A simple internet search offers this explanation: ‘Neuroplasticity is the term for the fact that the physical structure of the human brain can change, even in adulthood. These changes can transform a person’s thought patterns, personality traits and behaviours significantly. This phenomenon means that recovery is possible.’
Our attachment styles are developed from early childhood experiences — what we did or didn’t receive from our caregivers. These early relational experiences, both implicit and explicit, shape the core belief systems that define in many ways who we are. Attachment theory was developed within the psychoanalytical framework by John Bowlby, with additional contributions from Mary Ainsworth in the 1960s. (Read more about attachment theory here(opens in new tab)
In the therapeutic process, we can become aware that patterns of behaviour — in both past and present relationships — and negative or critical self-talk, can have a significant emotional and physiological impact on ourselves and our interpersonal relationships.
Simply put, the definition of trauma is not what happened to us per se, but how we respond or react to it. Sometimes this can be the result of a single event. However, our surroundings, toxic relationships, upbringing and childhood experiences can all result in cumulative trauma. Moreover, our experience growing up may be defined by what did not happen, rather than what did.
With neuroscience, we now have evidence to support the idea that we can change negative patterns of behaviour for better outcomes. It is often said that therapy is about unbecoming, not becoming — what once worked as a defensive strategy in childhood may no longer serve us as adults, and can in fact make things worse. Our behaviours can therefore become self-destructive, harmful, or rooted in shame — what we might call the “Inner Critic”.
The human brain is made up of an estimated 86 billion neuropathways, according to the latest research by neuroscientist Suzana Herculano-Houzel in Brazil. We can find other neuropathways. This can require a leap of faith and trust, as it goes against what we have been telling ourselves for a long time — our core belief systems. In other words: can we tell our story, or does our story tell us? Think about that for a moment.
So, what might be a simple way to describe neuroplasticity? Here is one visualisation.
Imagine you are watching a natural history documentary by David Attenborough. The scene opens with a drone shot high above the African bush. Below, we can see a herd of elephants following their matriarch along a path forged over many years, leading to a watering hole. The path is clear and unobstructed — but in the distance, the watering hole is empty, and the elephants will go without water.
In the next scene, the old path remains as clear as ever, but there are no elephants on it. Looking more closely, we see that the herd has diverged. The matriarch, instinctively knowing she must find another way, has struck out through the bush. We can just make out her head above the undergrowth, the rest of the herd hidden as they follow her. In the distance, the new watering hole is full. Just as a river has tributaries feeding into its main channel, smaller pathways weave through the bush, all contributing to and strengthening this new primary route.
Over time, more of the jungle will be stripped back to reveal the new path. The old path, no longer walked, will gradually be reclaimed by the bush. And at the watering hole, the elephants drink deeply, enjoying the fruits of their endeavour.
Our paths to healing are not always linear and often require a leap of faith into the unknown and unfamiliar. We must learn to trust that our new neuropathways, though not yet as clear or powerful as the old ones, will strengthen in time. Rather like a stereo with two channels — the negative channel grows quieter, while the positive one grows louder.
I believe it is helpful to honour our old paths, for they too once served a purpose — protecting us when we needed protection. Recognising this helps us to move forwards with compassion rather than shame. And like the elephants, we will find our way to water. In doing so, our story no longer tells us — and at last, we can tell our story.
