NOA LEVEN
Autofiction rooted in
trauma, the body,
desire, and truth.
I write about voice and
about silence.
About what the body
holds – long before
language finds the courage
to follow.
Who I am – and why I write
I write to bring into view what lived in the dark. To name what once had no language. To understand how truth feels when it doesn’t return as memory but rises through the body.
My texts move between autofiction, essay, and interior monologue – fragmented, intimate, precise. I write about trauma, shame, self-loss, and sexual reclamation – not as concept, but as something lived and survived.
I believe language can heal when it does not try to explain but chooses to witness. That truth unfolds over time. And that liberation begins in the body.
I write under the name Noa Leven. I live in Germany and work as a writer – at the thresholds, in the body, in the depths that are not entered lightly.
Autofiction – working title
What does it feel like when the body recalls what the mind refused to hold? In the Glass Sphere traces the awakening of a woman returning to her body after years of freeze and survival. From the obedient daughter to the woman who chooses her own freedom. From silence to a truth that rises through the body before it ever finds language.
Part I – Living Without Language: A life that looks steady from the outside – while panic, perfection, and exhaustion hold it together from within.
Part II – The Work of Remembering: Trauma. Violence. Silence. Fragments rising through the body: scents, sensations, images that refuse coherence. A slow, painful return to one’s own truth.
Part III – The Return to Life: Sexuality, closeness, and new forms of intimacy. Body-based therapy and tenderness as sites of healing. A body inhabited again – and a life reclaimed.
Style
- fragmentary in form
- intimate and body-centered
- clear in its analysis
- distilled into poetic precision
Themes
- trauma and the body’s ways of remembering
- dissociation, hypnosis, and constellation-based therapeutic work
- sexuality as an act of reclamation
- breaking free from inherited and internalized patterns
For whom?
- For readers who want to understand how trauma continues to live in the body.
- For those who recognize themselves in questions of intimacy, self-loss, or liberation.
- For anyone drawn to literature that is bold, embodied, and told with precision.
This novel follows the slow return to a body that can be lived in again: the nights of panic, the polished daily functioning, the over-adaptation of a wounded child still residing in an adult woman. Memories surface like points of light - incomplete, contradictory, urgently physical.
Through hypnosis, body-based therapy, and constellation work, the narrator moves toward what she could not feel for years. Language trails behind, hesitant, while the body has long known the truth.
Non-normative spaces of experience open a new place - embodied, emotional, true. Desire becomes a place of reclamation. Shame softens into contact. And the body, once a site of silence, becomes a site of freedom.
Fragments
I write in fragments.
Here I share brief reflections – small pieces of writing about the body, memory, intimacy, desire, and the freedoms that follow.
The body remembers – even when the mind turns away.
I didn’t know then that this emptiness was a memory – not a feeling of now, but the echo of a body taught too early to fall away from itself.
For a long time I searched for safety – and found it where I feared it most: in the surrender I choose myself. In the desire that belongs to me.
Sometimes a sound, a posture, a single breath is enough – and the past enters the room.
Perfection was my armor. Not to shine, but to stay unharmed. And even when everything looks flawless – the body knows better.
I want to be true, even when it hurts. I hold my dignity, even when others do not see it. I listen to my body. It was silent for so long. Now it is allowed to speak.
Sometimes I wonder if I want too much – too much closeness, too much conversation, too much resonance. But often it wasn’t my longing that was too big – it was the coldness that was too loud.
Trauma is not a memory. Trauma is a present that does not change.
In that hour I felt, for the first time, what recognition can feel like in the body. No thought – only the quiet knowing: I am here. And I can stay.