How the body carries what the mind cannot hold

We come into this world whole—yet slowly, quietly, we learn to bend. To adjust. To become palatable.

We shape ourselves to fit what is expected. And in doing so, we drift—softly, almost invisibly—from the deep ground of who we are.

That ground lives in the body. It remembers who we were before the world told us what to be. It speaks through sensation—sometimes soft, sometimes serious—and waits for you to listen. The ground is always there to come back to.

When presence falters, it’s not because we’ve disappeared—but because we’ve left the place that holds us. That place is physical, real. A pulse, a breath, a quiet sense that says: you are here.

As a woman now nearing sixty, I’ve walked this path. I tried, at first, to meet the world on its terms. To show I belonged. To match the rhythm of a world designed by others. Mostly men. But over time, I stopped asking to be seen—and started letting myself arrive.

Not with force, but with timing. Not by taking space, but by filling it with what was already mine.

A nod from someone who noticed. A quiet thank-you after a talk. A recognition, not of effort, but of essence. These small things carried me. And they still do.

Presence is not performance. It is the courage to remain—in the discomfort, the doubt, the moment. Especially when the body wants to retreat.

Now, when I feel the tightening in my chest, the raising of my shoulders or the numbness in my belly, I know what it is: a sign, not a failure. A chance to choose.

To relax. To stay. To meet the other without leaving myself. To shift the situation—or see it anew through their eyes.

And if that’s not possible—then to walk away, still whole.

When Systems Press, Stay with the Body

In systems—teams, organisations, movements—presence is tested. The same is true in families. As it is in the subtle expectations of society.

Often, presence begins to slip when a role is projected onto you: the professional, the leader, the mother. As if being a professional means leaving your human being at the door. As if being a mother means answering questions no one would ask a man—like how you manage it all, how your children cope.

Each of these moments carries a quiet pressure. To shrink. To prove. To make yourself acceptable.

But the body remembers. It feels the tension, the blockage in the throat and the narrowing of the eyes. It doesn’t lie. And if we listen, it shows us where we leave ourselves.

Presence isn’t a retreat. It’s engagement. But with the whole of you—including the parts the world doesn’t always welcome.

Return Is a Practice

This is not about battle, or striving. It’s about return.

Return to the breath. Return to sensation. Return to the solid ground within.

In a world asking us to speed up, to shout louder, to prove more—what if we simply stayed? What if we let presence be enough?

Each time we practise, we widen our inner space. So we can hold more of life. So we don’t shut down when it gets too much. So we don’t collapse under what we were never meant to carry alone.

And when we do that—again and again—we become the ones others feel safe beside.

Not because we are perfect, but because we are here. Steady. Alive.