When I started the 90-day presence practice, I imagined the first month would come with a clear moment of breakthrough—some dramatic shift, some obvious sign that I was “getting it.” Instead, the first 30 days felt more like someone slowly turning up a dimmer switch in a room I’d been moving through for years. Things I didn’t even know were there began to come into focus.

Each morning, I committed to just ten minutes of mindful movement—nothing elaborate, just enough to meet myself before the day began. Those small movements became an anchor, a way to arrive in my body before my mind started running.

The earliest shift was a broader sense of awareness. Not in a lofty or spiritual way—more like realizing I had been functioning with half my attention elsewhere. I started noticing the subtle things: how often I held my breath, the way I braced in conversations that didn’t require bracing, how quickly I agreed to things even when my body signaled “not now.” These tiny flashes of awareness felt like discovering doorways I’d been walking past without ever seeing them.

As the days went on, something else surfaced: I was making choices all the time, even when I believed no choice was being made. I had patterns that ran on their own—automatic responses shaped by years of habit and protection. Once they became visible, they didn’t feel like mistakes to correct. They felt like understandable adaptations I could finally name.

I also began catching the early signals—long before I reached overwhelm or depletion. The quiet tightening in my chest that started before my schedule felt too full. The slight shift in my posture when I was pushing myself. The moment my energy dipped, even if I was still smiling and showing up. These cues had always been speaking; the difference was that I finally had the internal space to hear them.

One of the most unexpected changes in the first month was my relationship with my body. I’d always used my mind as the narrator of my experience, even when the important information was happening physically. But as presence deepened, my body began to feel like a legitimate source of direction—through warmth, tension, pressure, relief. Sensations that used to feel like background noise became meaningful, almost like learning a language I didn’t realize I’d forgotten.

And with all of this came a softening toward myself. When you start seeing your patterns clearly—not through judgment but through understanding—blame loses its edge. I could finally recognize that the ways I moved through the world made sense given what I’d lived through. The shift wasn’t about fixing anything; it was about seeing myself with more honesty and less criticism.

By the end of the first 30 days, the change was subtle but unmistakable. I didn’t feel transformed in a dramatic way. But I felt closer to myself—more aligned with what was actually happening inside me rather than what I thought should be happening. And with that closeness came a quiet confidence: not in perfection, but in possibility.

The ending surprised me the most. These first 30 days taught me that presence isn’t a task to complete—it’s a relationship you build. And like any relationship, it grows through small, repeated moments of returning. These early shifts didn’t suddenly balance everything, but they offered something more sustainable: the ability to see myself clearly enough that change could genuinely take root.

Once you begin to notice, you can’t un-notice. And that changes everything.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS – Want to join me on Facebook live every morning as I practice? I’ll be there at 5:30am PT everyday through Jan 30th 2026.

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Have you ever felt like life was just too much—your chest tightening, your heart racing, like you couldn’t catch your breath? I have. And in those moments, it’s not my thoughts that undo me—it’s what my body feels.

So often, when life feels overwhelming, we focus on what’s happening in our minds—our racing thoughts, our worries, our doubts. But the truth is, what makes life feel unbearable isn’t usually our thoughts. It’s the feeling inside the body.

I know this from my own experience. For me, “too much” has shown up as a pounding heart, a chest so tight it felt like I couldn’t breathe, or a wave of heaviness that made me want to disappear. These moments can feel like being tossed into rough water with no way to catch my breath. My instinct has often been to run from those feelings or fight against them—thrashing in the waves—only to end up more exhausted and more overwhelmed.

Part of what makes it so hard is how quickly the mind pulls us out of the present. The future looms with all its unknowns: What if I can’t handle this? What if it’s too much? The past whispers its stories: This happened before, so it will happen again.

But when I return to this moment, something shifts. I notice that I am here. I have a body. And my body is always signaling—always giving me cues about what is happening now and what may be rising. Sometimes those signals are small, almost easy to miss: tension in my shoulders at the grocery store, a knot in my stomach before a hard conversation, the restless energy in my legs when I feel trapped in traffic.

This is where awareness becomes essential. Awareness is the doorway skill. Without it, I can’t notice what my body is telling me. With it, I have a chance to catch the signals early, before I’m overwhelmed. Awareness gives me choices. It allows me to respond instead of react.

This is where I picture an inner tube floating in the water. It’s not something I reach for once I’m already drowning; it’s something I’ve practiced climbing into on calmer days. That way, when the waves rise, I already know how to find it. The tube is the safety I’ve built through practice—the body signals I’ve learned to notice, the small places of support I’ve come to trust.

This is what people often call self-regulation—the ability to steady myself in the middle of the storm. It doesn’t make the storm vanish, but it gives me a way to stay afloat when the water feels too high. And it always begins with awareness: noticing the body, hearing its messages, and responding before the storm has swept me away.

And over time, each time I practice awareness and move toward the tube, something deeper develops: resilience. Resilience is more than surviving the storm—it’s the gradual healing that changes both mind and body. With practice, the way “too much” shows up begins to shift. My body doesn’t react with the same intensity it once did. My mind doesn’t spiral quite as quickly into fear or old stories. Slowly, my nervous system learns new patterns, and I discover new ways of responding.

Resilience isn’t about becoming tough or never struggling again. It’s about changing my relationship with what once felt impossible. It’s about realizing that storms don’t hit as hard when I’ve practiced, and that I now have tools that didn’t exist before.

So maybe today, you pause for just a moment and simply notice: What is my body telling me right now? The heaviness in your chest, the flutter in your stomach, the tension in your shoulders—these are not enemies, but signals. Signals that invite you to come closer instead of running away.

Awareness of the body in the present moment is where it begins. Each time you notice, you are practicing. Each practice makes it a little easier to find the inner tube before the storm hits. Over time, that awareness doesn’t just help in the moment—it changes how “too much” shows up, and how you meet it when it comes.

The storms will still rise. But with awareness, you can meet them differently. You can listen to your body, respond with compassion, and remember: you already carry the way back to safety inside you.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga (TSY) is becoming more widely recognized, but with that recognition comes a lot of misunderstanding. TSY isn’t simply a “gentler yoga class” or a set of special poses. It’s an approach rooted in agency, choice, and nervous system understanding — but many people still hold outdated assumptions.

Here are five common myths about trauma-sensitive yoga and what’s actually true.

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Myth 1: Trauma-Sensitive Yoga needs to be relaxing.

Many people assume TSY is supposed to feel soothing or calming. But the goal isn’t relaxation — it’s empowerment.
For someone with trauma, connecting to their body can bring up a range of sensations: neutral, comforting, or sometimes challenging. All of these responses are welcome.

What’s true:
TSY creates a space where people can notice, choose, and stay in control of their experience — whether it feels relaxing or not.

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Myth 2: It’s only for people with diagnosed trauma.

TSY can support people with PTSD or complex trauma, but it’s also helpful for:

• People experiencing stress
• Burnout
• Dissociation
• Grief
• Anxiety
• Anyone wanting a more choice-based yoga practice

What’s true:
TSY is a human-centered approach. You don’t need a diagnosis to benefit from it.

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Myth 3: Instructors must talk about trauma during class.

Talking about trauma experiences during practice can be overwhelming or even re-triggering.

What’s true:
A trauma-sensitive class focuses on present-moment awareness, choice, and invitation-based cueing. No one needs to share their story. The safety comes from how the class is offered, not from discussing trauma.

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Myth 4: Trauma-Sensitive Yoga is a specific set of poses.

There is no official “TSY sequence” that must be followed.

What’s true:
TSY is about how you cue, not what you cue.
You can teach almost any posture in a trauma-sensitive way if you prioritize:

• Choice
• Language that invites rather than directs
• Predictability
• Respect for autonomy
• Awareness of power dynamics

It’s an approach, not a choreography.

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Myth 5: Teachers need to fix or heal participants.

This belief often comes from a place of compassion, but it’s unsupported and unsafe.

What’s true:
Teachers are not healers or fixers.
TSY empowers individuals to reconnect with their bodies in their own time, on their own terms. The role of the instructor is to offer choices, create predictability, and support agency — not to diagnose, treat, or rescue.

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Final Thoughts

Trauma-Sensitive Yoga is powerful not because it’s a specialized technique, but because it centers the autonomy and lived experience of the practitioner. When we release these myths, we can meet each student with respect, clarity, and genuine care.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS. If you’d like to learn more, I offer monthly Trauma-Sensitive Yoga Foundations Trainings!

Reclaiming movement as the language of feeling safe.

We often imagine safety as stillness.
As a steady breath, a quiet mind, an unshakable calm. For many, “regulated” has come to mean silent, composed, or perfectly peaceful. But real safety is rarely that neat.

Safety, in the language of the nervous system, is not the absence of movement. It’s the presence of freedom.
Freedom to sway, to reach, to stretch, to turn toward or away. Safety is what lets the body move without bracing for consequence. It’s fluidity — not stillness — that tells the body, you are okay.

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The Myth of Calm

When we equate safety with a calm stillness, we create an impossible standard.
Especially for those whose nervous systems have learned to survive by staying small or invisible, calm may actually feel unsafe. Stillness might be the place where danger used to find you.

In trauma recovery, stillness can sometimes awaken old alarms. The body remembers what it meant to freeze. So when you find yourself restless or fidgeting even in a “peaceful” moment, know this: your body might simply be moving to prove that it’s alive.

Safety grows not by demanding stillness, but by widening what’s possible.
It’s the small moments when you can move and still feel connected — when you can shift, stretch, or look around without the body interpreting it as threat.

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The Body’s Natural Rhythm

Think of a child who feels safe enough to explore: arms swinging, eyes bright, body in motion.
That is what safety looks like in motion — curiosity without collapse.

As adults, our nervous systems still seek that rhythm. Movement keeps the pathways between body and brain alive. It tells the system, we’re here, we’re responsive, we can adapt.

If calm feels unreachable, start with rhythm. Walk. Rock. Reach. Let the body lead.
It’s not about looking peaceful — it’s about being present. Movement restores the communication between brain and body that trauma interrupts.

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When Stillness Feels Threatening

If you notice anxiety or discomfort in quiet moments, you’re not doing anything wrong.
Your body may simply be trying to protect you from the sensation of stillness that once meant danger or powerlessness. This is not regression — it’s awareness.

You can meet that awareness with gentleness. Instead of forcing yourself into calm, invite subtle motion: tracing your fingertips along a surface, shifting your balance, or turning your gaze. These are ways of saying, I am here now, and I can move.

In time, as safety deepens, stillness may feel different — not demanded, but chosen. Stillness becomes a resting place rather than a trap.

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A Practice: Moving Toward Safety

You’re invited to take a moment to notice one small movement that feels available right now — maybe rolling your shoulders, stretching your hands, or adjusting how you sit. Let the movement unfold.

Notice if movement allows something in you to shift — not into stillness, but into presence.

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The Freedom to Move

Safety isn’t the absence of movement or noise or emotion.
It’s the freedom to experience all of those things without fear.

When the body begins to trust that it can move, speak, or express without danger, healing deepens. You no longer need to freeze to stay safe; you can flow and still belong.

Safety, real safety, is the spaciousness to be fully alive — moving, feeling, and responding in rhythm with life.

Wishing You Wellness,

Keri Sawyer

For those of you following along with 90 Days of Presence, this is a moment from around Day 8 of my own practice.

I’ve been committing to about 10 minutes of mindful movement a day—nothing fancy, just showing up on the mat and noticing what’s there. Right now, that practice happens at 5:30am, so at the beginning it mostly felt like fatigue from the early start and adjusting to a new routine. (Day 2 even landed on daylight savings, so my body was definitely feeling the shift.)

As the days went on, something started to change. I began to notice my body more often off the mat too—small sensations and little shifts I might have missed before.

One morning, I was standing in line for coffee. Just an ordinary moment.

As I waited, I noticed my body was already working. My shoulders felt a bit tight. There was a steady tension in my arms and along my back. My breath was a little quicker, not quite settled. On the outside, I was just another person in line. On the inside, I was already carrying more than the situation asked for.

Because of this 90-day practice, instead of pushing past it, I noticed it.

I didn’t try to talk myself into relaxing or force anything to change. I simply brought my attention down to my feet—how they felt in my shoes, the contact with the floor, the support underneath me. I stayed with that for a few moments: connection, steadiness, something solid I could feel.

I wasn’t trying to fix myself. I was just present with what was there.
And in that ordinary moment, just noticing began to change the way my body felt.

As I stayed with the feeling of my feet on the floor, something started to shift on its own. My shoulders eased a little. The tension along my back softened. My breath began to deepen without me having to make it happen. I didn’t perform calm; I stayed with what was true, and my body responded.

After about a week of these ten-minute sessions, this is what stands out the most:
I’m catching these moments as they’re happening, not hours later when I’m already drained. Before this, I might not have noticed the stress in that coffee line at all. I would have just moved on with my day, a little more wound up without knowing why.

One coffee line. Ten minutes of daily practice. And a moment where presence found me, right where I was.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS – you’re welcome to join the 90 days of presence Facebook live – every morning at 5:30am Pacific time: https://www.facebook.com/share/1CaXBy9TTk/?mibextid=wwXIfr

Have you ever had someone tell you to breathe differently or move better?
Maybe they meant well, but it can feel unsettling—like your body has somehow been doing it wrong.

Yet your breath, your posture, your patterns of movement have all developed for a reason. They are expressions of your lived experience—your body’s quiet, ongoing conversation with life itself. Each movement and each stillness are simply part of how your body responds and relates to the world. And none of it is wrong.

When we start yoga or any mindful movement practice, it’s easy to think the goal is to improve—to find better alignment, more control, deeper breath. But what if the practice wasn’t about becoming better at all?

What if it was about becoming aware?

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From Correction to Connection

When we let go of trying to fix, we create space for something far more profound: relationship.
Instead of managing the body, we begin to meet it—moment by moment, breath by breath.

Notice your breath, not as something to change, but as something to witness.
Notice how movement naturally follows that rhythm—how your body subtly shifts and adjusts without needing instruction.

In that noticing, the body begins to soften—not because it’s told to, but because it’s being heard.

Movement becomes a dialogue, not a demand.
Breath becomes communication, not performance.

When we shift from correction to connection, movement becomes medicine.

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The Wisdom of Presence

The mind loves to live in the past and future—rehashing, planning, trying to solve. But the body only ever lives here, in the now.
It breathes now. It moves now. It feels now.

When we return attention to the felt sense of this moment—the contact of your body with the surface beneath you, the texture of your breath, the aliveness within—you return to life as it’s actually happening.

This is presence.
Not an effort to transcend the moment, but a willingness to inhabit it.

Presence doesn’t ask you to fix anything.
It doesn’t require a perfect pose, a steady breath, or still thoughts.
It simply invites you to be here—to notice, to listen, to be in relationship with yourself as you are.

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Listening From the Inside

In every practice, the most meaningful guidance comes from within.
No one outside your body can truly know the sensations you feel, the pace that feels right, or the movements that feel nourishing.

When you turn attention inward, you begin to sense the body from the inside out—its quiet language of warmth, movement, and subtle shifts. Over time, you start to recognize that the body holds its own rhythm, its own wisdom.

This awareness doesn’t need to be forced or analyzed. It simply asks to be met.
As you notice more, the body begins to show you what it needs—and what it no longer does.

The practice isn’t about control or perfection.
It’s about relationship.
It’s about learning to listen deeply enough to trust what you hear.

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An Invitation to Listen

So the next time someone suggests a “better” way to move or breathe, pause.
Notice how your body feels in that moment—the breath, the pulse, the aliveness.

Honor the incredible intelligence that already lives in you.
The body you inhabit has carried you through everything—it continues to adapt, to learn, to hold you.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong at all. Maybe listening is enough.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

PS: A Practice in Presence

I’ve started a 90 Days of Presence practice—ten minutes each day of moving with awareness.
If you’re curious about how this unfolds, I’ll be sharing reflections along the way.

You’re warmly invited to join me.
We’ll meet each morning at 5:30 AM PST on Facebook Live, through January 30, 2026.

Let’s explore what it means to simply be here, together.

Part 3 of our “Embodied Pathways” series — arriving at trust: the knowing that the body is a place we can return to, again and again.

There comes a point in the healing process when we no longer look for the next new tool or answer — when the search quiets, and what’s left is the simple rhythm of being in our bodies, as they are, right now. That is the beginning of trust.

The Shape of Trust

Trust is the embodied sense that I can be with myself and be safe here.
It’s knowing that sensations, thoughts, and emotions can move through without overwhelming us. It’s not the absence of difficulty — it’s the presence of steadiness within it.

We relearn that our bodies are not the enemy, that the signals they send are meaningful rather than dangerous. When we sense tightening or a wave of sadness, we can meet it with curiosity instead of fear.
That’s trust taking shape — not as perfection or control, but as companionship with our own experience.

How Trust Lives in the Nervous System

The nervous system learns trust through repeated evidence of safety.
When we approach our bodies with respect and consistency, our physiology begins to expect care instead of threat. Muscles release more easily. Attention widens. Movements flow with less effort.

Trust doesn’t mean we never get tense again. It means we believe, deep down, that we can find our way back.

Trust as Integration

Embodied trust is integration — the place where hope and faith become lived experience.
Hope whispered, Change is possible.
Faith said, Stay with the process.
Trust now says, This is home.

It’s the confidence that the body you inhabit is resilient enough to hold joy and sorrow, motion and rest, uncertainty and peace.

A Practice: Returning to Steadiness

Notice a movement that feels natural right now — a tilt of the head, a small shift of balance. Let it unfold at its own pace. You might sense the steadiness underneath — the part of you that remains constant even as everything moves.

This steady awareness is your anchor. Trust grows every time you return to it.

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Coming Home to the Body

Hope begins as a spark — a whisper that something might shift.
Faith sustains us through the uncertainty of becoming.
Trust emerges when we realize we are already home in our bodies.

This path — from hope to faith to trust — is not linear. It’s a living rhythm that cycles through us again and again. The body remembers, releases, rebuilds, and restores.

In the end, embodied healing isn’t about transcending what hurts; it’s about learning to move with it. Through presence, curiosity, and movement, we reclaim not just our sense of self — but our sense of belonging to life itself.

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Author Note
This series is part of the Developmental Trauma Training Institute’s exploration of embodied, trauma-informed approaches to healing. To learn more about upcoming trainings and resources, visit developmentaltraumatraininginstitute.com.

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Part 2 of our “Embodied Pathways” series — following Hope into the practice of staying when change is unfolding but not yet visible.

Hope often arrives as a spark — the first flicker that something inside us can shift. But what happens after that? When the initial lift fades and the real work begins — the day-to-day of staying with what’s uncomfortable, uncertain, or incomplete? That is where faith lives.

Hope ignites the possibility of change; faith is the tending that keeps the flame alive when the light flickers.

Faith in the Body

In the body, faith can look less like conviction and more like continuity. It’s the ability to keep sensing, to keep moving, to keep returning. When we continue to show up — even when things feel messy or unresolved — we teach our nervous systems something profound: that we can survive the unknown.

Faith grows quietly. It doesn’t demand proof or certainty. It simply asks, Can I remain in connection with myself, even now?

Sometimes that means noticing how your body braces against not knowing — the jaw tightening, the stomach clenching, the impulse to freeze or rush. Other times, it’s the softening that comes when you realize you don’t have to force anything at all.

Faith isn’t found in the absence of struggle. It emerges from learning to stay present within it.

The Middle Space

Healing is rarely linear. There’s often a middle space — the place between what was and what’s not yet. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes disorienting. In this space, hope is no longer new and bright, but trust hasn’t yet formed. In this in-between, faith becomes the anchor, not because it fixes anything, but because it keeps us in motion, in connection.

Embodied faith isn’t about suppressing discomfort. It’s about allowing your body to learn — slowly and safely — that presence is possible even in uncertainty. The repetition of conscious movement or grounded noticing teaches your body that it’s safe to stay.

This is where embodied faith matters most. Over time, small acts of continuity tell the body, I can be with what’s here. I don’t have to escape it. This steady rhythm — of returning, of staying, of feeling — becomes a bridge between chaos and steadiness, between fear and belonging.

The Nervous System Learns Through Repetition

Our systems learn safety through consistency. Each time you meet your body with curiosity you strengthen pathways of connection.

This is how healing takes root — not in sudden breakthroughs, but in the steady rhythm of returning.
Each gentle noticing tells your nervous system: It’s safe to be here.
Over time, the body begins to recognize attention as safety — to settle, to release, to remember that it can stay. Moments that once triggered collapse or withdrawal start to soften under the weight of presence.

Consistency becomes its own language of safety — a conversation between body and being. Through repetition, the system learns that balance isn’t something you force; it’s something you practice. And each time you choose curiosity over control, you are re-teaching yourself how to belong inside your own skin.

Staying With What’s Here

If you’d like, you might take a moment to notice where you are. You’re welcome to shift side to side or forward to back. Possibly Sensing the contact your body makes with the surface beneath you.
You might feel some subtle sensations — perhaps some pressure where your body is contacting the surface, a shift of balance maybe though noticing a sensation in the sides of your body or your core, or perhaps you notice a hum of aliveness within you. You’re invited to stay with that sensation as long as you’d like. You don’t have to name it or interpret it. Perhaps simply noticing.

This is faith: remaining connected to what’s real, even when it’s small or uncertain.

Sometimes faith doesn’t feel meaningful at all. It doesn’t arrive as comfort or clarity, it arrives as neutral aliveness.
A faint tingling under the skin.
Noticing the air moving in and out of your nose or your mouth. The simple awareness of being here, breathing.Without story or explanation, it might feel almost ordinary —not uplifting, not certain, just present. This is faith.

When we stop reaching for meaning,
faith becomes sensation —
the pulse that continues,
the breath that keeps returning,
the steady persistence of the body saying, I’m still here.

It’s less “I believe” and more “I sense.” Less about knowing why, and more about feeling that we are.

Even when nothing makes sense,
the body continues to breathe, to move, to live. It doesn’t wait for clarity — it just keeps returning. Even without understanding,

Faith lives in this rhythm of staying,
in the simple act of being here.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

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Next in the series: Embodied Trust – Living From Inner Steadiness