What Fireworks Feel like When You Have PTSD

Fireworks are supposed to mean freedom.

They’re meant to mark joy, celebration, the night sky erupting in glitter and noise…children laughing, people clapping, couples kissing under colored sparks.

But for me, they’re not joy. And maybe today I’m feeling a little bitter about that.
They’re reminders for me. A start for my nervous system, and they don’t just explode…they invade my mind.

As someone with severe PTSD, I don’t hear celebration when they go off, I hear danger and chaos.
I feel my body brace like something is about to go very, very wrong.

What It Feels Like Inside the Spark

You don’t see it when I smile or hear it when I say “oh, pretty,” with everyone else (that’s if I haven’t run for the hills already).

But in that moment, I am gripping the inside of my ribs. My chest gets tight, my throat closes, my vision blurs slightly around the edges. I get hot, then cold…then ashamed. Because everyone else around me is absolutely delighted, and I’m falling apart in silence.

People say things like: “but it’s just noise.” “They’re so beautiful!” “You know it’s not real, right?” “They’re just fireworks.”

And yes, thank you, I know.
I know the difference between a firework and something worse. I know better than most. I can assure you, I know better than the person telling me that the difference between a firework and something life-threatening.

But PTSD isn’t about logic at that moment in time. It’s more about memory coded into bone. It’s about your nervous system deciding something is life-threatening, and then flooding you accordingly to try to save your life.

So no, it’s not just noise, it’s the sound of my body trying to survive a war that no longer exists…except in my skin.

Working Holidays on the 59th Floor

I work in hospitality. That means I work most holidays, while the rest of the world toasts and rests, drinks champagne and enjoys their extra days off that week.

From the 59th floor, the view is breathtaking, and guests gasp when fireworks light up the sky. At that height we’re actually above them, and have to look down or just at eye level to see them. They point, they smile, they call me over to look.

And I do…I look. Because I have to.

And I smile because I’m paid to and because no one thinks twice about the server who’s bringing you your food or the sommelier pouring your wine. Everyone must be enjoying the fireworks as much as they are.

But inside, I’m screaming.

More than once, I’ve gone into the back and cried…shaking, breathless, trying to ground myself.
I’ve left early and not said goodbye to my tables. I’ve curled up in a ball in the employee bathroom which needed desperately to be cleaned and smelled like shit. I’ve been told, quietly, to “take a moment” as if I’m fragile porcelain that might shatter into pieces too small for the bio-hazard team to find. Not that they’d know what that feels like. But I do.

I’m not fragile, I’m just tired of surviving fireworks, champagne corks that pop too loudly, engines revving on the parkway, and every other loud sound that startles me until I’m a shaking mess.

At home, it’s not much better. My neighbors love fireworks and around the New Year they set them off at random. Days before the Fourth of July and weeks after New Year’s. The sound ricochets down the street in an explosive boom that sets my teeth on edge. It’s sudden, sharp, and overwhelming. There’s no warning, no schedule I can look up, no pause button to others’ celebrations. Just explosions on a quiet Tuesday. And I flinch. Every. Single. Time.

What It’s Like to Be Left Out

Now, take this as you will, because I’m a middle child. I was often overlooked when my cousins came to play and my older sister went with my older cousins and my younger went with the younger ones and I went to cook in the kitchen with my mom and aunts. It’s been this way as long as I can remember.
As I grew I took jobs in positions that sort of isolated me more. The Sommelier while prestigious, doesn’t really fit in. The servers don’t want to hang out with them because they’re sort of like managers, and the managers don’t want to hang out with them because they’re not truly managers.

I’m no stranger to isolation, but now, it’s just worse.

I don’t go to barbecues, don’t do rooftop parties in July, I skip weddings with firework finales, I don’t see the Philadelphia Orchestra event that ends in fireworks. I’ve turned down so many invitations that people stopped inviting me places.

And the worst part?

I genuinely want to be there.

I want to laugh with family and drink wine under the stars on the beach. I want to feel safe, but I know the boom is coming. And once it comes, I’m not in the room anymore. I’m gone. I’m locked inside my head, inside my chest, inside the memory. The worst moment of my life thrown in my face. Again and again.

So I stay home.

And I wonder if people think I don’t love them or if they know I’m just doing what I can to love myself.

If You’re Reading This and You Understand

I’m really sorry.
I know what it costs to “just get through the night.” How it feels to be the one who steps away when the sky starts booming.
I know the shame, the anger, the exhaustion so deep you feel it in the marrow of your bones.

But I also know this:
You’re not overreacting, and you’re not weak.
You are wired for survival, and your body is doing what it thinks it has to to protect you.

That’s not broken, it’s brilliantly survival.

What I Do to Cope (and Maybe You Can Too)

These aren’t cures, because nothing will be. But they help me get through.

Noise-canceling headphones with calming sounds or white noise
Deep pressure (weighted blankets or even tight clothing) to ground the body
Distraction with intention: playing with clay (even if it comes out terribly), cleaning, writing, anything that keeps my brain slightly ahead of the fear
Texting a safe person just to feel tethered
Leaving the area early without guilt
A go-bag of comfort items: fidget ring, gum, peppermint oil, tissues
Telling coworkers ahead of time, so I don’t have to explain mid-meltdown
Reading something gentle to reset my nervous system

If you’ve never felt this way please don’t say “It’s not that bad” “You know it’s safe, right?” “You just need to get over it.”

Instead, try: “Do you want to sit this out?” “I’ve got you if you need to step away.” “Want me to text you when it’s over?”

That’s all, just permission to not perform joy when our bodies are screaming “run.”

Trauma isn’t always visible and it’s not always dramatic. It’s also not something you can predict or explain away.

But it’s real.

And when the world is loud, people like me are doing everything we can to stay soft inside it.

If you want to better understand what trauma feels like, how it rewires the body, and how to live with it, not despite it, but alongside it, start here:

Read my guide to trauma and healing.

If You’re in This With Me

I see you.

You’re not alone on the rooftop, gripping the railing. You’re not alone in the back room, crying quietly. You’re not alone in your bedroom while the sky explodes outside.

You’re allowed to leave, you’re allowed to stay inside, and you’re allowed to heal at your own pace.

Because freedom doesn’t always look like fireworks, sometimes, it looks like peace.

And I hope you find yours…however quiet, however small.