🎧 Listen to the article :
Our being is constantly adapting to billions of external and internal stimuli. And only we have access to the information it contains and the signals it sends us: our emotions, our sensations, our impulses. We have the capacity to sense and the capacity to feel. By resonating with everything that is happening within and without, and if listened to carefully, the body helps us discern where we are, what we need, and often where we are being called to go. It creates an inner rhythm, an embodied wisdom, an internal compass, what we often call “intuition”.
Life experiences can be as pleasing as they are challenging. Allowing either one to move through us cannot be taken for granted. Yet if we succeed in dissolving the inner obstacles that prevent us from opening to it, we expand our ability to hold life and to experience it more fully. As John C. Pierrakos, founder of “Core Energetics” Therapy, reminds us:
“In the human anatomy, cells expand and contract. So do individual organs, such as the heart, and systems such as the gut and the lungs. And so does the total human organism. The basic substance of the person is energy. The movement of that energy is life. The freer the energy movement within each component, in keeping with its own integrity and cohesion, as well as that of the whole organism, the more intense [the fuller] the life.”
In my previous article The Ever-Becoming Self: What Holds Me Back?, I explored how the patterns etched into our nervous system and body can keep us from experiencing the fullness of life. In this piece, I turn to how we begin to move closer to it, through the subtle, brave work of listening and returning to the body. This isn’t always easy. Here, I delve into how, even in moments when we feel overwhelmed or overtaken by “big emotions,” we can find our way back to ourselves.
Life seldom delivers its challenges at the right time; they arrive unannounced, often just as we think we’ve found steady ground. And even when we see them coming, the wave can crash before we manage to catch our breath. That’s how it felt for me just a few days ago. My kids have been going to their father’s every other week for some time now, yet each departure still brings a familiar pattern: a 24-hour swell of restlessness, with an emptiness beneath it. I feel it building, I know it will eventually pass, I remind myself to breathe, to ground, and still, it crashes.
The French artist Louise Bourgeois captures this particular feeling evocatively in her print Empty Nest: a woman sits on a three-legged stool (her three sons?) with her head in her hands, her legs resting on another stool; as if trying to stay grounded but not quite able to. I resonate with this print deeply, it reflects the instability and ache that surface in moments of separation and sudden emptiness. That pain creeping in the chest that feels unbearable.
Here we are reminded of Rainer Maria Rilke’s words: “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.” And so I try. I breathe. It’s not easy. I have to remind myself that tensing won’t help, running won’t help, distractions won’t help, numbing won’t help. I learned at my own expense that as long as I don’t make space for what is alive in me, it will run the show from underneath. The aches, the neediness, the unrest, they don’t vanish when ignored, they only grow and fester. They begin shaping how we respond to the world, how we make decisions, how we relate, often subtly, often out of sync with our deeper longings.
Despite all the theory and practice, I still sometimes find it too hard to sit with certain emotions; so I fall back on one of the many clever (or not so clever) strategies I’ve developed to numb, escape, or disconnect from discomfort. But increasingly, I find the strength within me to contain what arises.
Modern neuroscience solidly supports Freud’s notion that many of our conscious thoughts are complex rationalizations for the flood of emotions, impulses, motives, and deep-seated memories that emanate from the unconscious. It also confirms what embodied practices have long known: our sense of self, safety, and presence is rooted in the body.
We can call upon our embodied wisdom. It shows in how we listen to our body, how we remain present, how we regulate ourselves. This grounding is what allows us to truly meet others, and life, with greater clarity, rather than being blindly guided by fear, guilt, doubt, anxiety, or the need to prove something. From there, our actions in relating, creating, and leading are more firmly anchored in truth and in reality.
“Some 80% of the fibers of the vagus nerve (which connects the brain with many internal organs) are afferent; that is, they run from the body into the brain. This means that we can directly train our arousal system by the way we breathe, chant, and move, a principle that has been utilized since time immemorial in places like China and India, and in every religious practice I know of, yet is often suspiciously eyed as ‘alternative’ in mainstream culture.” Bessel A. van der Kolk, M.D., “The Body Keeps The Score”.
To move through trauma is not only to revisit the past, but to reconnect with what we carry from it in our present state of being. As I mentioned previously, trauma disrupts interoception: our ability to sense what is happening inside us. Interoception allows us to feel hunger, temperature, tension, sensation, emotion. Relearning how to feel the body from within is essential to restoring presence, and with it, the capacity to move from overwhelm and self-alienation to self-regulation. It is also key to meeting any strong emotion.
The first step is awareness. We begin by listening. Not to the mind’s spiraling narratives, but to the subtle language of sensation. Noticing what is happening internally, without judgment: tightness in the throat, a racing heart, a numbness in the belly. Just observing. While simple, this is not easy. It requires slowing down enough to listen and allowing space for the body’s signals to emerge. When my kids leave, for example, I notice fragmentation: I become restless, irritable, overly sensitive. My breath turns shallow, at times I even catch myself holding my breath. My diaphragm tightens, and when I try to breathe more deeply, I meet an ache in my chest that feels difficult to stay with.
The second step is to name what is felt. Neuroscience shows that when we label our internal experience, “my breath is shallow,” “there’s an ache in my chest,” the emotional charge softens. Language helps organize the felt sense. Naming brings regulation. It is not about explaining the why. It is about acknowledging what is there.
The third step involves recognizing the interplay between thoughts and sensations. What thoughts are associated with what the body is experiencing? What story does the body carry, and how does that shape the mind? This is where consciousness and energy meet. Certain situations evoke certain sensations, which evoke certain thoughts or unconscious reactions. To return to the experience I described earlier, I notice the restlessness in my body and the ache in my chest. With it come feelings of anxiety and unrest, like a caged animal wanting to break free. This brings a deep discomfort with being alone and a strong pull of neediness, making it hard to focus, to concentrate, or to feel grounded. My unconscious reaction is often to keep myself in constant motion, starting many things without ever stopping, cutting myself off from feeling. At other times, I seek company, surrounding myself with people as a way to escape, being there in form, yet absent in being. When we pause, when we stay, we can ground, and grounding allows for choice. Noticing the process brings consciousness. “I notice what’s happening in me. What happens next?” The question is not asked once but repeated, each time accompanied by naming (even better if done out loud) and breathing. With this gentle practice, shifts gradually occur: the charge softens, presence grows, and we can approach our inner world with more openness, without being consumed by it.
Becoming aware of how the body organizes emotions or memories opens the possibility of releasing sensations and impulses once blocked in order to survive, without necessarily acting them out. This release softens physical tension, which allows feelings to surface. It can lead to discharge: movement, tremor, sound, tears. The body becomes freer, breathing more openly, moving into flow.
This understanding traces back to Wilhelm Reich, whose work forms the foundations of body-oriented psychotherapy. He saw trauma as a disruption in the natural flow of energy. A healthy organism, he believed, is one that can fully charge and fully discharge, allowing emotions and sensations to rise, peak, and be expressed without becoming stuck. For Reich, the free flow of energy through breath, movement, sound, and connection is the basis of vitality and inner freedom.
By listening, we begin to recognize; by recognizing, we move closer to release; and more importantly, we grow more familiar with our bodies and their needs, so we can move through life with awareness.
In this interplay, a strong response often arises to fend off overwhelming feelings: the “inner critic” awakens. This internalized voice, powered by shame and guilt, was created in childhood to preserve life-sustaining connection with loved ones. For a child, directing anger outward carries great risk, it can provoke rejection, punishment, blame, shaming, or even violence. Losing love or safety can feel like psychological death, so the child learns to turn anger and aggression inward. This takes the form of guilt, self-blame, and harsh self-criticism. It is a coping mechanism that protects connection but comes at a high cost. The task is not to deny this voice but to notice it when it appears. Gradually, the aim is to move toward a softer, more compassionate way of relating to oneself. This is essential for cultivating a grounded sense of self, and from there, healthier ways of relating to others.
One simple practice is to pause and gently ask yourself a question when a critical thought arises:
• When the voice says, “You messed up again,” ask: “How bad is it?”
• When it says, “You’re not good enough,” ask: “Whose voice is this?”
• When it says, “You should have done better,” ask: “What would I say to a friend in this moment?”
• When it compares you to others, ask: “What do I need right now?”
Rather than pushing the voice away, this approach invites curiosity. It creates space between you and the thought, softening its grip. Over time, this reveals how automatic and outdated these patterns are, and offers the freedom to respond with more maturity and clarity. Bringing gentle awareness to inner dialogue uncovers limiting beliefs and quiet assumptions you may not realise were there. And that subtle shift, that small insight, is often where real change begins. Once you start approaching your body and the mind’s stories that try to protect you from feeling with curiosity rather than fear, everything shifts.
For me personally, the most powerful question that helps me gain clarity is: “What do I need right now?” It calls for a visceral reconnection to the body and helps me recognise the deeper need beneath the impulse to act. By staying with it, rather than rushing into unconscious action, I can reclaim both awareness and a sense of agency.
Equally important is relational grounding, the way the presence of another can help us return to ourselves when we cannot do so alone. Just as trauma that happens in relationship cuts deep, healing and transformation also unfold in relationship. A therapist, a friend, or a loved one can offer this presence. Even when trauma and the subsequent defense mechanisms lead us to withdraw, pulling back, closing off, or seeking distance in search of safety, the body never stops longing for authentic connection. Rebuilding trust, reshaping how we relate to ourselves and to others, lies at the heart of the therapeutic process.
From the moment we are born, our sense of self is shaped through attunement, responsive faces, gestures, and touch. Touch, with consent and clarity, when used in body-oriented therapy, when offered at the right time, can be a powerful way to ground. It also defines the edges of the self, where I end and where you begin. Firm and reassuring touch teaches us to locate our body in space, to recognize our boundaries, and to sense the right distance between being with ourselves and being with another.
As we progress in this pendulation between exploration and safety, between expansion and contraction, we gradually widen our window of tolerance, the capacity to stay present without becoming overwhelmed or shutting down. When contraction arises, we often need islands of safety to guide us from fear back into presence. Approaches such as breathing exercises, varying the rhythm of our breath, tapping or acupressure, grounding through the feet, sensing the body on the chair, writing by hand, mindful movement, spiritual practices, expressive drawing, or connection with nature can all support us in this way. Letting ourselves be touched by the arts — literature, painting, photography, poetry, music — is also deeply grounding.
“Hard times require furious dancing.” Alice Walker
Beyond these ways of anchoring, I strongly believe that music, singing, and dancing are among the most powerful ways to ground, flow, and expand at once. To let ourselves be moved by vibration, to find our voice, our rhythm. Whether done alone or in community, each of these offers its own way to bring us back to ourselves.
Ultimately, these practices are an invitation to ground, to explore, and to allow a freer flow of our life energy. What transformation truly means is perhaps best expressed in Alan Watts’ words: “Life was never meant to be understood, it’s meant to be felt. We spend so much time trying to figure everything out, trying to fix, explain, solve, control. But life is not a puzzle, it’s a wave. You were never meant to carry the wave, you were meant to let it move through you. The joy, the fear, the heartbreak, the moments that didn’t make sense until much later, you were never broken, you were becoming.” Transformation has never been about improving or striving to be someone we are not, but about embracing who we are and allowing life to move through us, an ongoing process of becoming.
ABOUT THE AUTHOUR
Hella Zouiten is a contributing writer at ELLE Egypt. She is a Core Energetics/ Body-mind integration psychotherapist living in France. If you would like to know more about her, click here.
