There are classes that inspire you. And then there are classes that humble you. This one did a bit of both.
But let me start at the beginning.
The Bucket List, the Wetlands, and the Big Brother Burn
I didn’t wake up one day and say, “I’m going to get my Doctorate in Social Work.” It started with sibling sarcasm.
Scene: me, as a teenager, visiting my older brother. The kind of visit where there’s teasing, a little ribbing, and just enough love to keep it from being an all-out roast. The topic landed on doctors. I asked, “If I get a doctorate, will you call me Doctor?” And he, being the wiseass older brother he is, said it depends on what I got it in.
So naturally, getting a doctorate went straight onto my bucket list—right next to “ride every form of public transportation at least once.” (Don’t ask. I contain multitudes. Hopefully I can get into a hot air balloon next spring.)
But the real reason I applied to the DSW program? “Lauren”.
Lauren was my husband’s grandmother. She was sharp, fiercely independent, and not one to hand out her trust freely. But once I earned it, I got to see who she really was—someone who showed up for my husband when his own dad, Lauren’s only child, didn’t, who made sure he got through college, and who made him feel safe and seen.
After she died in 2022, my husband inherited a small sum from her. When he asked what I wanted to do with it, I didn’t hesitate: “I want to go back to school. I want my doctorate.”
And then I found out something incredible: Lauren had spent decades fighting to protect the Bolsa Chica wetlands. She was in the damn newspaper, y’all. A full-on advocate. So I made myself a promise—if I was going to do this, my work had to stay rooted in what she fought for: the environment, protection, and healing.
Starting the Program: Red Flags, Reruns, and Realizations
I came in ready. Not just excited—eager. This was a brand-new DSW program with a focus on trauma-informed care (my bread and butter) and leadership (a lane I’ve been inching into for years). I didn’t feel impostor syndrome this time around. I felt like a leader in the making. Like this program had been tailor-designed for someone like me.
And honestly, I loved that it was based in Florida. I figured, hey—I’ve done community college in the Southern California desert, a BSW in East LA, and my MSW in Denver. A Florida-based program? Just another layer of cultural context. A national view. Broader reach. That felt like a good thing.
Then the first semester started.
The course? Theoretical and Empirical Foundations of Trauma and Resilience. The vibe? Foundations was doing a lot of heavy lifting in that title. It was basically Trauma 101—material I had not only studied but taught.
And the professor? Let’s just say she was the kind of old-school who still thinks empathy is a liability in education. Rigid, disconnected, and clearly not there to build relationships with students. She read more like a gatekeeper than a guide.
It was disappointing. In grad school, even when I felt isolated from my peers, I felt encouraged by my professors. Trusted. Supported. I had space to experiment, to lean into my interests and my strengths. I was given a long leash and a lot of faith.
This? This was something else entirely. The message was clear from day one: play it safe, stay in the box, don’t expect connection.
Writing the Paper: Solastalgia, Sorrow, and the “Off the Beaten Path” Dig
The paper was for that Advanced Trauma class. It was supposed to be basic, but I don’t really do basic. Historical trauma had always been fascinating to me, and I was deep in it again. And then I discovered Glenn Albrecht.
His concept of solastalgia hit me like a lightning bolt: the feeling of grief when your home environment changes around you. Not nostalgia for what was—grief for what is. I almost wrote about it as a clinical diagnosis. But in his book, Albrecht straight-up says, and I am paraphrasing here, “Do not pathologize this. It is not a disorder. It is language to describe the human existence.” And I loved that.
This isn’t about individual pathology. This is about collective experience.
So I framed my paper around the idea that humanity’s disconnection from nature might itself be a form of historical trauma. Not just for Indigenous communities or colonized peoples—but for all of us. A slow, global trauma with consequences we can feel in our nervous systems, our social fabric, our very identities.
I was proud of it. It was different. It was grounded. I pulled from trauma theory, attachment theory, psychophysiology, eco-social frameworks. I used my voice and my strength as a writer.
And then… I got the feedback.
Except, I didn’t get the grade.
Just the comments. My classmates? They got both.
So I asked—kindly, professionally. And the response? A weird backpedal about how she “accidentally released the comments” and “it’s her policy to release everything at once.” Sure. Okay.
It was clear: she didn’t expect me to question her.
She definitely didn’t expect me to stand up for my ideas.
And then came the part that stayed with me:
“Off the beaten path.”
Four words. Dismissive, coded, and condescending. Not “insightful” or “thought-provoking” or “innovative.” Just… “off the beaten path.”
That line has haunted me ever since. And not in a poetic way. In the way that makes you doubt your gut. Your originality. Your voice. I think I may write it on my grad cap.
But I’ve also decided to own it.
If my work is off the beaten path? Maybe that’s exactly where it belongs.
Why I Picked This Paper to Publish First
This wasn’t just the first paper I wrote in the DSW program—it was the one that surprised me the most. It was written in a class that should’ve been easy for me (trauma is literally my thing), but instead of being challenged by the material, I was challenged by the dynamic. By the professor. By the unspoken rules about what kinds of ideas were “welcome.”
Still, I went for it. I leaned into a topic that felt bold and deeply personal: the idea that our disconnection from nature, animals, and ecosystems might not just be a sad byproduct of modern life—but a kind of historical trauma. A trauma we don’t even realize we’re carrying, because it’s been normalized. Because it happened to all of us, slowly, across generations and thousands of years.
Here’s what I argued, in plain language:
- Humans didn’t evolve in cities. We evolved in relationship with the land, with animals, and with each other.
- Our modern way of life is deeply disconnected from that. We spend more time indoors, online, and alone than we ever have before.
- This disconnection has real consequences. Loneliness, anxiety, numbness, and a loss of meaning—sound familiar?
- It’s not just mental health. It’s cultural, physiological, and generational.
- But nature can also be part of the healing. Animals, plants, ecosystems—they help us regulate, reconnect, and remember who we are.
- Reconnection doesn’t have to be huge. Watering a plant, taking a walk, watching birds—all of that matters.
- And in social work? We need to make room for this kind of healing—especially when working with people who’ve already been cut off from so much.
Why This Paper, Why Now
I didn’t choose this paper because it was polished or perfect. I chose it because it rattled something. In me. In someone else. It was the first one I wrote in the DSW program—and the first one that told me, in no uncertain terms, that I might not fit the mold.
It was called “off the beaten path.”
And for a moment, that made me doubt myself.
Then it made me dig in harder.
Because feedback can wound—but it can also sharpen.
I didn’t write this paper just to check a box. I wrote it because I felt it. I live it. As a therapist. As an educator. As someone raising neurodivergent kids in a concrete world. As someone who talks to trees and means it.
This paper challenged me. It reminded me who I am. It gave me back my voice in a space where I almost let someone else shrink it.
So yeah, it had to go first.
Because it was different.
Because it was dismissed.
Because it mattered.
And because, honestly?
“Off the beaten path” sounds like a damn good place to start.
Where to Read (or Support) This Work
🪵 Substack: bkaysbrain.substack.com
This is where the full, reflective version lives. If you want the story and the scholarship—with some softness, structure, and heart—you’ll find it here.
🗞️ Medium: medium.com/@bkaysbrain
Same article, but edited to be a little punchier and more journalistic. Ideal for folks who want the message without the margin notes.
☕ Ko-fi: ko-fi.com/bkaysbrain
If you liked the piece and want to help me keep writing, this is the spot to buy me a sweet treat (or five). Bonus: there’s a shorter version there, too.
🌿 HubPages: hubpages.com/@bkaysbrain
SEO-friendly, readable, and broken down into clean, digestible headers—perfect if you want to browse the ideas or share them with someone who’s new to this conversation.
What if disconnection from nature isn’t just sad—but traumatic? And what if the way back is through something as simple as noticing?
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