Last year, my husband has picked up a habit where he talks like a baby. At first it was funny, but passed into cringeworthy behavior quickly. I was so ashamed to go to public places with him. I insisted that he should see a doctor and only then he revealed that he wasn’t doing it to be funny. He said it started happening when he was stressed.

At first I didn’t believe him. I thought it was just an excuse. But he looked at me with those tired, heavy eyes and said, “I don’t know why it happens, it just comes out.” He told me it started with work. The pressure, the deadlines, the fear of being let go.

He said one day at a meeting, his boss scolded him in front of the whole team. And instead of snapping back like he normally would, he felt small—like a child. That night, he came home and spoke in that voice. Like his mind regressed to a safer time.

I didn’t know how to respond. Part of me felt guilty for mocking him. Another part still found it weird and off-putting. I told him we needed to figure it out together, maybe see a therapist.

We booked an appointment, and after two sessions, the therapist mentioned something called “regressive coping.” It’s when people under extreme emotional pressure unconsciously revert to childlike behaviors as a defense mechanism.

It felt surreal. My strong, mature, fix-it-all husband was now dealing with unresolved childhood trauma. The therapist asked if anything had happened in his early years that could’ve made this happen.

That cracked open a box he didn’t want to open.

Over the next few weeks, pieces started coming out. He told me about his dad. How he used to scream and throw things when he was upset. How he made my husband, then just a little boy, feel like he could never make a mistake.

He said he used to hide under his bed and whisper to himself in a baby voice, telling himself it was okay. That he was safe.

It broke my heart. I never knew any of this. We’d been married for six years, and he never told me. Maybe he didn’t even remember it all himself until now.

After that, things started making more sense. The baby voice wasn’t him trying to be weird. It was him slipping into a protective mode his brain created long ago.

We started doing couples therapy. He began going to individual sessions, too. And the voice started showing up less and less. But healing isn’t linear, and sometimes it still came out—especially when he was overwhelmed.

One Saturday morning, we went to the grocery store. The cashier was rude, and my husband froze. When she asked him something twice, he just smiled and said, “Me no know.”

I wanted the ground to swallow me. People behind us chuckled. The cashier rolled her eyes. I pulled him away gently and whispered, “It’s okay. You’re safe.”

He nodded, and I saw him take a deep breath, trying to ground himself.

That night, he cried. He told me he hated that he embarrassed me. I told him what embarrassed me before now just made me want to understand him more.

We hugged for a long time.

Then came something unexpected.

His boss called one day and said they were cutting his position. He was devastated. I was worried this would push him over the edge. But something shifted.

Instead of collapsing, he said, “Maybe this is a sign.”

I asked, “A sign of what?”

He said, “A sign to finally do what I love.”

I didn’t even know he had a dream. He’d always seemed content in his corporate job. But then he told me about something he hadn’t said out loud in years: he wanted to open a small woodworking studio.

Apparently, he used to make things as a teenager in his uncle’s garage. Birdhouses, stools, little shelves. He loved the smell of wood, the process of shaping something from scratch. But his dad always told him that stuff wouldn’t pay the bills.

With severance money and some savings, we decided to take the leap. He started in our garage. Bought a few tools, got old wood from neighbors and online giveaways.

At first, it was just hobby work. A small table. A cutting board. Then I posted a photo on Instagram, and someone messaged asking if he could make one for them.

From there, it snowballed.

People loved that everything was handmade. He found peace in it, too. His episodes with the baby voice got even less frequent. He told me working with his hands made him feel grounded, present.

We named the business “Still Wood.” A play on words. Still standing. Still calm. Still healing.

He made a sign by hand and hung it outside the garage. Soon, we had more orders than he could handle alone.

One day, I came home to find him teaching a local teen how to use a lathe. He said the boy had been bullied at school and reminded him of himself. My husband gave him a place to learn and talk.

The baby voice came up less and less. But the kindness, the softness, that remained. It was like by letting go of that defense, he held onto the best parts of what it represented.

Then came the twist I never saw coming.

One afternoon, I got a message on Facebook from a woman named Angela. She said she used to live on the same street as my husband when they were kids.

She said she saw our business post and recognized him instantly.

At first, I thought it was sweet. Then she added something that made my stomach drop.

She said, “I remember him well. His dad used to babysit me sometimes. He was… not kind.”

I asked her what she meant.

She hesitated, then wrote, “He yelled a lot. Hit the wall when we made noise. Locked us in the basement once. I never told anyone. I just… I thought I was the only one who remembered.”

I showed the message to my husband. He went pale.

He said, “I thought I imagined some of that stuff. I thought it was just nightmares.”

He called Angela. They talked for two hours. I listened from the kitchen. When he hung up, he looked relieved.

He said, “I wasn’t crazy. It really happened.”

There’s something powerful in being believed. In knowing your memories weren’t just foggy trauma but real events witnessed by others.

That week, he asked me to come with him to visit his mom.

They hadn’t talked in a while. He told her what had surfaced, what he remembered, and what Angela said.

His mom cried. She said she’d tried to keep peace in the house, but she had been scared, too. She said she regretted not protecting him more.

It was the first time they had an honest conversation in years.

My husband said, “I’m not angry anymore. I just needed the truth.”

That night, we sat on the porch and watched the stars. He held my hand and said, “I feel lighter.”

I said, “You look it.”

The garage studio became a full-time business. We rented a small workshop downtown. He hired two apprentices—young men who had also been through hard things.

He never talked in the baby voice again.

Instead, he started visiting schools to talk about mental health. Not as a doctor or an expert. Just as someone who’d been through it and made it out stronger.

People listened. Teen boys opened up. Teachers thanked him. One mom wrote him a letter saying her son stopped hurting himself after hearing my husband talk.

I don’t know what healing looks like for everyone. But for my husband, it looked like turning pain into purpose.

It looked like cutting wood with steady hands. Like saying, “You’re not alone,” and meaning it. Like replacing shame with understanding.

Sometimes, I think back to that day at the grocery store. I remember how small he looked. And how I almost walked away out of embarrassment.

I’m glad I didn’t.

Because underneath that baby voice was a man learning how to be whole again.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s this: Healing doesn’t always look pretty. Sometimes it’s awkward. Sometimes it shows up in strange ways. But if you lean in instead of turning away, if you stay and ask questions, you might uncover something beautiful.

Today, “Still Wood” has a waitlist three months long. But what matters more is the letters. The emails from strangers. The way his eyes shine when someone says, “You helped me.”

He once told me, “I thought I was broken. But turns out, I was just stuck in a story I didn’t finish telling.”

And now? Now he’s telling it—with every piece he carves, with every teen he mentors, with every honest word he speaks.

So if you’ve ever felt embarrassed by someone you love—if they act weird, or scared, or different—pause. Ask what’s underneath. You might be the only person who ever does.

And if you’re the one who’s struggling, just know: there’s no shame in asking for help. No shame in weird symptoms or messy healing. You are still worthy. Still healing. Still standing.

And that’s enough.

Please share this story if it moved you. Someone out there might be going through something they don’t know how to explain. Let them know they’re not alone. 💛