Tracing Triggers in Hulu’s “The Bear”

My husband and I just finished watching the initial season of “The Bear”, a 2022 eight-episode television series created by Christopher Storer for Hulu. I watched, fascinated, as key characters’ stories unfolded, flashbacks and dream snippets gradually revealing their origins in memories of real experiences. Emotions emerged, some instantly, others slowly, overwhelming the central players. Violations of their “windows of tolerance” threw them into behaviors of violence, flight, or even “freeze,” the paralysis of profound helplessness seen in the rats Martin Seligman observed during his experiments of “learned helplessness.”

Across the episodes, one after another, the program’s characters evolved, their increasing awareness and honesty moving them forward toward wholeness. With their growth came new responses, capacities to forgive themselves, and then to forgive others for their all-too-human lapses. Failures reaped the courage to change.

The dynamics in the program were beautifully reflected in the evolving setting and in the way in which the episodes were individually constructed and then sequenced into a powerful narrative of redemption, connection, and the joy of mutual appreciation and support. I don’t want to say too much and “spoil” the power and beauty of this creatively constructed story; you can see for yourself the changes in the environment as they mirror an evolution within each character and the ultimate impact that people can have on one another.

The series is a gem of insight into the variety and strength of trauma. It includes a huge range of “triggers,” from the physically terrifying to the psychologically torturing; from those that signal pain from within to dangers in the environment; from those experienced in early childhood to those encountered in the present. Similarly, responses to these triggers are unique, dependent on the age of the person at the time of the experience, their own temperament and needs, resources available within each of them and their environments, and the support they receive for their responses. By displaying the full spectrum of traumatic impact and response, the lives of the characters underscore the individuality with which we react to ways in which we feel threatened, whether in body, mind, or soul.

Source: geralt/Pixabay

Think back to a time when you know you reacted poorly, well beyond what was necessary or helpful given a situation. I think of the times I uncharacteristically snapped—at a waiter who was ignoring me (a single woman). I think of my anger at the tire salesman who called me “dearie” and treated me as though I could not multiply the price of one tire by four. Or the advertising executive who told me I had no idea what I was talking about when I asked questions about the biased sampling he reported on in his “survey” of opinions that supported his viewpoint.

In all these instances, I was being treated as stupid, incompetent, unworthy of respect or as a voice that counted. In other words, I felt invisible. The rage of the child I had once been resurfaced; I felt unable to make my protests heard, my preferences visible, my resistance effective. The responses—from a rageful tantrum, to removing myself from exposure, to pretending I was not part of the pageantry—varied with the assault and with my age, but all signaled opportunities to try a more mature response. Gradually, I learned how to do so.

How aware are you of your own triggers? How clearly do you see the “scripts” that lead you to expect what might unfold? How creatively can you envision alternative scripts, an evolution of outcomes that lead to peace and harmony along with a resolution of conflict?