A somatic understanding of how experience lives in the body

There are moments when nothing is “wrong,” and yet something inside does not fully settle.

You may be sitting in a calm space, in conversation, or moving through an ordinary moment—and still notice something in your body that feels slightly off.

Tension that does not release.
A sense of alertness.
A subtle bracing.
Or a feeling of not fully arriving into the moment.

These experiences are more common than they are often named.

And they do not reflect anything wrong with you.

This reflects how the body has learned to organize safety over time.

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How the body learns safety

The body is always in relationship with its environment.

Long before thought or language, it is taking in cues through sensation, rhythm, tone, and connection.

• tone of voice
• facial expression
• pace and energy in a space
• moments of connection or withdrawal

These signals are processed automatically, beneath awareness.

Over time, the body begins to organize experience based on what has felt supportive or uncertain.

Not only from the present moment, but shaped by what has been lived before.

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When the present feels familiar

Sometimes something in the present carries an echo of the past.

Not as memory in the mind, but as tone in the body.

A silence that feels unfamiliar.
A shift in someone’s voice.
A subtle change in connection or attention.

And something in the system responds.

Not because the past is happening again, but because the present feels familiar enough to activate protective patterns.

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What this can feel like

These responses are often subtle.

They may show up as:

• tension in the chest, throat, or stomach
• difficulty settling, even in calm environments
• restlessness or internal alertness
• feeling slightly distant or disconnected
• emotions that feel larger than the situation

Often, there is no clear reason that can be named.

Just a felt sense that something is “off.”

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The sequence beneath awareness

The body often responds first.

There may be a shift in breath, tone, or muscle tension.
A sense of activation or withdrawal.

Then emotion begins to move—anxiety, numbness, irritation, or overwhelm.

And only after that does the mind begin to form meaning:
“Something is wrong.”
“I need to leave.”
“I should be fine.”

The interpretation comes after the experience has already begun.

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Not a malfunction, but an adaptation

These responses are not errors.

They are expressions of a system that has learned how to navigate experience over time.

At some point, these patterns likely supported safety, connection, or survival.

The body learned to stay alert.
To brace.
To withdraw.
To adjust.

And those patterns can continue even when the original context is no longer present.

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When safety is present but not felt

This is where the experience can feel confusing.

Intellectually, things may be fine.
Life may be steady.
Nothing obvious may be wrong.

And yet the body does not fully register ease.

This is not contradiction. It is layered experience.

The thinking mind may understand safety, while the body is still orienting from older patterns of learning.

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Trauma Sensitive Yoga awareness

In trauma sensitive yoga, awareness is not about improving or correcting what is present.

It is about arriving into experience as it is.

There can be a sense of simply being with the breath as it moves.

Attention may rest in the body, not to analyze it, but to meet sensation directly as it is experienced in the moment.

Some areas may feel more open. Others more held. There is no need for one to become like the other.

This kind of awareness is not about fixing anything.

It is about relationship—being with experience as it unfolds.

Over time, this quality of attention can support a different sense of connection to the body, not through effort, but through presence.

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Reflection

Safety is not always experienced as calm.

The body carries patterns of response shaped over time.

Nothing about those patterns is fixed.

And over time, in steady and supportive environments, those responses can begin to soften—not through force, but through relationship.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Interested in Learning More? Trauma Sensitive Yoga Foundations Trainings: https://www.openviewyoga.com/trainingsworkshopsretreats

There’s a moment many people reach in their healing where they think:
“I understand this… so why does it still feel the same?”

You’ve made sense of the pattern.
You can name where it comes from.
You might even know exactly why you react the way you do.

And still—your body tightens.
Your breath shifts.
Something in you responds before you can think your way through it.

This is where the difference between top-down and bottom-up healing begins to matter.

Top-Down Healing

Top-down healing starts with the mind.

It looks like:

• Talking things through
• Gaining insight
• Understanding your story
• Reframing beliefs

This kind of work is valuable. It helps you create meaning and language around your experience.

But insight doesn’t always reach the places where those reactions are actually living.

Because healing isn’t only about what you know.
It’s also about what you feel.

Bottom-Up Healing

Bottom-up healing begins with the body.

Instead of asking, “Why do you feel this way?”
It gently asks, “What are you noticing right now?”

It might include:

• Sensations in the body
• Changes in breath
• Subtle shifts in tension or ease
• Staying present with what’s unfolding

The body isn’t something you come back to later—it’s where the work begins.

Because the deeper parts of us don’t communicate in words.
They communicate through sensation, emotion, and experience.

Why Insight Doesn’t Always Shift the Feeling

You can understand something…
and still feel overwhelmed.

You can know you’re safe…
and still feel on edge.

That doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.

It simply means your body hasn’t had the chance to process what your mind already understands.

Bottom-up healing creates space for that to happen.

There’s Room For Both

This isn’t about choosing one over the other.

Understanding your story matters.
So does listening to your body.

One helps you make sense of your experience.
The other helps you move through it.

A Different Kind of Change

When the body is included in healing, something begins to shift.

Not just in how you think—
but in how you feel being in your own experience.

There can be more space.
More steadiness.
More room to respond instead of react.

Not because you forced it—
but because your system had the time and support to process in its own way.

Where This Begins to Shift

Healing isn’t just about figuring it out.

Sometimes, it’s about slowing down enough to notice what’s already there
and allowing your body to be part of the process.

Because real change doesn’t always come from thinking more.

Sometimes, it comes from listening deeper.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

In many wellness spaces, what we often call “trust” isn’t something that happens instantly. It’s not something we declare—it’s something people begin to feel over time.

It can show up as a sense of settling. A moment where someone realizes, I don’t have to have this all figured out to be here.

Whether you’re facilitating a group, holding one-on-one sessions, leading workshops, or gathering people in any kind of shared space—how you open matters.

Here are five ways to support people in arriving, orienting, and settling, without needing to force the experience.

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1. Name what’s usually unspoken—and what we share

People arrive with different histories, comfort levels, and ways of being in spaces like this. Naming that can immediately reduce pressure.

This might look like:

• Acknowledging that there are different backgrounds, bodies, and experiences in the room
• An Invitation for people to show up as they are
• Adding clarity: there is no “right way” to participate
• Naming that they can shift, adjust or move at anytime

From there, you can offer orientation:
“You’re welcome to participate in whatever way that might work for your body today—you might engage more, less, and move at your own pace.”

When the invisible becomes visible, people don’t have to spend energy trying to figure out how to belong.

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2. Offer choice and transparency from the beginning

Choice is one of the most grounding things we can offer in any space.

Choice might include:

• Where to sit or position oneself in the space
• you could participate or simply observe
• Moving, resting, or pausing at any time
• Adjusting pace throughout the experience
• How to engage (listening, reflecting, speaking, writing, etc.)

Transparency might include:

• What the session or experience could look like
• What options people have throughout

When people have both clarity and choice, they don’t have to override themselves to stay present.

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3. Support orientation so people don’t have to monitor everything

Many people enter spaces already tracking their environment—who’s coming in, what’s happening, where exits are, and what might shift.

This can look like:

• The facilitator tracking the room
• Acknowledging people entering or leaving so the room stays oriented
• Keeping entrances/exits visible and not ambiguous
• Offering permission to look around and orient in the space
• Creating a sense that the environment is “held” by the facilitator

This creates a subtle but important message:
You don’t have to stay on alert here.

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4. Create predictability before people even arrive

A sense of ease often begins before someone walks in the door.

This might include:

• A welcome message outlining what to expect
• A brief introduction of who is holding the space
• Clear timing and logistics
• A simple explanation of how arrival works
• A sense of the general flow or structure

For example:
“I’ll be there early to welcome you in. You can arrive at your own pace.”

Predictability helps reduce the mental effort of “figuring it out.”

It gives people something steady to land into.

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5. Lead with human connection before structure

Before content, instruction, or process, there’s value in simply connecting as people.

This might include:

• A genuine welcome into the space
• A light, grounding moment of humor or ease
• A brief personal reflection or shared humanity moment
• Acknowledging that arriving can take effort
• A pause before beginning structured content

These moments aren’t extra—they’re relational anchors.

They help people land.

They remind us this isn’t only a structured experience—it’s a shared human one.

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Closing

Creating a space where people can settle isn’t about doing more or doing it perfectly.

It’s about reducing unnecessary pressure and uncertainty.

Clarity. Choice. Predictability. Human connection.

When those are present, people can begin to arrive more fully—without needing to push or perform.

And from there, something begins to take shape on its own.

A sense of steadiness.
A sense of ease.
A sense of being able to be there, just as they are.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

When I first started teaching, I imagined yoga communities as connected, supportive, and rooted in shared values.

That wasn’t always my experience.

My first studio was small. Everyone taught a similar style, and there wasn’t much diversity in approach. At times, it felt like teachers were more connected to “their students” than to each other. There was even an unspoken sense of ownership—like students belonged to certain teachers. When the studio owners started to tell me who my students were or who my teachers were, I started to feel pigeonholed, like someone else was controlling my journey. The reality, though, was that I just hadn’t stepped fully into my own journey yet. It felt upsetting, somewhat controlling.

It didn’t feel like community—it felt separate.

At the same time, I’ve had experiences that reminded me what community could actually feel like. I connected with teachers with whom I shared classes—each of us teaching a couple times a month, supporting one another, covering when needed. There wasn’t a sense of ownership, but of trust.

When I taught in community spaces, we often had many of the same students. There was trust—trust that each of us would show up, trust in how each of us taught, trust that there was enough for everyone. Being in community meant being graceful, being kind, helping each other. It felt grounded, real, authentic, and amazing. These collaborative experiences really landed within me and showed me the kind of community I wanted to contribute to.

I also started teaching in a gym environment—stepping into a space that wasn’t centered around yoga, but around fitness, movement, and performance. People were there for different reasons. Many were focused on achieving a certain fitness level or improving flexibility, and I began to wonder if that really fit into what yoga is—or what yoga truly means to me.

It made me question:

How do I stay true to the practice in a space that moves at such a different pace?

Is there room for presence, for choice, for something slower or more intentional?

At first, I found myself trying to “fit” into the gym culture—adjusting, reshaping, wondering if I needed to be something different in order to belong.

Later, when I moved to Oregon, I stepped into a different kind of challenge. The yoga scene felt competitive. Studios often hired only from their own teacher trainings. Some required contracts that limited where else you could teach. It felt closed, and at times, unwelcoming. And again, I found myself asking: Where do I fit?

Somewhere in the middle of all of that, I discovered a truth that changed everything:

You don’t become a successful practitioner based on whether someone else lets you facilitate at their studio or business. You become one through the experiences you step into—and the opportunities you’re willing to create for yourself. Your success doesn’t depend on someone else choosing you.

And when I really let that land, a whole new world opened up—not outside of me, but within me. I began to trust my own voice. To recognize competence that didn’t need to be given to me. To find courage to step into spaces that didn’t already exist. To build confidence through showing up and facilitating from what felt real and aligned—not from what was expected or already established, but from my own values.

Even now, as I offer teacher trainings and classes, I can still feel the competitive energy from other teachers at times. And I come back to this: There is more than enough for all of us. More than enough space. More than enough students. More than enough opportunity.

Not when we’re trying to fit into someone else’s vision, but when we’re willing to find our own voice. To listen for what’s true for us. To follow what feels aligned. To find your calling—and then create your space from there.

Because when you do, something shifts. You’re no longer waiting to be invited in. You’re no longer measuring yourself against what others are doing. You’re simply showing up—rooted in what matters to you.

And through all of these experiences, I realized something essential: a community isn’t just about finding a place to join. It’s about what we bring, how we participate, and how we create. It’s about honoring ourselves while showing up for others.

Even when it’s imperfect. Even when it challenges us. Even when we have to build something new.

A community isn’t just something we’re handed. It’s something we help create—through how we show up, how we facilitate, and how we choose to be with one another.

When I fully embraced that, everything shifted. Facilitating became less about being invited in and more about creating spaces where people could meet themselves—just as I was learning to do the same.

Community isn’t something we’re handed. It’s something we help create.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

I remember being in a shoulder stand.

Present. Focused.

Just trying to be in my body that day.

And then the teacher said, “Next time, I’m going to bind your shoulders together.”

Something in me tightened.

Not physically—internally.

It didn’t feel supportive.

It didn’t feel invitational.

It felt… controlling. Maybe even a little scary.

I never went back to that class.

When Guidance Becomes Control

Yoga spaces often carry an unspoken hierarchy.

The teacher knows.

The student follows.

The pose has a “right” shape.

But what happens when that dynamic overrides our internal experience?

What happens when instruction becomes assumption?

That moment stayed with me—not because of the pose, but because of the feeling:

My body was being decided for My experience was being overridden My sense of choice felt… smaller

And that’s not why I come to yoga.

Does It Have to Look a Certain Way?

Somewhere along the way, many of us absorbed the idea that yoga is about achieving a form.

A deeper backbend.

A straighter line.

A more “advanced” version.

But I keep coming back to this question:

Who decides what “advanced” means?

Is yoga:

Performing the most complex version of a pose? Or noticing when your breath changes? Or choosing to come out of a shape because something doesn’t feel right?

What if the most “advanced” practice is actually awareness?

Yoga as Relationship, Not Performance

For me, yoga is not about arriving at a final shape.

It’s about:

Listening

Noticing

Choosing

It’s about being in relationship with my body—not overriding it.

And that relationship can’t exist without choice.

Power Dynamics in the Room

As teachers, whether we intend to or not, we hold power.

Our words carry authority.

Our suggestions can feel like expectations.

Our assists can feel invasive.

And even when we mean well, it can land differently than we expect.

Especially for people with:

Trauma histories

Different cultural relationships to authority

Injuries or chronic conditions

Bodies that have been corrected, judged, or misunderstood

Accessibility isn’t just about offering modifications.

It’s about how power is held and shared.

What Accessibility Can Look Like

Accessibility, to me, is not simplifying.

It’s expanding.

It sounds like:

“You might explore…” instead of “Do this”

“If it feels more useful for your body…” as a real invitation, not a placeholder

It looks like:

“You get to decide what works for you today”

Multiple choices without hierarchy

Normalizing rest as participation

Making space for people to participate as much or as little as they’d like

And maybe most importantly:

Not assuming that moving or stretching deeper always means better.

How I Choose to Facliitate

When I facilitate, I come back to a few anchors:

Choice over compliance

Awareness over achievement

Invitation over instruction

I want people to leave feeling more connected to themselves—not more disconnected because they couldn’t match an external form.

I want the room to hold:

Different bodies

Different capacities

Different experiences

Without needing to justify any of it.

Reclaiming Yoga as Your Own

If you’ve ever felt:

Pressured to go further than felt okay

Adjusted without consent

Like your body wasn’t doing it “right”

You’re not alone.

And you’re not wrong.

Your experience matters—even when it’s quiet.

Yoga doesn’t have to look a certain way to count.

It can be:

Subtle

Internal

Adaptive

Yours

A Question I’m Sitting With

What would yoga feel like…

If nothing needed to be proven?

If your body wasn’t something to fix—but something to listen to?

If the most important authority in the room… was you?

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Yesterday, we looked at the Drama Triangle—those familiar roles of Victim, Rescuer, and Persecutor. Today, let’s take a gentle next step: noticing these patterns without personalizing them, and exploring how small shifts, like stepping into Coach energy, can quietly change the whole dynamic.

Many of us—personally and professionally—find ourselves pulled into familiar relational patterns without even realizing it.

A moment of tension arises. Someone feels overwhelmed. Another steps in to help. Someone else gets quiet, pauses, or doesn’t respond right away.

And before we know it, we’re no longer just in the moment—we’re in a dynamic.

One of the most well-known ways to understand this is the Drama Triangle, developed by Stephen Karpman. It describes three roles people often move between: Victim, Rescuer, and Persecutor. Not as identities—but as human responses.

Ways we try to navigate moments that feel uncertain, tense, or just a little too much.

But there are layers here that are easy to miss. Sometimes, it’s not just the role we step into—it’s the role someone else places on us. And sometimes, underneath it all, there’s a quieter experience… one that isn’t always visible from the outside.

Moving from Labels to Awareness

These words—Victim, Rescuer, Persecutor—can feel heavy.

They can sound like something has gone wrong, like someone is doing something “bad,” or like we’re being put into a box we didn’t choose.

But that’s not what these were meant for. They’re not labels to define us. They’re simply language to help us notice patterns.

Because the truth is, we all move through these roles—not because we’re doing anything wrong, but because we’re human. Because sometimes things feel hard, or unclear, or important.

Noticing Instead of Personalizing

The shift isn’t: “I shouldn’t be in this role,” “They’re being a Victim,” or “I messed that up.”

The shift is gentler than that. It might sound like:

“Oh… something is happening here” “I notice I really want to jump in and help” “I feel the urge to push or to pull back”

That small moment of noticing can create just a little more space. And often, that space is enough for something new to emerge.

When You’re Perceived as the Victim

You might be:

Taking a pause

Not responding right away

Sitting with something internally

Choosing not to engage just yet

And from the outside, that can easily be interpreted as:

“They’re shutting down” “They can’t handle this” “They need help”

You may be seen as the Victim—even when that’s not what’s happening for you at all.

And from there, the dynamic can start to build. Someone steps in to help. Someone else pushes for a response. All based on a story—not necessarily the full picture.

And Sometimes… It Really Does Feel Like There’s No Choice.

There are also moments when someone isn’t just being perceived that way—but actually feels stuck.

Not because they don’t care. Not because they don’t want to act. But because it doesn’t feel like anything would make a difference.

This experience is often described as learned helplessness. From the outside, it can look similar. But on the inside, it can feel like:

“Why try?” “It won’t change anything” “Nothing I do matters here”

And in those moments, being pushed or “helped” too quickly can sometimes deepen that feeling rather than shift it.

The Empowerment Dynamic

The Empowerment Dynamic, developed by David Emerald, offers a different way of relating.

Not a better way—just another possibility.

It invites us into three roles:

Creator

Coach

Encourager

Roles that aren’t about fixing or getting it right—but about staying connected while allowing space for choice.

What Coach Can Feel Like

When someone is quiet, or struggling, or even just taking their time, it’s natural to want to help. A lot of us are wired for that.

But Coach energy softens the instinct to step in. Instead of moving ahead, it stays alongside.

It might sound like:

“What’s your experience right now?”

“Do you want support, or would you rather have space?”

“What feels like a next step, if any?”

There’s no pressure in it. Just an openness—and a trust that the other person has something of their own to access.

What Encourager (coach) Can Feel Like

“I notice you’ve been quiet—would you be open to sharing what’s happening for you?”

Encourager can be misunderstood. It’s not about pushing harder. It’s about gently inviting something forward.

It might sound like:

“What feels even slightly possible right now?”

There’s honesty in it, but also care. It doesn’t take over. It doesn’t assume. It simply opens a door.

What This Can Look Like in Real Time

These moments don’t usually announce themselves. They happen quickly. A pause. A shift in energy. A story forming.

Recently, I found myself in one of these moments. Someone had gone quiet.

There was a pause—no immediate response. I could feel the pull to step in, to fill the space, to help move things along.

Instead, I stayed with the pause and simply said: “I’d like to hear what you have to say.”

A Small Shift Into Coach

It wasn’t anything big. But it was a shift. Not fixing, not assuming, not pushing. Just making space—and trusting there was something there.

Something softened. The space stayed open. And the other person stepped in. Not because they were pulled, but because there was room.

Finding Your Path

Especially in moments where someone might be quiet, processing, or feeling like nothing they do will make a difference, the way we respond can shape what happens next.

Sometimes, doing less—while staying present—creates more possibility than doing more.

This wasn’t a dramatic moment. Just one sentence. But it shifted the direction of the interaction. And often, that’s how this work shows up. Quiet. Subtle. Easy to overlook.

As you move through your day, you might begin to notice:

Where do I feel the pull to step in?

Where might I be personalizing the situation?

What happens if I stay just a moment longer?

Not to get it right, just to notice.

Because sometimes, that small moment of awareness is where everything begins to shift.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Quick note: In the Empowerment Dynamic, the main roles are Creator and Coach. Sometimes I mention Encourager as a way to describe gentle invitations or prompts—basically a coaching mindset—but the core TED framework focuses on Creator and Coach.

When noticing one voice can shift the energy of an entire room

During a yoga teacher training, one of the facilitators shared something deeply personal: how much she wanted a singing bowl, and how her thoughts kept returning to it. She felt she couldn’t leave it behind.

A participant from another country—a man—commented that it seemed like a first world problem. I could see the facilitator flustered, her brow furrowed, shoulders tightening. Anxiety moved across her face and into her energy; she visibly shrank into the moment. The usual calm, open space of the room felt to me like it had contracted. From that moment, anything he tried to contribute was pushed aside—not just by her, but by others in the room as well. Some participants were trying to protect her, stepping in with gentle corrections or deflecting attention. Others dismissed him outright, shaking their heads or shifting focus. The energy around him grew heavy, tense, and palpable—an almost physical pressure that made the space feel smaller.

This is where the Drama Triangle shows up in real time:

The Facilitator as Victim, shaken and unsure, feeling criticized. The Participants as Rescuers, trying to shield or protect the facilitator, unintentionally preventing him from being heard. Other Participants as Persecutors, dismissing or cutting him off from sharing.

Later, in a breakout session, he tried to speak again. Some participants began to hush him. I could feel his sadness—the subtle weight of being marginalized, the hesitation in his voice, the way his hands fidgeted slightly. I noticed how the room seemed to hold its breath, how the usual energy had dimmed.

Something inside me said: he deserves to be heard. I took a breath and spoke: “I want to hear what you have to say.”

It was a small sentence, but it became pivotal. The room went still. He spoke. The tension softened. Just by noticing him and affirming his voice, the group dynamic shifted. I could see his shoulders relax, a small spark of relief cross his face. Other participants leaned in, unconsciously mirroring the openness, curiosity, and calm. For a moment, the roles of the Drama Triangle eased—the Victim, Rescuers, and Persecutors didn’t disappear, but the energy allowed space for presence, connection, and trust to return.

At the end of the training, he came up to me and thanked me. He said how much he appreciated having someone hold space for all voices in the room. That simple act—listening, validating, and creating space—made a profound difference, not just for him, but for the energy of the group as a whole.

Why These Dynamics Happen in Groups

Moments like this happen in every learning space. Group dynamics are relational, and the Drama Triangle often shows up because:

Reacting to Felt Threats – Even small comments or challenges can trigger protective responses in facilitators or participants.

Seeking Belonging and Approval – Humans naturally want to feel seen and aligned with the group; sometimes this leads to shielding, dismissing, or controlling energy.

Mirroring Energy – Groups unconsciously reflect each other’s emotional states. If someone shows uncertainty, others respond in ways that stabilize or dominate the space. Controlling

Uncertainty – Unexpected perspectives can feel threatening; automatic responses aim to restore safety, even if it silences someone.

Signals for Growth – While challenging, these dynamics reveal where relational patterns or unconscious hierarchies exist, offering an opportunity to cultivate awareness, presence, and inclusion.

Reflection

Moments like this remind me that presence matters more than perfection. Sometimes all it takes is participants assuming a facilitator is vulnerable or in a “Victim role”—whether the facilitator takes that role or not—for the group dynamic to shift. One small gesture of noticing, one invitation to speak, can ripple across the room and shift the energy for everyone. Relational safety isn’t a given—it’s created in each interaction, each gesture, each willingness to hold space for the people who might otherwise feel unseen.

The energy in a room can shift at any moment, and sometimes all it takes is noticing one voice to create a ripple.

In my next post, I’ll explore the opposite of the drama triangle – The Empowerment Dynamic.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

There was a point in my life when everything shifted. I had been working constantly—traveling, moving, always in motion. And then suddenly, I wasn’t. I was home. A young stay-at-home mother. And something in me knew: I needed something else.

I had always been a runner. Movement wasn’t new to me. But one day, I went to a small yoga class with a teacher who lived just up the hill in rural Wisconsin. There wasn’t anything extraordinary at the time. But something in me softened. Something slowed down—just enough for me to notice.

When I heard about a yoga training, I signed up. Not because I wanted to teach. I didn’t. I went because I wanted to understand. But by the end of the training, I found myself teaching anyway.

Teaching Felt Right… Until It Didn’t

At first, it felt good. I was teaching in gyms, moving people through sequences, watching them feel better in their bodies. There was a rhythm to it. A sense of purpose.

And then I started working with at-risk teens in trauma-informed wilderness programs. And something shifted.

It hit differently. It wasn’t just a class anymore. It felt personal in a way I hadn’t expected. There were moments in those rooms where I could feel echoes of my own adolescence—years where things felt emotionally complex, at times overwhelming.

I found myself reflecting: How can I actually help?

When Good Intentions Weren’t Enough

But something wasn’t landing. I remember standing in those rooms, guiding practices I had been trained to offer—watching, waiting for something to shift. And instead, there was a kind of distance I couldn’t quite name. Not resistance. Not disinterest. Just… not connection.

I thought I was offering something they needed. I believed I had found a way to help them feel better—more settled, more connected.

But what I thought was the answer—what I thought would help them “get better”—wasn’t as accurate as I believed.

What if it’s not about doing this better? What if this way of teaching isn’t designed for what these teens are actually experiencing?

A Path That Resonated

The way I had been taught to teach yoga wasn’t built for people living with overwhelming experiences. It wasn’t built for people who didn’t feel safe—not just in the world around them, but within themselves. And once I felt that, I couldn’t unfeel it.

I started searching. Modern yoga offers a wide range of trainings, approaches, and philosophies. So many paths to explore, it can be hard to know which one will truly make a difference. I wasn’t looking for something inspiring—I was looking for something that actually worked.

That’s when I found Trauma Center Trauma-Sensitive Yoga (TCTSY). It stood out immediately—not because of branding or language—but because it was research-based. It was being studied, practiced in clinical settings. It had depth and intention behind it. That mattered to me.

I was already deep into a 300-hour yoga therapeutics training when I attended the TCTSY Foundations training at Kripalu Center for Yoga & Health. It was a week long. And it brought up far more than I expected—not just in how I taught, but in how I saw myself, my students, and the space I held for them.

It wasn’t always comfortable. But it was clarifying.

The Shift That Changed My Approach

Not just in how I taught—but in how I saw. I found myself reflecting on things I hadn’t questioned before:

Why do I guide the way I guide? What am I asking of people when I use certain language? Where is choice—and where is subtle pressure?

It wasn’t always comfortable. But it was clarifying.

When I returned to working with adolescents, I didn’t walk in the same way. I was quieter in my approach. More aware of how I was speaking. More attuned to what was happening in the room. I wasn’t trying to get them anywhere. I was paying attention.

And this time—something shifted. Not dramatically. Not all at once. But I could feel moments of connection that hadn’t been there before. Moments where the room felt… different. Less forced. More possible.

What changed wasn’t just my teaching. It was my entire perspective. I started noticing dynamics I had never seen before—in others, and in myself. Subtle things. Relational things. Moments where choice either existed—or didn’t. My understanding of safety, agency, and connection deepened in ways that extended far beyond a yoga class.

From Learning to Living the Work

Not long after, I was accepted into the 300-hour TCTSY Certification program. That experience took everything further. It deepened my understanding in ways that were hard to put into words at the time. But I could feel it in how I moved through the world. In how I listened. In how I responded. In how I understood what it means to support someone who has experienced trauma.

Some of the shifts I experienced through the training included:

Recognizing that offering choice can transform how someone engages.

Learning to slow down, even when I wanted to rush, to create space for connection.

Noticing my own body, voice, and presence as part of how healing unfolds.

Understanding that trauma isn’t something to fix—it’s something to approach with care and presence.

Discovering that being fully with someone often mattered more than what I thought I needed to “teach.”

The training itself is much deeper and more expansive than these few reflections—but these were some of the pieces that reshaped how I show up, teach, and move through the world.

This work changed me. As a practitioner. As a teacher. As a person. And it continues to shape how I understand what it really means to support someone who is struggling—not by offering answers, but by learning how to be with people in a way that makes space for something to emerge.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer

Power doesn’t disappear when we deny it.

It just becomes harder to name.

In relationships, in teaching, in therapy, and in healing spaces, power is always moving. Roles, history, identity, and context shape how influence flows—even when no one intends harm. Pretending power isn’t present doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it harder to see, harder to question, and harder to hold with care.

Power dynamics are always present in relationships.

Not because someone intends harm.

But because roles, history, identity, and context shape how power moves between us.

Other times it moves more quietly: who feels comfortable speaking, who adapts to maintain connection, or who carries the emotional labor in the relationship.

Sometimes power is visible: a title, a role, an expert.

Most of the time, these dynamics aren’t intentional. They simply exist. But when power remains invisible, it can organize the relationship. One person may hold influence without realizing it. Another may adapt or stay silent to maintain connection. And when no one has language for what’s happening, it becomes harder to shift.

Healing work isn’t about pretending power isn’t there.

It’s about noticing it.

Noticing how roles shape the space.

Noticing how influence moves between people.

Noticing who has voice, choice, and room to shape what’s happening.

Power itself can create harm when it’s misused or left unexamined. Many people carry real experiences of authority being used in ways that silenced them or limited their choices. Those histories matter.

Which is why awareness of power is so important in relational and healing spaces.

The goal isn’t to eliminate power. That’s rarely possible.

The goal is to hold it with care.

Sometimes that means being transparent about roles and influence rather than pretending they aren’t there. Sometimes it means creating space for more voices in the room. Sometimes it means intentionally sharing power whenever possible—through choice, collaboration, and openness to feedback.

When power can be acknowledged rather than hidden, something shifts.

The relationship becomes less organized by unspoken hierarchy and more guided by awareness.

Not power over.

But power held in relationship.

In trauma-sensitive and healing spaces, this awareness becomes especially important.

Teachers, therapists, and facilitators hold roles that naturally carry influence. The invitation isn’t to deny that influence, but to hold it with humility and care.

Sometimes that looks like offering choice.

Sometimes it means welcoming feedback or making space for participants to move at their own pace.

Sometimes it’s as simple as acknowledging that the space itself is shaped by everyone who enters it.

When power can be named and approached with curiosity, it opens the possibility for something different:

Not a space without power.

But a space where power moves with more awareness, more care, and more shared responsibility.

Wishing you wellness

Keri Sawyer

Understanding why reconnecting with the body can feel overwhelming—and how awareness can rebuild.

Over the years, many clients have told me some version of the same thing:

“I don’t really feel my body.”

“I only notice it when something hurts.”

“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be feeling.”

For individuals who have experienced developmental or complex trauma, this experience is more common than many people realize. Feeling the body isn’t always automatic.

In fact, for many people the body can feel distant, confusing, or even overwhelming. Some describe feeling numb or disconnected. Others say their attention quickly shifts away whenever they try to notice what’s happening internally.

This isn’t resistance. It isn’t a lack of effort. And it isn’t something that needs to be forced.

Very often, it’s an adaptation.

When the Body Wasn’t a Safe Place

Developmental trauma occurs when overwhelming experiences happen during childhood, particularly in relationships where safety, support, and co-regulation should have been present.

In those environments, the body may have learned something important: being fully present wasn’t always safe.

For some people, disconnecting from body sensations helped them get through difficult or unpredictable situations. Over time, that disconnection can become an organizing pattern that continues long after the original experiences have passed.

Many people develop ways of living that rely more on thinking, analyzing, or focusing outward rather than sensing what’s happening internally.

Again, this isn’t a flaw. It’s a survival strategy that once served an important purpose.

What Disconnection Can Feel Like

Body disconnection doesn’t always look the same. People may experience:

Difficulty identifying sensations inside the body

Feeling numb or blank when asked to notice the body

Only noticing sensations when they are intense or painful

Feeling overwhelmed when attention turns inward

A sense that the body feels distant or unfamiliar

For some, the body simply doesn’t feel like a reliable place to orient.

For many people with developmental trauma, this experience is also connected to something deeper: not having a reliable or predictable sense of self.

When early relationships were inconsistent or unsafe, identity can develop around adapting to others — reading the room, anticipating reactions, or organizing around what others might need.

In those circumstances, attention to the body may not have had much room to develop.

Building Connection

In Trauma Center Trauma-Sensitive Yoga (TCTSY), participants are often invited to notice simple physical experiences — perhaps the feeling of their feet on the floor or a sensation in the muscles of their arms in movement.

For some people, even these small invitations can feel unfamiliar at first.

Because of this, the intention isn’t to push people to feel more or go deeper quickly. Instead, the focus is on creating opportunities for people to notice sensations at their own pace, without pressure or expectation.

Over time, as people begin to notice sensations gradually, something important can begin to shift. Attention can start to move inward again — not all at once, but slowly.

And when that happens, the body can begin to play a role in something many trauma survivors have not experienced consistently before: a more reliable sense of self.

Connection Takes Time

Feeling the body after trauma isn’t something that happens through willpower or instruction.

It happens through careful pacing and through experiences that allow people to notice sensations without pressure or urgency.

For many people, that process takes time.

But when it unfolds slowly and within a safer space, the body can shift from something distant or overwhelming into something else entirely: a source of information, value, and presence.

Sometimes the first step isn’t transformation.

Sometimes it’s simply discovering that the body is there — and that it can be noticed.

Wishing you wellness,

Keri Sawyer