You’ve probably seen it everywhere: “Protect your peace.”
Wellness spaces, social media, and self-care influencers repeat it constantly. Step back from stress. Avoid difficult moments. Say no. Preserve your calm. It’s a comforting idea — especially in a world that often feels chaotic.
Rest and boundaries are important, yet they aren’t the same as building connection to yourself.
Wellness messaging often frames hard moments as problems to escape. It suggests that activation, discomfort, or emotional intensity is dangerous and should be avoided. While rest and boundaries have their place, this perspective can make it feel like withdrawal or performing calm is the only option — instead of noticing what’s alive inside you.
The message resonates because it’s simple. It offers clarity in a noisy world. It gives people something concrete to hold onto. “Protect your peace” feels empowering. It feels decisive. It feels like care. And sometimes it is. Yet human systems are more complex than a single directive.
Sometimes hard moments aren’t something to fix. They’re signals — showing what’s alive and present.
It’s natural to want to step back or escape. Stress, intensity, or even resting can feel activating or unsafe for some. Pulling away or disconnecting from ourselves can also be a form of presence — noticing from a distance, allowing space, or simply being with what is. At the same time, staying connected to what’s happening inside us opens another layer of awareness.
Connection to yourself unfolds quietly over time. It isn’t flashy or immediate. When challenges arise, that connection is already there or easier to move to — subtle, steady, and unfolding on its own.
Connection doesn’t have to look like perfect stillness or performing calm. It can be simple: noticing your body, sensing your internal signals, and allowing presence.
Connection isn’t about staying calm. It’s about being in relationship with yourself — perhaps in movement, sometimes in activation, or possibly in rest.
That presence, that connection to our body, is where sustainable growth and clarity live.
Centering isn’t about regulation—it’s about orienting to a felt sense of self.
This has been sitting with me for a while.
So often, centering is taught as something we do to ourselves: slow down, calm down, settle. There’s an implied destination—some baseline we’re supposed to return to before we’re considered okay, present, or ready.
But for many people, that version of centering doesn’t feel supportive. It can feel like pressure. Or failure. Or another quiet message that says, come back when you’re calmer.
What if centering isn’t about getting anywhere? What if it’s about returning to what’s present instead?
Noticing the chair supporting you.
Feeling your feet on the floor.
Sensing tension or movement in a muscle.
Noticing that you are here, in this moment.
For some, especially those whose early experiences felt chaotic, connecting with a sense of self can feel difficult—or impossible at times.
This doesn’t require that. It doesn’t ask for identity, clarity, or control. It simply notices what is already here.
This kind of centering doesn’t require calm. It doesn’t require stillness. And it doesn’t disappear just because you’re activated.
You can be centered and anxious.
Centered and moving.
Centered and not knowing what comes next.
Because centering, in this way, isn’t about making yourself behave better. It’s about noticing what is happening in our body.
When we return to what’s present, centering becomes a kind of relationship: with ourselves, with our bodies, and with what we’re experiencing in the moment.
Over time, these small moments of noticing begin to shift how we respond to stress. We start to see that we don’t have to do everything at once. That we can move through activation without losing ourselves. That support—sometimes subtle—is within us.
This is why telling someone to “just center” often misses the mark. Without returning to what’s present, centering becomes another performance. With it, centering becomes relational.
It changes how we meet ourselves in moments of stress. It softens our response to activation. It creates room for choice—not by overriding what we feel, but by staying with what is happening in our body.
Centering isn’t something you achieve and keep. It’s a practice of coming back to yourself, sometimes briefly, sometimes imperfectly.
Centering isn’t control.
It’s connection.
And connection, over time, is what helps us come back to ourselves—even in the middle of hard things.
Finding your footing in moments of intensity, uncertainty, and care.
Sometimes being with another person asks more of us than we expect.
This reflection is for those of us who work closely with others — therapists, teachers, facilitators, caregivers — and who notice how easy it is to focus on appearing steady while internally losing touch with ourselves. I’m exploring what it’s been like to shift from managing the moment to staying connected inside it, especially when the work feels hard.
There are moments in this work when I notice myself feeling pulled off balance — when a session feels heavy, a conversation feels charged, or uncertainty is in the room. I don’t experience this as failure. It feels more like being human in the presence of something that matters.
Many of us are told or instructed to stay steady, grounded, and available no matter what arises. We often pick up concepts and language for this early on. And yet, finding our footing in real time can feel much harder than the theory suggests. I’ve come to see that this isn’t a sign that something is wrong. It’s a reflection of how real this work actually is.
When I hear people talk about being “centered,” it can easily sound like calm, neutrality, or emotional control. That framing never quite fit for me. What I experience instead is a sense of internal orientation — having somewhere inside myself I can return to, even when things feel messy, unclear, or emotionally charged.
I’ve noticed how easily steadiness can turn into something we try to show for others. We’re often encouraged to appear grounded so the other person can feel safe. But when steadiness becomes something we perform, it can quietly pull us away from ourselves. I feel this when my attention shifts toward how I’m coming across rather than staying connected to my own experience.
For me, orientation has less to do with how I look and more to do with where my attention lives. When I’m oriented within myself, I’m aware of my responses without being overtaken by them. That internal reference point makes it easier to stay present in relationship — not distant, not over-involved, just here.
I also see how easily steadiness can slide into control. Especially in moments of intensity, there’s often a pull to manage the room, manage the other person, or manage myself. I understand this impulse. It usually comes from care. And I’ve learned that the more I try to manage the moment, the more I lose access to myself. Orientation feels more like allowing responsiveness than enforcing stability.
This capacity hasn’t come from a single insight or moment of understanding. It has developed slowly, through lived experience. Early on, I had to work much harder to find my way back to myself. Over time, with consistency and patience, it has become more familiar. Not always available — but easier to recognize when it returns.
This internal orientation doesn’t pull me away from others. It actually supports connection. When I have access to myself, I’m less likely to disappear into the other person’s experience or brace against it. I can stay engaged without losing myself. That balance has come to feel important in this work.
I don’t experience this as something I can force. It feels more like something I allow — a remembering rather than an achievement. And when it’s there, it supports connection in a way that feels honest and relational. It feels lighter — and more real
We often hear about “holding space” for someone — creating a container for them to feel, process, or grow. But shifts don’t happen when the practitioner is on the outside of the experience. It happens when they are fully with the person — present, engaged, and part of the shared experience.
True connection often emerges when we are being with someone. Instead of observing from a distance, we can move into the shared space of connection, attuning and responding together. When we shift from holding space to being with someone, the interaction can move from distance to relational presence.
Importantly, being with someone doesn’t replace the principles of holding space. The centered, attentiveness, and containment that holding space describes are still present — they are simply expressed through connection, mutual presence, and responsiveness. In this way, holding space can expand into a living, relational experience.
Why Relational Work Matters
Healing — emotional, psychological, or relational — often emerges in the space between people, where attention and attunement meet. Being with someone can create conditions that invite growth and change.
Safety is shared: Healing often begins with a felt sense of safety. Being in relationship allows both people’s nervous systems to influence each other, creating a grounded sense of trust.
Connection sparks growth: When people feel seen, heard, and mirrored, insight and emotional shifts can arise naturally. Change often happens in the “between” rather than in isolation. Modeling and co-regulation: Our centered, attentive presence can help others settle, showing by example how to navigate emotions and tension.
Shared reflection: Being with someone opens space to notice feelings, patterns, and bodily sensations in real time — something observation doesn’t alone provide.
Alleviating isolation: Trauma, shame, and chronic stress are often experienced alone. Relational presence allows people to experience that they are not alone in what they are going through
Authenticity fuels impact: Fully present and attuned interactions bring shifts that instruction or advice cannot.
Embodied integration: Many shifts begin in the body — posture, breath, subtle sensations. Relational presence allows these shifts to be felt, processed, and integrated.
Healing is rarely something one person does for another. It often unfolds in the shared space where presence, attention, and attunement meet — the space created when we are truly with someone.
Traditionally, “holding space” is framed as a role: keep centered, stay neutral, manage the emotional container, and guide the other person through their process. While this has value, it can drift toward doing for rather than being with. Effectiveness can start to feel measured by how well we “hold” rather than how present we are. That distance affects both the person receiving support and the practitioner.
Observing vs Being With
Observing can feel safe and controlled, but it can also create distance. We notice what the other person is experiencing, yet our attention can remain partly outside the interaction. Thoughts about what to say, how to respond, or whether we are “doing it right” may take focus away from the shared experience.
Being with is different — it involves presence within yourself as well as with the other person. This includes noticing what is happening internally: your thoughts, feelings, and your body’s felt sense of the moment. Awareness of your own state allows a response that is grounded and authentic, rather than reactive. Being present in yourself often enhances the quality of being fully with someone else. In this way, being with becomes mutual: both people’s presence shapes the interaction, and both contribute to the relational energy.
The Practitioner’s Inner Work
Many practitioners are trained in concepts, techniques, and frameworks — learning how to “do” the work with others. But knowing the ideas isn’t the same as inhabiting them. We can learn to guide, contain, or observe without ever experiencing what it truly means to be present with ourselves. Without that inner attunement, presence can remain abstract or performative.
Recognizing that clients and students deserve our full seriousness is important — the interaction itself isn’t a training ground. Developing the ability to truly be with another person often grows from engaging with ourselves: noticing our own shifts, sensing our body, and inhabiting our own awareness.
I remember when I was first learning presence — simply being with myself and noticing what was happening internally. At first, it felt challenging to settle into it. Now, through consistent practice over time, it often feels easier to drop into presence naturally, without forcing it. That shift from effortful awareness to fluid, lived experience reflects what happens when we practice being fully with ourselves before we can be fully with others.
Taking time with the practice of being with ourselves can feel like a pause compared to the pace of sessions or skill acquisition. Yet this step into embodiment and presence supports the capacity to be fully with someone else. Being present with ourselves, noticing and inhabiting our body and awareness, can lay the foundation for authentic being with others. Presence is not only something we bring to someone else — it often grows from our willingness to be with ourselves first.
Being With and Its Effect on the Practitioner
Being with someone also influences the practitioner. Moving from observing to being fully present brings engagement and responsiveness. The space itself feels alive and relational. Being with someone reminds us that we, too, are influenced, shifted, and expanded through these exchanges.
The shift from holding to being with does not require complicated techniques. It often begins with noticing and allowing ourselves to inhabit the moment — in our body, within ourselves, and then with the other person. In doing so, we are often with others in a way that fosters genuine connection, mutual attunement, and relational presence.
Shame can shape how it feels to be in our bodies, in a room, and around others—even in spaces focused on wellbeing.
In spaces like modern yoga classes, where the focus is on wellness, shame can show up in our bodies. At the same time, these spaces can offer opportunities to notice, support, and respond to present moment experiences in our bodies in ways that feel safer.
Because shame lives in our bodies, it often shows up through contraction, withdrawal, self-monitoring, or the urge to get it right—long before we have words for it.
Shame doesn’t move in simple ways.
Shame Forms in Layers
Shame develops over time through repeated experiences of disconnection or misattunement—times when parts of us weren’t fully seen, held, or accepted.
Shame doesn’t come from one moment. Long before we have language for it, your body–brain connection can begin to learn
This feeling is too much
This need disrupts connection
This part of me should stay hidden
Each adaptation becomes a protective layer—ways our bodies learned to keep us connected and safe. These layers can be signs of intelligence shaped by experience.
Shame is Often Stigmatized
Shame can be hard to recognize or talk about because it can feel stigmatized. In wellness and yoga spaces, it can sometimes be misunderstood as weakness, a lack of awareness, or something we should have already moved beyond.
For some, even the word shame can feel challenging. It can feel like:
Something is wrong with me
I should be past this by now
If others knew, I wouldn’t belong
Because shame is tied to belonging, naming it can feel risky. When it feels unsafe to name, shame can influence how we relate to ourselves and others through self-criticism, disconnection, or over-effort.
From a trauma-sensitive perspective, difficulty naming shame isn’t resistance. It can be a signal that your system is adjusting and learning, offering opportunities to integrate experiences with care and support.
Shame Lives In The Body
Shame often appears in our bodies before it shows up as a thought or story. It can feel like:
Collapsing or pulling inward
Avoiding eye contact
Holding your breath or breathing shallowly
Feeling exposed or “wrong”
Tension in the chest, throat, or stomach
Heat or flushing in the face
Stiffness, trembling, or restlessness
An urge to disappear or over-perform
Allowing yourself to feel what is present in your body right now—your breath, movement, and the subtle sensations you carry—can bring you into the present moment, a space where safety, steadiness, and balance can naturally be felt, and where new experiences may slowly shift your relationship with shame.
When Deeper Layers Appear
Shame can resurface even after meaningful healing has begun.
This can be an opportunity to notice a deeper layer when we are ready.
Earlier layers have helped keep us safe. As our capacity grows—and as our body and mind feel more supported—these experiences can be met through new experiences that foster integration and balance.
Yoga Can Unintentionally Amplify Shame
Even well-intentioned yoga spaces can activate shame when:
Stillness is treated as the goal instead of offered as an option
Regulation is expected instead of supported
Space is created as a corrective experience
Movement is offered without choice
Distress is framed as resistance or lack of readiness
Bodies are compared, watched, or evaluated
For someone with earlier experiences that shaped their sense of shame, these moments can bring responses connected to those earlier experiences. They can reinforce a familiar learning:
“I need to change to belong here.”
A Trauma-Sensitive Relationship to Shame
A trauma-sensitive approach can meet shame with care. It can:
Honor pacing offer choice
Allow movement, rest, or looking outward
Notice protective patterns without urgency
Healing can happen as our bodies learn that they can stay present and remain connected with compassion.
Over time, moments of presence, choice, and acceptance can create a growing sense of safety and integration.
Why This Matters For Yoga Spaces
Yoga classes can offer a space to be met in our bodies, at one’s own pace, without needing to perform wellness.
When shame is seen as layered, it can guide us toward building capacity for presence, choice, and balance over time.
Reflection for Teachers
When students collapse, avoid, or over-effort, consider what they may be unconsiously protecting. These responses can reflect the ways they’ve learned to stay safe.
Offering choices and noticing what feels possible for each person can create a sense of ease.
Being mindful of how correction, comparison, and visibility may affect past experiences can help support safety.
Creating spaces where consent, steadiness, and choice guide the practice can foster learning and presence more than any posture or cue.
Teachers who meet students—and themselves—with patience and respect can create spaces where shame can ease and understanding can grow.
Closing Reflection
Shame can be part of the human experience, and it can serve as a protective guide, offering insight. Seeing it as layered and protective can help us move through the world with curiosity and compassion—for ourselves and for others. Even small moments of presence, choice, or acceptance can be meaningful. Over time, these moments can build a sense of balance, connection, and belonging.
Author’s Note
This is an invitation to understand shame as a layered, protective experience that often goes unnamed—especially in spaces focused on wellbeing.
I’m naming shame here not because it needs to be uncovered, but because understanding it can reduce the pressure to perform healing or get it right. You’re invited to read this at your own pace, taking only what feels supportive and leaving the rest.
Most people don’t realize when life starts running on autopilot.
It doesn’t arrive all at once. There’s no clear moment where you decide to disconnect from yourself. Instead, it happens gradually—through busy seasons, ongoing stress, and responsibilities that require you to keep going even when you’re tired or unsure.
You’re functioning. You’re managing. You’re doing what needs to be done.
And yet, somewhere along the way, life begins to feel more like something you move through than something you’re actually inside of. You get through tasks, respond to others, keep up appearances—but you may not remember the last time you laughed, or even noticed a simple moment. Maybe you realize the week is over and you can’t recall what you actually did. Even good things—meals, conversations, time with people you care about—feel strangely muted.
Autopilot isn’t a flaw. It’s your system’s way of helping you survive—sometimes for far longer than it’s needed.
Autopilot Starts As Protection
At some point in life—often early on—it can feel safer not to fully notice what’s happening inside you.
If your environment was overwhelming, unpredictable, emotionally demanding, or simply too fast-paced, your system learned to narrow focus. Stay functional. Keep moving. Don’t ask too many questions. Just get through.
This adaptation is smart. It helps you cope, succeed, and stay connected when slowing down or noticing more would have been overwhelming.
The challenge isn’t that autopilot exists. It’s that it can become the default long after the original need has passed.
A Culture That Rewards Disconnection
We also live in a world that reinforces autopilot. Productivity is praised. Speed is normalized. Multitasking is admired. Rest, presence, and slowness are often framed as indulgent or inefficient.
From a young age, many of us learn to prioritize getting things done over actually experiencing our lives:
Finish the task.
Push through discomfort.
Ignore the body’s signals.
Keep going.
Over time, this trains us to live mostly in our heads—planning, thinking, reacting—while the body becomes something we manage rather than something we live inside of.
Stress Narrows Awareness
When stress becomes ongoing, the body shifts into a state of alertness. Attention narrows. Sensations dull. Emotions flatten or spike. This isn’t a personal failure—it’s how the nervous system reduces overload.
In these states, life becomes about getting through the day rather than being in it. You respond out of habit, do what’s expected, and keep moving without noticing how your body or mind feels. Sometimes this shows up as always being “on,” even when you’re exhausted. Or needing constant noise—TV, podcasts, social media—because silence feels uncomfortable. Or realizing you haven’t noticed how your body feels all day.
If this feels familiar, it doesn’t mean something is wrong with you. It usually means your system learned how to adapt—and hasn’t been given many chances to notice itself.
Autopilot isn’t the absence of depth—it’s postponed depth
People living on autopilot still care deeply. They still long, hope, grieve, and love. Those parts aren’t gone. They’re just waiting.
What’s often missing isn’t insight—it’s the chance to feel your body in the present moment. Not to “fix” yourself or calm down, not through exercises or routines, but simply to notice. Feeling the sensations in your muscles as you walk. Noticing the rise and fall or rhythm of your breathing. Paying attention to subtle sensations as you move through ordinary moments. These experiences bring you back into your body and into life as it is.
Through these moments, you start to notice what you need, what matters, and when something doesn’t feel right—not because you’re controlling anything, but because you’re present to life as it actually is.
How Intentional Presence Brings Us Back
Coming back from autopilot isn’t about figuring yourself out. Thinking about it or planning it in your head won’t create it on its own. We come alive through experience—through noticing the sensations in our muscles, the rhythm of our breathing, and the subtle feelings in the body as we go through the day.
Intentional presence isn’t about concentrating harder or “doing it right.” It’s about choosing, again and again, to actually inhabit what’s happening. These moments of noticing reconnect you to life as it is, letting you respond to the world from awareness instead of habit.
Over time, life gains texture. Emotions feel more nuanced. Choices become less reactive and more responsive. You begin to notice that you have options again—not because everything is under control, but because you’re actually here to meet what’s happening.
This is how a fully alive life is built—not through a dramatic awakening, but through continued noticing and exploration. Each moment you pay attention to the sensations in your muscles or the rhythm of your breathing is a step back into life as it is.
Returning To Life
Finding your way back from autopilot doesn’t mean abandoning responsibility or becoming someone new. It means shifting from managing life to living it. It means returning attention to the body and the present moment without expectation. Each time you notice, you’re reclaiming experience—not to fix it, but to be in it. Autopilot loosens not because it was wrong, but because it’s no longer required.
And what you find isn’t a better version of yourself—it’s the relief and awareness of being here again, present in the life you’re already living.
Ninety days ago, I committed to ten minutes a day of mindful movement — not as a challenge or a reset, but as an experiment in presence. What I didn’t anticipate was how much those ten minutes would influence the rest of my day, beyond the practice itself.
The first thirty days were mostly about noticing that I have a body. That may sound simple, especially as a yoga practitioner, yet it’s easy to live primarily in thought, moving through days on momentum alone. Ten minutes a day offered a consistent place to notice sensation, movement, and stillness — not to change anything, but to recognize what was already there. Gradually, that awareness started appearing in ordinary moments beyond the practice — noticing tension in my shoulders while typing emails, or feeling my energy dip before a morning meeting.
The second thirty days shifted toward noticing my responses more closely — especially the moments I felt the urge to push through discomfort or keep moving despite fatigue or tension. Sensations like cold feet, tiredness, discomfort while driving, or back and hip pain from a recent fall became more apparent, and curiosity allowed me to pause and see the choices I had — sometimes continuing as planned, sometimes adjusting my movements slightly to ease the strain. Other times it looked like pausing before speaking when tension rose, or standing up when energy felt low instead of moving automatically. This awareness and how I responded became a way of noticing what I could do in each moment — small choices, small changes — including how I showed up with others. I noticed myself listening more carefully, staying present in conversation, and catching myself when I was distracted or reacting automatically.
Those small choices gradually moved into daily life: when to pause, when to adjust, when to commit even while uncomfortable. Ten minutes a day started moving into my life. What began as hope — that ten minutes might matter — grew into faith in my ability to notice and respond, and eventually into trust in my body and my choices.
In the middle of this journey, stress became more present — concerns about my kids’ health, work responsibilities, and what was happening in the world. At times it felt overwhelming. For me, stress shows up in my body as having a hard time breathing, a nervous stomach, and a feeling like I either need to keep moving or lie down. The practice didn’t make stress disappear, but it helped me stay steadier — noticing sooner and responding in the moment rather than being carried by it. It also brought me back to what was happening right now — to what was possible here — instead of pulling me into worry about the future.
The final thirty days focused on my body as a resource. My body wasn’t something to fix or perfect, but something I could rely on in everyday life. I noticed steadiness — not necessarily calm, but steadier in thought, action, and feeling. I began catching myself having a feeling rather than immediately reacting — like realizing I was frustrated mid-conversation with my kids, or noticing tension before replying to an email. That pause created space for reflection and response, making it easier to stay present not only with my own experience, but also with the people around me. Emotionally and mentally, I was more available — listening more deeply, connecting more fully, and noticing moments of tension or care without immediately reacting. At the same time, the practice brought me closer to myself, nurturing a sense of care I hadn’t prioritized before, and gently reminding me to show up for myself even in the busy, messy days of life.
This awareness didn’t come from practicing longer a few times a week. It came from consistency. Ten minutes a day — even on mornings when I was tired, distracted, or aware of being seen on Facebook Live — built something cumulative. Some days were harder depending on stress or racing thoughts. Gradually, tuning into my body became easier and more natural.
Even as practitioners, it’s easy to live outside ourselves — moving through life on autopilot. This practice interrupted that in a steady, sustainable way. The question shifted from Should I change this? to Can I pause and notice what’s happening? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Both felt meaningful. Resilience, as I experience it, is really integration — responding to what’s happening now, not pushing through.
As these ninety days come to a close, what remains isn’t a sense of completion, but grounded trust — in consistency, in small choices, and in my body’s capacity to stay connected and responsive. The next ten days — and what follows — feel less like an ending and more like a continuation.
Change doesn’t feel urgent here.
It feels like: this is where I begin.
This practice doesn’t need to be complicated — just ten minutes a day can start changing how you show up for yourself and others.
Many therapists and somatic practitioners spend their days tracking others—listening closely, noticing shifts, responding with care. Over time, this outward focus can subtly shape how the body is lived in, often prioritizing responsiveness over internal choice.
Choice-based movement offers a way to return to the body as a place where decisions come from the inside rather than from instruction.
Autonomy as a Somatic Experience
Autonomy is not only a cognitive or relational concept. It is first experienced in the body.
In many movement settings, direction and demonstration lead the way. Even with good intentions, this can encourage compliance, self-monitoring, or the sense that there is a “right” way to participate.
Choice-based movement is structured differently. Invitations replace commands. Options are named clearly. Participation is always optional.
The nervous system begins to register something essential: I can notice what’s happening inside me and decide how to respond.
Over time, this supports a felt sense of autonomy—one that doesn’t require explanation or justification.
Building Nervous System Awareness From the Inside
Therapists are often familiar with nervous system language, yet lived awareness develops through experience, not information. Choice-based movement creates conditions for noticing:
Subtle shifts in activation
When effort increases or eases
How breath, sensation, and impulse interact
The impact of small choices made in real time
There is no requirement to regulate, change, or improve what’s noticed. Awareness itself becomes the organizing principle. This kind of practice supports nervous system awareness that is embodied rather than conceptual—rooted in direct experience instead of analysis.
Releasing the Need to “Get It Right”
Helping professionals often carry strong internal expectations, even in spaces meant to be supportive. The body may stay alert, scanning for cues about performance, correctness, or productivity.
Choice-based movement intentionally removes these pressures. There are no hands-on adjustments, no ideal forms to reach, and no requirement to push past personal limits. The practitioner remains the one who decides what feels supportive or workable in their own body. This can gradually soften habitual self-override and support a more respectful relationship with the body.
Why This Matters Beyond the Practice
When choice and self-direction are practiced in the body, they tend to extend outward.
Practitioners often notice:
Increased trust in internal pacing
Greater tolerance for uncertainty
A steadier sense of balance during complex interactions
Less urgency to intervene or manage experience
These shifts don’t come from effort or mastery. They emerge from repeated experiences of choice being honored.
A Practice of Remembering Choice
Choice-based movement is not about achieving a particular state. It is a practice of remembering that the body holds information, preferences, and timing of its own.
For therapists and somatic practitioners, this can be a quiet but meaningful return to self-trust and internal permission—supporting presence, balance, and a more responsive relationship with the nervous system.
With just 10 days left in this 90-day practice, I’ve been noticing the ways that showing up every day, even for just 10 minutes, has shaped how I move through the world. This daily rhythm feels different from a longer home practice a few times a week — it’s steadying and reshaping how I relate to myself and my day.
Some mornings were easier than others. Waking at 5 a.m. to move at 5:30, feeling tired, or carrying the distractions of the day made it hard to pause and tune into my body. Some days were harder, when stress was high or my brain felt loud with plans, worries, or unfinished thoughts. There were times when my body felt heavy, my mind restless, or it was difficult to notice what was happening internally.
Knowing others might be watching on Facebook Live sometimes brought a sense of self-consciousness — noticing how I looked or moved, wondering how it appeared from the outside. Alongside that, I sometimes felt an internal pull to be a “good” practitioner, measuring myself against my own expectations. In the beginning, and even in the middle of the 90 days, tuning into my body while noticing these pressures required effort.
Over time, that effort shifted. Tuning into my body became easier. I could notice sensations more clearly, follow small movements as they arose, and allow judgment to be present without letting it take over.
What stands out most is not any single practice, but the accumulation of days. Returning again and again — even when tired, distracted, or unsure — has created familiarity and trust. Consistency has made presence more accessible, not because anything is forced, but because my body has learned this rhythm. Showing up regularly has changed what’s available to me, both in practice and throughout the rest of my day.
Even short daily moments of presence, repeated over time, have brought a sense of centeredness that carries into the rest of my day. I notice what’s happening around me more easily, and I can pause or reflect before responding. I’m less on autopilot.
This practice has helped me stay connected and responsive in the moments that demand my attention — in conversations, decisions, and transitions throughout the day. Rather than moving through these moments without awareness, I’m more able to sense what’s happening in my body and choose how I want to engage.
There’s a growing attunement — to myself and to others — where I can be fully in a space with someone, not just holding it.
My body has become a resource — a place to return to, a guide, a source of information I can rely on.
With 10 days remaining, I’m noticing anticipation for what’s still unfolding. Each day continues to offer something new, even in its simplicity. These final days feel like an opportunity to notice, appreciate, and carry forward what I’ve learned. By staying present, even in small moments, I can feel the ways this practice has shaped how I move, choose, and connect. Day 90 will be a chance to look back on the full journey, celebrate what’s emerged, and notice how these consistent moments of presence ripple into everyday life.
Each small moment of attention reminds me that consistent presence, no matter how brief, has the power to transform how we experience ourselves and the world around us.
Wishing you wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS. You’re still invited to the journey of 90 days of presence even if you haven’t been following along until now – If you’re curious, here’s the FB live info
Self-regulation is a familiar term in therapeutic and somatic spaces. It often brings to mind strategies—breathing techniques, grounding exercises, ways to calm or organize the nervous system.
Embodied self-regulation points to something different.
It’s not about applying a tool.
It’s about letting your body participate in presence, instead of trying to control it from the mind.
Self-Regulation as Strategy vs. Embodied Self-Regulation
Self-regulation, as it’s commonly understood, is often effort-based. Something happens, and a response is applied. The system is managed, redirected, or steadied through technique.
Embodied self-regulation is less about doing and more about being organized from the inside.
It shows up as:
Staying connected to your own sensations while listening
Noticing shifts in sensation
Letting breath, posture, and tone adjust naturally
Remaining responsive without bracing or collapsing
Rather than regulating on top of experience, the body participates in the moment as it unfolds.
Presence Comes From the Body, Not the Mind
Clinical presence is often described as attunement, attention, or capacity. But these qualities are sustained by the body.
When the body is disconnected, presence becomes effortful. Therapists may notice:
Thinking while listening
Holding tension to stay focused
Tracking others while losing internal reference
Fatigue that isn’t cognitive but somatic
Embodied self-regulation supports presence by keeping the practitioner anchored in their own physical experience while in relationship. The body becomes a reference point, not something to override.
Why Embodiment Matters in Relational Work
Therapists and somatic practitioners don’t just listen—they co-experience. Nervous systems interact, rhythms align, and states are shared.
When self-regulation relies solely on strategies, there’s often a subtle split: part of the practitioner is doing regulation while another part is doing the work.
Embodied self-regulation reduces that split.
The practitioner doesn’t step away from experience to manage it. They remain inside it, with enough internal connection to stay oriented, responsive, and present.
This supports:
Greater tolerance for intensity without withdrawal
Less need to control or direct the process
A steadier sense of balance during complex moments
Presence that feels available rather than performed
Regulation as Relationship With Self
Embodied self-regulation is not about staying calm or neutral. It’s about staying in relationship with yourself while being in relationship with another.
This includes:
Noticing when you’re leaning forward or pulling back
Sensing when effort is increasing
Allowing micro-adjustments without commentary
Letting the body help you stay oriented to now
Over time, this kind of self-relationship supports presence that is durable—not because it’s controlled, but because it’s supported.
Why This Matters for Sustainability
Many therapists can regulate effectively for sessions at a time. The challenge is sustaining presence across days, weeks, and years.
Embodied self-regulation supports longevity by reducing internal strain. When the body is allowed to participate fully, presence costs less.
Less holding.
Less bracing.
Less silent override.
What remains is a kind of presence that feels grounded, responsive, and human.
A Practice of Staying With Yourself
Embodied self-regulation is not a skill to master. It’s an ongoing practice of staying connected to your own physical experience while doing work that asks for deep attention.
For therapists and somatic practitioners, this kind of regulation supports clinical presence not by adding something new—but by allowing the body to do what it already knows how to do when it’s included.
Stepping into Wellness 