isn’t something that only happens after trauma. It’s something that starts before, in the wiring and reactivity of the brain. Some people are biologically better equipped to deal with shock, fear, and loss. Others are at a disadvantage before the trauma even begins. But that’s only the first act in this story.
Now let’s move into the trauma itself—the peri-trauma phase. This is the moment of crisis, the instant when the brain has to decide: fight, flee, freeze, or process? In those intense moments, certain brain areas light up like fireworks. But not all of them are helpful.
The dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, or dlPFC, is one of the good guys here. It helps us hold thoughts in mind, regulate behavior, and apply logic even when emotions are running high. When this area is strong and active during trauma, people are more likely to stay grounded. To remember what’s happening clearly. To separate fact from fear. It’s like having a wise friend whispering in your ear: “You can handle this.”
But not all brain regions are so supportive. The rostral anterior cingulate cortex—the rACC—often becomes hyperactive during trauma. When that happens, it can hijack attention and emotion, focusing the mind on fear and pain. The dorsal medial prefrontal cortex, or dmPFC, can also go into overdrive, making it harder to shift attention away from the threat. These are areas that can tip the scale toward overwhelm.
Then there’s the insula. This part of the brain tells us what’s going on inside our body. It’s how we know our heart is racing, our stomach is churning, our chest feels tight. But when the insula becomes overly reactive, it amplifies those sensations. Suddenly, a racing heart feels like a heart attack. A lump in the throat feels like suffocation. The body becomes a source of fear. This is one of the ways trauma can lead to panic and chronic anxiety. The body is no longer a place of safety.
The periaqueductal gray, or PAG, is another key player. It lives deep in the midbrain and helps control defensive behaviors. It also modulates pain. When trauma hits, the PAG tells the body how to react. Do we run? Do we fight? Do we freeze and play dead? Its connections to the hippocampus and vmPFC are crucial. If these connections are healthy, the response is proportional. If not, fear can generalize—everything starts to feel dangerous, even things that shouldn’t.
The temporal pole and the amygdala complex get involved here too. These areas help encode emotional memories, especially those tinged with fear and distress. If they’re overactivated during trauma, the event can become etched in memory with sharp, painful clarity. That’s what leads to vivid flashbacks or a sense that the trauma is happening all over again. The memory doesn’t stay in the past—it invades the present.
And then there’s the posterior cingulate cortex, or PCC. It’s part of the default mode network, the system that lights up when we’re daydreaming, remembering, or thinking about ourselves. During trauma, its connections to the prefrontal cortex can actually be protective. They can help integrate the experience, make sense of it, and prepare for recovery. But if those connections falter, the trauma may be stored in a fragmented, disorganized way.
In this moment of crisis, everything hinges on balance. The brain is trying to protect us, trying to survive. But sometimes that protection comes at a cost—hyperarousal, dissociation, intrusive memories. If the prefrontal regions can regulate the limbic system, there’s hope. If not, the trauma takes root in ways that can be hard to unearth later.
In the next part, we’ll explore what happens after the trauma—the recovery phase. How the brain heals. Or doesn’t. How new pathways form? And how we can use therapy, mindfulness, and even technology to support that process.Now we move into the aftermath—the post-trauma phase. This is where the brain either begins the slow process of healing, of making sense of what happened, or gets stuck in loops that reinforce suffering. Recovery isn’t guaranteed. It depends on what the brain does next.
One of the most critical processes here is neuroplasticity. The brain’s ability to adapt, to form new connections, to rewire itself based on experience. Neuroplasticity is the miracle mechanism that allows us to learn, grow, recover from injury, and adapt to loss. After trauma, it can be the difference between resilience and chronic distress.
Let’s start with the default mode network, or DMN. This is a collection of brain regions that become active when we’re not focused on the outside world—when we’re thinking about ourselves, remembering the past, imagining the future. It includes the medial prefrontal cortex, the posterior cingulate cortex, and the angular gyrus, among others. In people who recover well after trauma, the DMN resumes its normal functioning. It helps integrate the traumatic memory into the broader narrative of one’s life. It says, “This happened, it was awful, but it’s a part of me—and I’m still moving forward.”
But in those who struggle, the DMN can become dysregulated. Memories intrude, unbidden. The mind loops, replays, reinterprets. The trauma isn’t integrated—it’s relived. The DMN’s rhythm is broken. And that’s when therapy becomes so important. Not just talk therapy, but therapies that engage the brain at the level of rhythm and pattern. EMDR, for instance, uses bilateral stimulation—left, right, left, right—to mimic the eye movements of REM sleep and help the brain reprocess trauma. It’s not magic. It’s neuroscience.
Mindfulness is another powerful tool. When we meditate, we engage the prefrontal cortex. We increase awareness of thoughts and sensations without judgment. Studies show that mindfulness strengthens the connection between the prefrontal cortex and the amygdala—meaning, better emotional regulation. The brain learns to sit with discomfort rather than react to it. Over time, this can rewire the stress response system, making the body feel safer, the mind more at ease.
There’s also evidence that exercise plays a huge role. Aerobic activity increases levels of brain-derived neurotrophic factor—BDNF—a protein that supports the growth of new neurons and connections. Movement heals. It tells the body: we’re not stuck. We’re not frozen. We’re alive, and we’re moving forward.
And let’s not forget the importance of social connection. The brain is a social organ. We regulate each other’s nervous systems through eye contact, voice tone, facial expressions. When someone feels seen, heard, and held in a safe relationship—whether in therapy, friendship, or family—their brain begins to calm. Oxytocin is released. Cortisol drops. The vagus nerve engages. And slowly, the trauma loses its grip.
Now, let’s talk about what happens when this healing doesn’t occur. When the brain stays stuck in survival mode. In PTSD, for instance, the amygdala remains hyperactive, constantly scanning for danger. The hippocampus shrinks, impairing the ability to tell past from present. The vmPFC underfunctions, leaving emotions unchecked. The body is tense. Sleep is disturbed. Relationships suffer.
In some cases, the trauma leads not to PTSD, but to dissociation. Here, the brain essentially disconnects parts of itself to avoid pain. The medial prefrontal cortex becomes underactive. The insula, which helps us feel our bodies, shuts down. People become numb, detached, estranged from themselves. It’s not a lack of resilience—it’s a desperate strategy for survival.
But here’s the good news: even these patterns can be changed. The brain remains plastic throughout life. With the right interventions—neuroscientifically informed interventions—new pathways can be built. The insula can reconnect. The prefrontal cortex can reengage. The body can become a safe place again.
Emerging technologies are helping, too. Real-time fMRI neurofeedback, for example, allows people to see their brain activity as it happens and learn to modulate it. Virtual reality exposure therapy is being used to help veterans confront and reframe their traumatic memories. Non-invasive brain stimulation—like transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS)—can nudge underactive areas into life. We are entering an era where healing trauma is not just an art, but a science.
All of this leads to a profound insight: resilience isn’t just a personality trait. It’s a pattern of brain connectivity. It’s a neurobiological state that can be shaped, supported, and strengthened. Some people may start with a stronger foundation—better vmPFC activity, more flexible default mode networks—but everyone can build resilience with the right tools.
This has huge implications for how we approach trauma in society. It means we need to screen for neurobiological risk factors. We need to support children’s brain development from the earliest years—because resilience begins in infancy, in the stability of relationships, in the safety of caregiving, in the predictability of love. It means we need trauma-informed schools, trauma-informed workplaces, trauma-informed policies.
And we need to shift the narrative. Trauma is not a moral failing. It’s not weakness. It’s biology. And recovery is not a mystery. It’s a process that can be studied, supported, and celebrated.
When we look at the brain as a map of survival, we see that every response—panic, dissociation, numbness, hypervigilance—is a sign of the brain trying to protect itself. Sometimes that protection helps. Sometimes it backfires. But the intention is always the same: to keep us alive.
So what does it mean to be resilient? It means the brain can experience stress, process it, and return to balance. It means emotional pain doesn’t become a permanent filter. It means memories stay in the past, where they belong. It means the body feels like a place we can live in—not a war zone we’re trapped inside.
And most importantly, it means we don’t have to do it alone. Human connection, compassionate care, neuroscience-informed therapy—these are the keys to unlocking the brain’s potential to heal. We are wired for survival. But more than that, we are wired for adaptation. For growth. For meaning.
You are not broken. Your brain is doing what it was designed to do. But with knowledge, with guidance, and with time, it can also do something else—it can grow stronger than it was before.
This is the promise of neuroplasticity. This is the hope that lives beyond the impact.
