Learning how to feel

If your childhood experience was anything like mine, learning how to feel was not taught at home or in schools. It was clear that what was important, was to learn how to think. Any lessons about emotions tended to come from painful experiences when all was not well, and for those moments, if an adult was present, the focus was on learning how to get rid of them as soon as possible.

In those early years, there was plenty of that painful material to draw from, for along with ongoing tension between my parents, my young body was waging its own internal war with itself in the form of an auto-immune illness. My home environment didn’t feel safe, but then, neither did being in my body. When the illness was in remission, rather than feeling relief, a part of me remained vigilant, worried about not if, but when the pain would come back. And it wasn't just the pain in my body. Seeing my mother's response to that pain, her worry, her anxiety, registered for me as if I had done something wrong, and it was my job to fix it. As a result, I wasn’t able to fully relax, and instead learned to put on a 'brave face', that everything was ok. I desperately wanted to fit in with my family and didn’t want them to be brought down by my own malaise.

Through my teens, I took that vigilant part of me through marathon runs and predawn swims, and if not through exercise, I did my best exhaust it by starving it out of my body.. Somewhere along the way though, likely in the context of a yoga practice that started in my 20s, I was introduced to meditation. At first I would fidget my way through the session, or become frustrated at not understanding how to interpret the teacher’s words into something tangible in my body. I’d shift around in my seat due to a lack of comfort in my body’s position, or through the subconscious habit of holding myself up out of internal pain.

I remember clearly the first evening that there was a change for me. I was sitting in a small shala in Amsterdam, when I noticed a profound pressure in my body. Everything felt constricted and stiff, and I realized I was holding on, as if for dear life. An internal voice spoke to me, a voice that sounded wise. “Nobody is telling you what to do. This time is for yourself and you can spend it thinking about whatever you want, or not thinking at all. You have a choice, and I are choosing to constrict your muscles right now.” I was gobsmacked. Whose voice was this, and could it be trusted? It sure sounded like the truth. The problem was, I didn’t know how to do anything other than what I was doing. My body did not know how to let go. When I got back home to my little flat on the Herengracht that night, I realized my pelvic floor muscles were switched on as I sat through dinner, and even later as I brushed my teeth. It felt they had been like that from birth, yet I had never taken any notice. I spent the rest of that evening, and many others, exploring how to let go of the physical holding that had become my norm.

It didn’t happen overnight, but learning how to let go of my pelvic floor, jaw, shoulders, feet, and just about everywhere else, started with learning how to get into my body, and that started with the understanding that my body was not separate from my mind or emotions, but very much connected. I had learned over many years to treat my body like an enemy, a punching bag, or machine to get me through difficult moments, and a storage place for unexpressed emotions. From that vantage point, it was not a safe space to inhabit, let alone explore. My body had had clearly had enough of that relationship, and was begging for something different. What it really needed was space, quietness, and someone to listen to what it had to say, to what it needed.

The process was not neat. Getting to know and understand the pain and holding in my body also meant meeting my emotions, learning how to recognize them, and giving them permission to be heard. This process came with tears, strong sensations, and words that were painful to speak. It did not happen all at once, and one of the things I had to come to terms with, was the messiness of not always getting communication right, when it came to learning how to let other people know what I was experiencing. Over time though, my nervous system, which had been disregulated for decades, learned how to find a place for itself, a more regulated rhythm.

Life is dynamic, and the relationship I have with my inner landscape is a work-in-practice. For most of us, learning how to feel is not a single breakthrough moment, but rather, a series of quiet, low-key visits into our own unique experience. The below notes are some tools that have helped me, that you might like to explore in the context of your own awareness or movement practice, through breath work, or by joining a mindfulness group. Yoga, meditation, dance, singing, and tai chi are just a few examples that may support the ideas below, that are not new, and not uniquely my own, but come from many years of personal work and continued learning. Let me know if there is something there that works for you.

On safety and grounding

For most of us, difficult sensations are not accessible without a safe environment and a solid ground. Feeling into the body and our internal space needs a reliable container. It might start with noticing how your body is supported. It may come from contact with your feet or seat, or simply noticing that something is under you, helping to hold you up. You might keep the eyes open, and without strain, look around in your environment. What do you notice in terms of colors, shapes, or anything that is neutral, that might help you to orient in the room you are in? This orienting and noticing may helping your nervous system remember that you are in the present tense. Pausing at anytime to widen the gaze, to look around, or make contact with your hands, or stopping completely are all possibilities. Relationships are about coming together and moving apart, and so is the one being cultivated with your inner landscape. It can be a couple seconds, or a few minutes, like looking out the window at the landscape. The longer you look, the more you might notice.

On titration and pendulation

When we feel overwhelmed, the nervous system braces or shuts down in order to survive. If we tried to feel everything all at once, it would be being thrown into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim. Working with a tiny bit at a time gives the nervous system a chance to dip a toe in, and learn how to swim in the emotional waters at a pace that is safe and comfortable.

It might start by looking for one area of your body that feels only slightly uncomfortable, like a tight throat, or a pressure in your chest. Look place that is a little activated, where you can feel tension, but not overly loaded with meaning, or painful to touch.

Then, you might be able to located a place that is more neutral, such as your hands or ears, or feet. This place is sometimes called a resource. Bringing your awareness back to the activation area for a couple of seconds, and notice any sensations, like hot, cold, vibrating, or stuck. It’s not about changing it, but simply noticing what's there for a short time. Then return to the area that is neutral, the resource. You might stay there a little longer, allowing your system to register safety and support, a kind of 'home base'.

Pendulation is when you practice moving your attention back and forth between the territory of activation, and of resource, like the pendulum of a clock: from discomfort to support, from tension to ease. This pendulation helps your nervous system process activation in smaller, more manageable doses, which is the meaning of the word titration. Over time, this builds the capacity to feel without becoming flooded and overwhelmed. As we practice this, we get acclimated towards larger amounts of both the ease, and activation, until the time we are ready to go into the full expression of emotion, knowing there is a safe harbour to come back to, knowing our emotions are ok to express themselves, and are simply moving through us, rather than our constant state.

Sensing instead of storytelling

When we first turn our attention inward, the mind often wants to narrate and analyze in the form of storytelling.: why we feel this way, who caused it, and what it means about us. While these stories may ring true with our experience, they most often pull us out of our body. We disconnect.

Something to experiment with, is noticing this trend, and even for a few moments, see if there is possibility to set the story aside, instead getting in touch with sensation. Rather than saying, “I feel anxious,” you might notice, “a fluttering in my chest,” or that “my stomach is churning.”

Sometimes I equate emotions to the weather. What would it be like for you to describe your emotions that way: “heavy,” “thick,” “breezy,” “shifting,” “dense.” There is no right answer, just curiosity. When sensations are named in a simple way, without the assessment or needing to change them, space is created for the body to understand what it needs to bring itself into balance.

Slow and steady wins the race

We live in a fast world, and have come to expect things to be fixed, and fast. Learning how to feel is the opposite; it is more like learning a language, or an instrument that takes some consistency over time. A few minutes everyday means that sometimes you will sense relief or warmth, while other times you may encounter numbness, confusion, or fear. There is no right or wrong, but simply dipping the proverbial toe in the water is enough to create a bridge into the inner world. Each time you meet your body with curiosity instead of judgment, you are offering yourself something many of us did not receive when we needed it most: a steady, unconditional, compassionate presence. In that presence, learning how to feel becomes less of a threat and more of a way home.