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.
They’re reminders.
They don’t explode…they invade.
And as someone with PTSD, I don’t hear celebration when they go off.
I hear danger. I hear 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.
You don’t hear it when I say “Oh, pretty,” with everyone else.
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 is delighted, and I am falling apart in silence.
The Holidays That Don’t Feel Like Home
People say things like:
“But it’s just noise.”
“They’re so beautiful!”
“You know it’s not real, right?”
And yes.
I know.
I know the difference between a firework and something worse. I know better than most.
But PTSD isn’t about logic.
It’s about memory coded into bone.
It’s about your nervous system deciding something is life-threatening, and then flooding you accordingly.
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.
From the 59th floor, the view is breathtaking. Guests gasp when fireworks light up the skyline. 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.
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. I’ve curled up in a ball in the employee bathroom. I’ve been told, quietly, to “take a moment” as if I’m fragile porcelain.
I’m not fragile. I’m just tired of surviving fireworks.
The Street Where I Sleep With One Eye Open
At home, it’s not much better.
My neighbors love fireworks. They set them off at random. Days before the Fourth. Weeks after New Year’s.
The sound ricochets down the street. It’s sudden, sharp, and overwhelming.
There’s no warning. No schedule. No pause button. Just explosions on a quiet Tuesday.
And I flinch.
Every. Single. Time.
What It’s Like to Be Left Out
I don’t go to barbecues.
I 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.
And the worst part?
I want to be there.
I want to laugh with family. I want to drink wine under the stars. 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 sorry.
I know what it costs to “just get through the night.”
I know how it feels to be the one who steps away when the sky starts glowing.
I know the shame. The anger. The exhaustion.
But I also know this:
You are not overreacting.
You are not weak.
You are wired for survival, and your body is doing what it thinks it must to protect you.
That’s not broken. That’s brilliantly human.
What I Do to Cope (and Maybe You Can Too)
These aren’t cures. 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.”
This Is What Trauma Awareness Looks Like
It’s not always visible.
It’s not always dramatic.
It’s 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.
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.
