Sacred Questions – Reimagined

This is a long post—meant to be savored over time. As my mom used to say, “Just because it’s here doesn’t mean you have to eat it all at once. There’s plenty if you want to share it with your friends.”

Our work with trauma is sacred. Like children curious about the mysteries of life, we begin by asking simple questions—ones that open the door to something even deeper and more profound.

Yet our journey is complex—multilayered and relational, within and between us, and often transgenerational. That’s why we pause with our questions before rushing toward solutions.

This reflection serves us all—patients, therapists, and those in their lives—even if not yet drawn toward healing—whether walking alone, walking together, or still questioning which path to take.

In many healing traditions across time, sacred questions arise—often defying explanation, let alone easy answers.

For thousands of years, the Jewish people have honored a ritual of asking sacred questions to reflect on the trauma that shaped their lives. The Passover story—of slavery and liberation—is retold each year to keep the memory alive.

This holiday lifts the power of faith, values, and connection to family and community in hard times—so that this trauma won’t repeat itself, God forbid, and healing may prevail.

Sadly, the trauma has continued—not just for one people, but for many—across borders, identities, and through time—all around the world.

But I believe this sacred remembrance served a purpose: to remind us that the right to exist should never come at the cost of another’s suffering. It’s a truth we are still learning—personally, collectively, and across generations.

That makes it even more important to ask the right questions in our work and lives. It’s a way of honoring ourselves and those we touch who have been through trauma, so they see that there is always hope and light.

Let the fighting cease, and may peace conquer all—where there is true forgiveness and space for everyone: a rule of law we all need to live by.

When we sit with someone sharing their pain, it’s important to let them know we believe them, we see them, and we trust their capacity to do something different—to protect themselves, and in the process, what is sacred about being human.

The questions we ask—about ourselves, our pain, our healing—truly matter.

Across traditions, questions are sacred tools—like the stories they arise from—teaching resilience and self-reclamation in the face of trauma, especially for those treated as invisible, or whose very existence others tried to erase.

In my words of heart, I reflect on five ancient questions from the Passover Seder and reimagine them as portals to healing from trauma.

The Questions

Reflecting now on these sacred Passover questions—rooted in the Mishnah (Pesachim 10:4), a body of Jewish law derived from the Torah and compiled around 200 CE—I hear in them an invitation to healing.

For many years, as the youngest in my family, it was my role to recite these questions from the Haggadah, a small prayer book distributed around the Passover table, which told the story of the Exodus and the sacred questions we were asked to remember.

These special moments of being in the spotlight carry memory—not just of a people who had been enslaved, but of a child who had been silenced.

To let the youngest speak is to begin the healing. To be heard is to begin coming home to my own heart, where the child lives in my work and life.

Over the years, what I’ve discovered is that these sacred questions are a big part of experiential, emotion-focused, attachment-based, and other trauma-informed models of psychotherapy, drawing from research in affective neuroscience.

They now serve not as laws, but as universal guides—for life, for work, and for healing, helping us escape the bonds of trauma that stay with us—even after we’ve left the place where it began..

My current focus is on integrating AEDP, EMDR, and CSRT—with SueAnne Piliero’s Core Self Reclamation Therapy (CSRT) providing an elegant bridge, connecting the first two models dear to my heart, as well as several others. It’s a lineage I am grateful to be part of—one that brings tears of thankfulness to my eyes.

Together, they help me connect to my Core Self as a therapist, which makes it easier for my patients to reclaim their own. Being in presence, within and between, helps us see the best healing pathway in the moment, among the many possibilities in front of us.

As a result, I’ve come to understand these sacred questions—not just historically, but as healing prompts that resonate with my presence as a person and therapist. Though rooted in the memory of a collective trauma, they still remain deeply relevant to the questions we all need to ask when working with complex trauma.

Question 1: Why is this night different from all other nights?

The traditional meaning of this question relates to why the ancients felt it was important to tell this story about the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery and the trauma they carried.

In therapy, this question often becomes: Why now? What makes this moment different? What allows you, today, in this moment, to begin speaking the unspeakable? What’s it like to know that you survived and aren’t stuck in the past anymore?

Or more deeply: Why does the Self that once struggled to be seen, now long to be known, remembered, and free?

As a therapist, I clarify the question by making the implicit explicit—and attuning to what still lives between the lines.

My heart is focused—zeroing in on the work from the beginning, while holding the awareness that we are here now, not trapped in the past where the trauma began.

Even when someone isn’t sure what they want to talk about, asking this question and shaping it is an offering that says: I believe you already know—deep inside—where we need to start.

It’s about bringing the past into the present—and learning from it, so it doesn’t repeat through the eyes of a wounded child part, still carrying a meaning about the Self that was never true—but once helped them survive.

In other words, the target is change or transformation: What made today the day to come in? What shifted—inside or out—since we last met, and in this moment?

The change we’re looking for is internal, not just circumstantial. It’s their truth—emerging now.

That’s why it’s so important to recognize that we’re not a single Self, but a multidimensional one. In any given moment, a person may be speaking from their Core Self—or from a wounded part, trying to survive. This is a central tenet of CSRT that comes up again and again.

These questions go straight to the roots of trauma—making every moment count—and reminding us that therapy is not a passive process.

It’s an invitation—an act of trust. A quiet declaration that says: You already know something inside. Let’s begin there.

The “you” refers to both the patient and the therapist—and our healing power, which increases exponentially when the patient knows they are not alone.

In addition, the therapist needs to know what this question says about themselves, as well as their patient.

That way, if the patient doesn’t know it, yet, the therapist has the courage and clarity to quickly intervene and guide them back to find their truth. Sometimes this is done gently, but other times more boldly and declaratively—with what CSRT calls “fierce love”—when the patient finds it hard to do it alone.

Whereas the original question emphasizes communal healing, my reworking leans toward the sacredness of speaking what was once unspeakable—marking this healing as a turning point in transgenerational silence.

The patient, finally realizing what happened was not their fault, tells the child inside, “That’s why tonight is different from all other nights. Tonight, the story includes you as the child. You are not the cause—you are the witness, and now, as the youngest, the teller of truth.”

That’s the essence of the work—healing is a two-way street. We light the path within—and then for others, so they can find it inside themselves.

That’s what happens when life renders us powerless—like a surgery that imprisons us in our own body. It’s a wake-up call that leads me to write now in the darkness of night, so I can find the light inside and free myself.

Question 2: Why on all other nights do we eat chametz (leavened bread) and matzah, but on this night only matzah?

Traditionally, this refers to the haste of the Exodus—when there was no time for the bread to rise. Matzah is both the “bread of affliction” and the “bread of freedom,” symbolizing the conflict that comes up when we deal with trauma. We may want to move forward, but we are stuck in the past.

In therapy, the parallel questions might be: Why revisit the pain of the past when you’re no longer living there? What truths emerge when you peel back the stories you were told to believe?

Or more simply: What happens when the story is stripped down to its essence—unleavened, unadorned, and real?

This reframe also clarifies why the work matters—and how it may differ from what they expected.

The therapist is active, not there to fix the problem but to redirect the patient when needed. Like the Israelites, there’s no time to waste, letting the bread rise and covering over the pain. We may not know exactly where we’re headed, but if we wait too long, we risk losing ourselves further—and our lives.

This question also highlights that many patients don’t realize how trauma lingers. Even if they believe they’re living in the present, trauma memories can hijack them—pulling them back into the past, into a place where they weren’t seen or loved in the way they needed and deserved.

This isn’t about deprivation or divine deliverance, but of self-agency and empowerment based on emotional clarity, where there is a reclaiming of a core story of integrity and truth—a letting go of an illusion.

It can also lead to forgiveness—of the Self and others—not based on forgetting what happened, but remembering who we are now and have always been—in our Core. That’s an important one for both therapists and patients to know.

Question 3: Why on all other nights do we eat all kinds of herbs, but on this night only bitter herbs?

Traditionally, this question reminds us of the bitterness of slavery—tasted in ritual, remembered in the body.

In therapy, this question—and the others that often arise alongside it—might become: Why revisit trauma when it hurts so much? What bitterness have you swallowed—and what needs to be tasted now, fully, to be free?

Or simply: How can you allow yourself to feel the pain that was once too dangerous to name?

The child says, “That makes sense… but why did they act like it didn’t happen—that’s the hardest part. How can I trust you now?”

With tears in my eyes, I respond, “I know, little one, you are me now, and I must trust myself first. That’s how I’ll know when it’s safe to trust others—and I trust that I can do that now.”

Wiping the tears, I remind myself that we eat bitter herbs because we don't want to cover up our feelings like others did in my family, when they tried to sugarcoat the truth. I don't need to numb or gaslight my emotions to protect myself. I know who I am now and have always been. And I won't forget that.

At the moment, I realize that another key shift here is between understanding the work and experiencing it. I just experienced it, so others know what I mean even more.

To truly heal from trauma, patients need a dual awareness: one foot in the present, rooted in their adult, present-day self—and one toe gently dipping into the bitter waters of the past, so they know the difference.

That’s why the therapist must maintain a close focus—and offer resourcing throughout the process, not just at the start. Without that grounding, a patient might slip into a wounded part of the Self—falling down a trauma rabbit hole that neither the therapist nor the patient saw coming.

Experiencing what was internalized from the trauma—without getting lost in it—helps uncover what’s been blocking the path to wholeness. But we must tread lightly. Avoiding this question can leave the work unfinished. But rushing it can send the patient running—saying it’s too painful.

And that can be painful for therapists too—including me.

Even with care, this risk remains—especially if the pace is too fast, and moments of truth or disconnection are not elongated. That’s why moment-to-moment tracking is essential: to help the patient stay within their window of tolerance—closer to the top—their growing edge. This takes practice and a therapist’s deep awareness of their own Self-in-the-room.

Furthermore, even when a session feels successful, pain can resurface in the days to follow—sometimes in our dreams. This is more likely to happen if the person is still living in trauma or facing a trigger in their present life. That could be with a close friend, spouse, family, or work situation—or any combination thereof, as well as the world outside that is in front of us every day.

These larger forces enter our rooms, too. Virtual therapy can give many people greater access, but it can also diminish some of the closeness of being truly together, no matter how well we try to recreate it.

Patients can't see some of the little treasures in our offices that make us wonder—like my elephants and artwork, which offer silent companionship and a sense of continuity.

This isn’t just about commemorating historical trauma and suffering, but bringing it into the present—feeling it in our Core—so it can be named, metabolized, and woven into the patient’s truth.

Question 4: Why do we eat sitting or reclining on all other nights, but on this night, only reclining?

Traditionally, this posture symbolized freedom. Reclining was how the free and noble dined—not the enslaved. While we may no longer recline at dinner, the metaphor still holds

In therapy, it becomes: What helps you remember that you’re safe now—and no longer living in the past? What does freedom feel like in your body?

This question—and the others that often arise—center on safety and the embodiment of freedom.

I hear the voice of the wounded child quietly asking: “Why didn't anyone protect me and hear my anger? Why didn't anyone apologize in a way that made me feel seen?”

I quickly respond, “I'm so sorry, my braveheart, you shouldn't have been put in that position. There are no excuses, particularly the ones where you had to feel responsible for others, and had to hide your own feelings.”

Feeling the little one melt into my heart, I remind myself that these questions and responses allow an emotional and relational correction at a deeper level, where the body and nervous system begin to rewire.

This echoes the work of Bessel van der Kolk and other somatic and experiential approaches (AEDP, EMDR, and CSRT) that I integrate into my practice, which emphasize the transformative power of embodied emotional truth.

In that space, people can face life’s challenges with a new mindset—and a new heart-set—no longer caught in hypervigilance. When they know, deep down, that they are loved—and always were—they no longer live in fear of losing it.

As I often say, they are home now—living from their Core Self. Now, at least, we have the choice of eating in whatever way or schedule we want to, which is the difference that helps us remember that when we live in the light, we can have the freedom to become the person we were always meant to be.

Question 5: Why on all other nights do we not dip even once, but on this night we dip twice—once in salt water, and once in sweet charoset?

If you were expecting only four questions, you're not alone. I once had the same thought. The fifth was later added—especially in Ashkenazi tradition—because most people no longer recline at meals—except when recovering from illness or surgery.

Also, dipping was visible and relatable, especially to children, who were a big part of the Seder. Many modern Haggadahs now include all five (particularly Sephardic and educational versions).

In the spirit of the light of invisibility, the deeper question becomes: Why must we face reminders of past trauma while, at the same time, holding the light that still lives within us?

The juxtaposition is key—a core element in memory reconsolidation work, which is foundational in CSRT, and increasingly present in my own practice.

In my view, this fifth question was a brilliant addition, as it helps the work stick.

We dip twice: once from hope and renewal (parsley) into sorrow and tears (salt water), and once from trauma memory (bitter herb) into a moment sweetened by hope (charoset).

This question touches the pain of being unseen or misseen. Dipping twice becomes a ritual of double attention—a symbolic re-seeing of the child—no longer stuck on the question: Was I too much—or not enough?

This question, like the others, reminds us that we are here now. We don’t shut out the past. We learn from it. Even when we dip into old bitterness, we remember: we are home now. And we can face it—with love and hope.

That awareness—of pain and possibility—helps us move through the inevitable struggles we all face, while still making space for joy, growth, and connection.

In other words, the heart of the wounded child has merged with the present-day adult self. This is the culmination of our work: a reclamation of the Core Self.

It's a reminder that we're not alone—no longer invisible—with a light always inside and around us that draws people toward us—seeing our goodness, as well as their own—from our reflection.

The Landing

Although this is a place we know we belong, our reality reminds us that this freedom must be anchored—in the body, and in the soul—for it to last.

Ultimately, this work isn’t about techniques or fixing every problem. It begins with asking what’s at the root—what’s been internalized—before we rush to solutions.

It’s about remembering what we do—and why—so we don’t unconsciously collude with old defenses or child parts. Sometimes, we’re protecting our own inner child as a therapist who doesn’t want to feel pain either.

That means creating a safe container—together—where healing becomes possible. Our task is to help others find the answers they already carry within… while staying rooted in our own.

Whatever model we use, it helps to know: What question are we working on right now?

If you’re unsure, slow the work down. Ask one of these sacred questions as the adult—and listen to the ones coming up for the child.

Therapists and patients need a map—and a shared language for naming it. That’s how the questions lead us—gently, but surely—toward what’s needed most.

We return to these questions—within and between sessions, and inside the patient themselves. Even after liberation, we still need to tell the story and repeat the questions—because we’re human and old patterns persist.

But that’s okay. When it happens, it’s simply another chance for a healing correction where you can ask the patient to check inside what’s coming up in the moment that was never asked or answered by others in their life.

Each question tells us where to focus the work, becoming a chance for a new corrective experience—where something once held in pain can then be met, felt, and transformed in safety. 

And in the end, it is important to realize that the story is ever-evolving, and things we see now may not be as important down the road as the terrain shifts in our lives over the years, both inside and around us. 

The Challenge

As I said when we started this journey, take your time with this one. Like the Passover Seder, there’s much here to chew on and digest. Let yourself return—again and again. Bring some friends with you to share the meal and the company—and to learn from one another. That’s a big part of this meal we call life.

If something stirs—or settles—in you, I’d love to hear about it. Maybe new questions will emerge, ones that speak to your own heart, and take your work deeper still.

You might begin to weave these questions into your own healing model—your own tradition—your own way of healing. That’s how we grow as therapists—and as people.

It’s something old and new—woven in one shared, resonant voice. I’ve heard it in a prayer cave in Israel—in the rhythm and hum of a drumming circle. And in the quiet moments of stillness and truth that arise when sitting with our patients, sometimes in an extended gaze that says without words, “I am here now. You are safe and back home.”

Like whumming—the act of humming and whistling at once—healing holds two tones: the deep vibration of old pain and the breath of now, our presence. When they come together, something inside feels the truth of where we’ve been, who we are now, and who we are becoming.

May your questions be like that—unadorned, but full of life. A hum and a whistle. A way home.

And if you’re not a therapist—a patient, a loved one, or someone walking alongside—your presence matters deeply. Don’t be afraid to ask these questions—or your own. 

Not saying anything when you need to may feel safe in the moment, but it still takes you away from your Self. Asking what would happen if you did feel is the question that needs to be addressed first, instead of finding a solution that avoids the problem.

Sometimes the most healing thing is to do the work together. But sometimes we also need space on our own. That’s true for therapists as well—through supervision, consultation, or our own therapy.

The power is not just in answering—but in sitting beside the question, together.

We also need time and space to share more informally with family and friends, or to make new ones. A space where we can see the natural beauty around us—like my back porch listening to the birds singing, and feeling the cool breeze on my face.

It's a place to feel the love around us and within—appreciating the gifts we give and receive—bringing life into the Passover Seder—or therapy—and the Seder—bringing therapy to life.

While the original questions came from fear, confusion, or aloneness, the adult can now ask not only what happened—but what do I need to hear now?

Maybe there could be a dialogue instead of just a yearly ritual. The connection to the questions and each other is how to heal and stop reenacting the trauma.

What’s most important is that, regardless of any questions or therapy model we use, others need to feel that we're listening and care, and that we believe there is a path to wholeness within and between, where we can all live in the light again.

The Blessing

That’s the light of invisibility—not a dimming, but a soft presence that frees us from the past, finding the courage inside to not give up—and seeing the pain as a new opportunity to begin again.

It's the truth that this piece speaks back to me. The sacred questions don't just open a door; they leave a trail of light behind, in case you need to find your way home.

Like earth-toned eggs in a basket—cradled by spring, natural and unadorned—our questions carry life inside them. Many long to be spoken, trusting the time will come when they are ready. They don’t demand answers. They ask only to be held, with care, until something true takes shape.

We don’t need to decorate them. We need to listen between the lines—and whum together, as we fill in the holes inside and feel our wholeness.

Let the deep hum of what’s been—meet the soft whistle of who we are now. And when the time is right, we carry the eggs forward—softly, in the light.

That’s where I want to be—to live. Knowing that to live is to be—and that is who we are in our Core.

I hope someday we’ll meet—to talk more about these sacred questions, and how they live in our work and in our lives. We may have never met, but you will know me if you tune into your heart. And I will do the same—so we feel the warmth of the light.

Now, we could talk about not only what is different and what has changed, but also what is possible.

That would be a blessing—for all of us—a message of love and freedom. That’s the light we can pass on—gently, hand to hand—from the pain of the past across the land of our birth, into a world that is still learning how to hold all of us in its arms.

These aren't just sacred questions. They're the precious work and life we share—reimagined together.

Many blessings.

Comments or questions? Email me at mcecilvt@aol.com. Feel free to share these words—and this blog—with anyone you hold, or long to be held by, in the light of invisibility.

Dr. Cecil is a licensed psychologist, certified AEDP supervisor, approved EMDR consultant, and senior CSRT consultant. He specializes in treating complex relational, developmental, and transgenerational trauma, bringing therapy to life through heartfelt stories and images of connection and healing that emerge from the light of invisibility.