Coming Home to Your Body

There is a profound difference between occupying your body and inhabiting it. One is presence by default; the other is presence by choice.

You may not understand how I feel—I don't think too many people do. For most of my life, I didn't understand what it meant to be human in my own body. I lived as a visitor in my own skin, constantly managing the world around me while being completely disconnected from the world within me.

The Disconnection

I didn't understand being tired. Not really. I understood the concept intellectually—fatigue as a signal that rest might be needed. But I couldn't feel it in my body until I was already on the threshold of complete nervous system collapse. I had trained myself to override every signal, to push through every sensation, to treat my body like a machine that simply needed to keep running.

I didn't get the signs of moving toward exhaustion because I had been living in a state of chronic override for so long that emergency had become my baseline. What trauma therapists call "hypervigilance" had rewired my entire relationship with physical sensation¹. I could read every micro-expression on someone else's face while being completely illiterate in my own body's language.

Learning the Language of Sensation

The journey back to my body began with the simplest recognition: I had forgotten how to feel the weight of sitting in a chair. The actual physical sensation of my body making contact with something solid, something that could hold me.

This might sound strange to you if you've always lived connected to your physical self. But when you've spent decades floating above your own experience—managing, strategizing, solving—the simple act of feeling your back against a chair becomes revolutionary.

I had to relearn what it meant to lie on my bed and feel the mattress beneath me, not as a place to plan tomorrow's meetings or replay today's conversations, but as a surface that was holding my actual, physical body in this actual, present moment.

The Relationship Between Brain, Heart, and Body

What I didn't understand was the relationship between my brain and my heart, or from my heart to my body. I had been living as if my mind was the CEO and my body was merely the employee—there to execute orders, not to provide information.

But your body is not just the vehicle that carries your thoughts around. It's the sophisticated intelligence system that processes information your mind cannot access. What neuroscientists call "interoceptive awareness"—the ability to sense and interpret signals from your internal body—is fundamental to emotional regulation and decision-making².

I had to learn that my heart wasn't just a pump but an information-processing center. That the tightness in my chest when someone called wasn't just physical tension but emotional intelligence. That the heaviness I felt after certain conversations wasn't just fatigue but my body's way of telling me something important about that interaction.

The Practice of Simple Existence

Learning to come home to my body required developing what I now call "the practice of simple existence"—moments of being present to physical sensation without agenda, without trying to fix or improve or optimize anything.

It started with yoga nidra, a practice of conscious rest where you learn to simply witness your body without trying to change it. Lying still and feeling the weight of my limbs against the earth. Noticing my heartbeat not as something to monitor or regulate, but as the rhythm of being alive.

These weren't meditation sessions or wellness practices in the traditional sense. They were lessons in basic human existence—learning to inhabit the body I had been borrowing from myself for decades.

The Revolutionary Act of Feeling

What I discovered was that feeling your body—really feeling it—is a revolutionary act when you've spent your life disconnected from physical sensation. Every moment of simply existing in your own skin becomes an act of coming home.

The weight of your body in a chair. The sensation of your feet on the ground. The feeling of air moving in and out of your lungs not because you're trying to breathe correctly, but because breathing is what bodies do when they're allowed to simply be.

This isn't about becoming more "mindful" or achieving some state of zen. This is about remembering that you have a body, that you live in it, that it's been trying to communicate with you all along while you've been too busy managing everyone else's lives to listen.

The Precious Moment

Now I understand what it means to exist in a precious moment without having so much going on in my head. To feel the simple pleasure of physical presence without needing to do anything with it, about it, or because of it.

Your body has been waiting patiently for you to come home to it. Not to improve it or optimize it or use it more efficiently, but to simply acknowledge that you live there. To recognize that beneath all your thoughts and strategies and plans is this intelligent, feeling, breathing being that deserves your attention.

The Invitation

So I invite you to pause right now. Feel the weight of your body wherever you are. Notice what it's like to simply exist in your own skin for this one moment. Not because you're trying to achieve anything, but because this is what it means to be human.

Your body has been your faithful companion through every experience of your life. It has carried your sorrows and your joys, your fears and your hopes. It has breathed for you when you forgot to breathe for yourself.

Coming home to your body isn't a destination—it's a daily practice of remembering that you don't just have a body. You are a body. A feeling, sensing, knowing body that has been waiting all this time for you to come home.

Welcome back.

Footnotes:

¹ Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Penguin Books.

² Craig, A. D. (2015). How Do You Feel? An Interoceptive Moment with Your Neurobiological Self. Princeton University Press.

The Sacred Act of Breathing: A Window Into Your Very Being

There is a profound difference between breathing to survive and breathing to live. One keeps you alive; the other brings you back to life.

I used to think breathing was automatic—the kind of thing bodies simply did without thought, like hearts beating or hair growing. But somewhere along my journey from hypervigilance to wholeness, I discovered that breathing is not just something that happens to us. It is something we do with our lives, for our lives, as our lives.

Every breath has become my teacher. Every inhale, an invitation. Every exhale, a choice.

The Breath of Awareness

When you begin to pay attention—truly pay attention—to your breathing, you discover that each breath carries information. Not just oxygen, but the emotional weather of your inner world. What trauma therapists call "somatic awareness" begins with this simple recognition: your breath reflects your state of being¹.

Watch yourself breathe during a difficult conversation. Notice how your chest tightens, how your breathing becomes shallow, how you literally hold your breath when someone's anger fills the room. You are not just breathing air—you are breathing in their emotional state, taking their dysregulation into your own nervous system.

But here's what's revolutionary: once you notice this, you can choose differently.

What Are You Breathing In?

This morning, I asked myself: What am I breathing in today? Not just the morning air, but the energy of my thoughts, the emotional residue from yesterday's conversations, the anticipation of today's challenges.

When you live unconsciously, you breathe in everything—other people's anxieties, your own fears, the ambient stress of a world that never stops demanding your attention. You become what psychologists call a "emotional sponge," absorbing whatever energy surrounds you without discrimination².

But conscious breathing teaches you to become selective. You can breathe in calm instead of chaos. You can inhale possibility instead of panic. You can draw in your own center instead of everyone else's periphery.

Who Are You Breathing In?

Here's a question that changed everything for me: Whose energy am I breathing in right now?

When you've spent your life being what others need, you literally breathe them in—their expectations, their emotions, their unspoken demands. You take their breath and make it yours. Their urgency becomes your emergency. Their dysregulation becomes your responsibility.

I remember sitting in my office, chest tight after a particularly challenging meeting, and realizing I was breathing my co-worker's anxiety instead of my own calm. I had taken in their emotional state so completely that I couldn't tell where they ended and I began.

This is what attachment theorists call "emotional fusion"—the loss of self that happens when your nervous system becomes entangled with another's³. But your breath can be your boundary. Your inhale can be your choice about what you let in. Your exhale can be your release of what isn't yours to carry.

What Emotions Are Your Oxygen?

Every emotion has a breath pattern. Anxiety breathes shallow and fast. Anger breathes hard and controlled. Sadness breathes deep and slow. Joy breathes free and full.

What I've learned is that you can work with your breath to shift your emotional state—not by forcing a feeling, but by creating space for what wants to emerge⁴. When you breathe consciously, you're not just moving air; you're moving energy, shifting patterns, creating possibility.

But more than that, you begin to notice what emotions you've been using as oxygen. Have you been breathing fear so long that calm feels foreign? Have you been inhaling urgency so consistently that peace feels uncomfortable? Have you been drawing in other people's needs so automatically that your own feel illegitimate?

The Breath of Boundaries

Learning to breathe consciously taught me something profound about boundaries. Every inhale is a "yes"—to this moment, this choice, this experience. Every exhale is a "no"—to what doesn't serve, what isn't yours, what no longer fits.

Your breath becomes your practice of consent. You get to choose what you take in. You get to decide what you release. This is what somatic therapists call "body autonomy"—the recognition that you have sovereignty over your own physical and emotional experience⁵.

When someone's anger fills the room, you don't have to breathe it in. When anxiety surrounds you, you don't have to make it yours. When someone else's emergency demands your immediate attention, you can breathe your own calm first.

Who Are You Breathing Out?

Just as important as what you breathe in is what you breathe out. When you exhale consciously, you release not just carbon dioxide but everything you've been carrying that isn't yours.

You breathe out your mother's anxiety that you absorbed as a child. You exhale your partner's frustration that you took on as your own. You release your children's struggles that you've been trying to solve. You let go of your clients' challenges that you've been carrying in your chest.

This isn't about not caring. This is about caring from a place of wholeness rather than enmeshment. When you breathe out what isn't yours, you create space to breathe in what is.

The Sacred Pause

Between every inhale and exhale, there is a pause. A moment of stillness. A space of pure potential.

This pause is where choice lives. In that momentary stillness, you can ask: What do I want to breathe in next? What am I ready to release? How do I want to meet this moment?

Viktor Frankl wrote about the space between stimulus and response—that sacred pause where freedom lives⁶. Your breath offers you this space dozens of times every minute. The opportunity to choose consciousness over reactivity, intention over automation, presence over performance.

Breathing as Homecoming

When I finally learned to breathe consciously, I discovered I was coming home to myself. Not to who I thought I should be, or who others needed me to be, but to who I actually am.

Your breath is always available to you. It requires no special equipment, no perfect conditions, no advanced training. It asks only that you pay attention. That you become curious about your own inner weather. That you treat your breathing as the sacred act it has always been.

The Invitation

So I invite you to pause right now. Take a breath—not a performance of breathing, but a real, conscious breath. Notice what you're breathing in. Feel what you're breathing out. Ask yourself: What does my breath want to teach me right now?

Because in a world that asks you to be everything to everyone, your breath reminds you to be something to yourself. In a culture that demands constant output, your breath teaches you the wisdom of input and release. In relationships that can leave you breathless, your breathing brings you back to yourself.

Every breath is an opportunity to choose consciousness. Every exhale is a chance to release what isn't yours. Every inhale is an invitation to take in exactly what you need.

Your breath is not just keeping you alive. It's teaching you how to live.

And that, perhaps, is the most sacred gift of all.

Footnotes:

¹ Van der Kolk, B. (2014). The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma. Penguin Books.

² Hatfield, E., Cacioppo, J. T., & Rapson, R. L. (1994). Emotional Contagion. Cambridge University Press.

³ Bowen, M. (1978). Family Therapy in Clinical Practice. Jason Aronson.

⁴ Brown, B. (2010). The Gifts of Imperfection: Let Go of Who You Think You're Supposed to Be and Embrace Who You Are. Hazelden Publishing.

⁵ Levine, P. (1997). Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma. North Atlantic Books.

⁶ Frankl, V. E. (1946). Man's Search for Meaning. Beacon Press.