For a long time, I imagined balance as something solid—like standing still on steady ground, unmoving. But life has shown me it’s much more like the ocean. It moves, it shifts, it fluctuates—sometimes gently like ripples on the shore, and sometimes violently, like a storm pulling the tide. Balance isn’t stagnant. It flows.
When the Ground Shifts Beneath Us
There are seasons when balance feels almost impossible. When my son Chase was hospitalized, everything else fell away. My days and nights revolved around his care. Of course, there was no space for hobbies or routines—how could there be? In that moment, balance wasn’t about “doing it all.” It was about showing up for what mattered most: love, presence, and simply making it through.
I’ve also experienced times when my body forced me to stop. Breaking a bone or being so exhausted that I could hardly get through the day demanded a recalibration. Suddenly, what seemed urgent yesterday no longer mattered. Rest, healing, and saying no to almost everything became my balance.
These moments remind me: balance isn’t about equal distribution of attention or effort. It’s about right relationship with what is most needed now.
Chasing Balance
Here’s where we can get tripped up with balance. There’s a lot of messaging out there about discipline—coaches, influencers, and wellness gurus who promote rigid routines, exact time blocks, and strict accountability systems. And yes, discipline can be powerful. Structure gives shape to our days and can hold us steady when motivation falters.
But when we treat balance like a rigid formula, we start measuring ourselves against an impossible standard. We think balance means the gym five times a week, eight hours of sleep, meditation every morning, all while giving 100% to work, family, and friendships. And when life demands a shift—when we get sick, when a crisis happens, when exhaustion sets in—we look at ourselves and think: “I’ve failed.”
Unhealthy balance often shows up as all-or-nothing thinking (“If I don’t do it perfectly, I’ve blown it”), moralizing rest (“If I slow down, I’m lazy”), or comparing ourselves to someone else’s highlight reel. Naming those patterns helps us loosen their grip and choose a gentler path.
That’s the unhealthy side of balance: when the very idea of it starts to weigh us down, instead of helping us find steadiness.
A Flexible Kind of Discipline
What if we thought about balance differently? Not as perfection, but as permission to pivot. Not as a rigid checklist, but as a living rhythm.
Discipline absolutely has its place. It can keep us grounded and help us follow through on commitments that matter. But discipline without flexibility quickly turns brittle. True balance is discipline with room to breathe. It’s the ability to adjust when life shifts—without shame, without self-punishment.
Discipline can be the anchor, flexibility the tide, and our values the North Star that guides us. When those three move together, balance feels more like navigation than judgment.
The Rhythm of Change
When Chase was in the hospital, I wasn’t “failing” at balance. I was living balance—just in a form that looked different. My focus was singular, my priorities shifted, and that was exactly right for that season.
Balance isn’t something we master once and for all. It’s something we return to again and again. Some days it looks like discipline—getting up early, following the plan. Other days it looks like letting go—resting, recalibrating, being gentle with ourselves.
The key is not perfection, but responsiveness. Balance is about listening to the season we’re in and adjusting accordingly. In chronic stress or illness, balance may look like pacing—small efforts, real rests, then reassessing—like watching the tide rather than forcing a timetable.
And it’s worth remembering: we don’t hold balance alone. Community is part of it too. Asking for help, receiving care, or letting someone else carry the load for a while—these are not signs of imbalance, but of shared humanity.
A More Gentle Question
So maybe instead of asking, “Am I living a balanced life?” we can ask, “What needs attention right now? What can soften? What can wait?”
That feels kinder. More real. More human.
Because in truth, balance isn’t a static goal—it’s a living conversation between our bodies, our hearts, our minds, and the life unfolding around us.
The Image I Hold
I’ve stopped imagining balance as a scale that must be perfectly even. Instead, I see it as a set of tides—sometimes rushing in, sometimes pulling back, always moving, always changing. The ocean is never “out of balance”—it simply flows with its own rhythm.
If you work in trauma-informed care, you’ve probably said it a hundred times: “Self-care is essential.” We encourage our clients, our colleagues, even our friends and families to pause, breathe, rest, and tend to themselves. Yet, if we’re honest, many of us don’t practice what we teach.
Here lies the rub: in a world that constantly tells us to do more, give more, achieve more, self-care can feel like just another item on a never-ending to-do list. We know it matters, but embodying it feels elusive.
Why the Disconnect?
Several dynamics make it hard for practitioners to fully embrace self-care:
Caretaker identity. Many of us define ourselves by helping others, which can make turning inward feel selfish or indulgent. Example: You might skip lunch to squeeze in one more client session, believing their needs matter more than your own.
Culture of productivity. Society rewards overwork. Rest and slowing down are often mislabeled as laziness or weakness. Example: Taking a quiet afternoon off may leave you feeling guilty, as though you’re not “working hard enough.”
Compassion fatigue. When we’re running on empty, even small acts of care feel like more effort than we can muster. Example: At the end of a long day of listening to others’ stories or being with their energy, you may feel too drained to cook a nourishing meal or go for that walk you promised yourself.
Flood of advice. We are bombarded with messages about “what self-care should look like,” which can leave us feeling pressured rather than supported. Example: Seeing endless social media posts about ideal routines—journaling, yoga, meditation, meal prep—may make you feel like you’re failing if you can’t keep up.
Underlying beliefs and shame. Many of us carry internal messages like “I am only good if I’m productive” or “I am only worthy when I’m giving to others.” Shame feeds these beliefs, convincing us that our value comes only through doing or giving. This can make it difficult to see ourselves as deserving of care, compassion, or even kindness.
Shared Humanity
It’s important to name that you are not alone in this. Many of us who encourage self-care find it difficult to step fully into it ourselves. Acknowledging this gap with honesty—not shame—reminds us that we are human, too. Recognizing our own vulnerability allows us to bring even more authenticity to the work we do with others.
The Role of Collective Care
Self-care is not only an individual practice. Caring for ourselves also includes leaning on others. Collective care—sharing the load, finding support, and connecting with peers—can be just as essential as what we do alone. We do not have to carry everything by ourselves. Together, we can sustain this work in ways that feel lighter and more connected.
Stepping Into Self-Care Differently
Perhaps the challenge isn’t that we don’t know what to do—it’s that we need to rethink how we approach it. Self-care doesn’t have to mean bubble baths, elaborate routines, or performing wellness for others. Instead, it can be:
Micro-moments. A breath between sessions, a quiet sip of tea, a gentle stretch.
Permission. Allowing yourself to not answer that email right away, or to say no without guilt.
Authenticity. Choosing what nourishes you, not what looks good on a checklist.
Compassion. Meeting yourself with the same gentleness you offer to those you serve.
A Reflection to Keep Close
The truth is, stepping fully into self-care asks us to confront uncomfortable beliefs: that we are only worthy when we give, that our needs come second, that rest is earned. These are not easy stories to unlearn. But each small act of self-care is also an act of resistance against burnout, and a step toward wholeness.
You don’t have to start big. Maybe today it looks like taking five minutes to reconnect with yourself before your next session, or reaching out to a colleague who understands. One small step is enough.
Wishing you wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS. This blog is Part 1 of a trilogy : A Quiet Revolution in How We Care for Others Because your well-being shapes the way you serve.
Stress shows up differently for everyone. For some, it feels like being stuck in place—frozen on the couch, unable to take even the smallest step. For others, it’s like speeding through life at full tilt—moving so fast there’s no room for rest, reflection, or connection. Both extremes are signs of the same thing: our nervous system is overwhelmed.
That’s why stress management isn’t about finding the “perfect” strategy or a one-size-fits-all solution. It’s about personalization—understanding what works for you, in this season of life, and learning how to blend tools that help in the moment with choices that support you in the long run.
Why “Fix-All” Strategies Fall Short
The wellness world is full of quick tips and trendy techniques. While many of them can be useful, no single strategy will work for everyone all the time. Stress management isn’t about finding the right tool—it’s about finding your tools, the ones that feel authentic, sustainable, and flexible enough to change as you change.
In-the-Moment Supports
In clinical terms, these are often called self-regulation practices—skills that help your body and mind settle when stress flares up suddenly.
In-the-moment supports:
Taking a breath or a breathing technique
Walking around the block.
Stretching your shoulders for two minutes.
Pausing for a short mindfulness exercise.
Picking up a hobby you enjoy, like sketching, gardening, or knitting.
These small actions don’t erase stress, but they can loosen its grip. And here’s something important: these tools work best when you’ve practiced them outside the storm. Expecting your body to learn stability for the first time in the middle of overwhelm is like trying to learn to swim in a riptide. The more often you practice during steady moments, the easier it becomes to reach for these supports when the waters are rough.
The Bigger Picture
In-the-moment supports matter, but they’re only part of the story. The bigger picture is about shaping a life that gives you more flexibility over time—so stress doesn’t always hit as hard or as often. Think of this as long-term resilience, built through daily choices, boundaries, and rhythms that carry you across seasons of life.
Some examples:
Rest & Nourishment Stress feels heavier when you’re running on empty. Protect your bedtime routine, keep your phone out of the bedroom, drink water, and choose foods that help sustain your energy.
Boundaries Overcommitment fuels stress. Saying “no” to one request, closing your laptop at a set time, or protecting a tech-free evening gives your system space to recover.
Living Your Values Stress often spikes when your days don’t reflect what matters most. Identify your top three values (family, creativity, health, etc.) and make one simple change—like a weekly call with a loved one or setting aside time for art.
Supportive Relationships Stress shrinks in safe connection. Schedule coffee with someone who listens well, join a group where you feel at ease, or simply check in with a trusted friend.
Shaping Your Environment Your surroundings can either drain or restore you. Clear one corner of clutter, silence notifications during meals, or create a calming nook with a candle and blanket.
Movement & Presence Regular movement—like walking, stretching, or gentle exercise—helps release tension and regulate energy. Pairing movement with mindfulness practices teaches your body to return to the present, instead of being pulled into the weight of the past or the worries of the future. These small moments of presence accumulate over time, supporting steadiness in ways you may not notice right away but that deeply matter.
The Dance Between the Two
Here’s the heart of it: in-the-moment supports and long-term practices work together.
In-the-moment supports are about calming the waters right now—the breath, the walk, the pause.
The bigger picture is about steering the boat—your sleep, your boundaries, your values, your relationships, your environment.
One keeps you afloat in the storm; the other helps ensure the storms don’t capsize you in the first place.
And here’s where it can feel confusing: what works for you in one season may not be what steadies you in the next. The tools that feel grounding now might lose their impact later, and that doesn’t mean you’re failing—it means you’re growing. Stress management isn’t about locking onto one solution forever—it’s about staying curious, experimenting, and allowing your supports to evolve as life does.
Think of it as a dance: sometimes you lean on the quick reset, sometimes you lean into the slower work of building habits, and sometimes you discover something new that shifts everything. The rhythm will keep changing, and that’s part of the process.
Finding Your Path, One Small Step at a Time
Stress and anxiety may freeze you in place or push you too fast, but the path forward always begins with one small, personal step. Over time, those steps build momentum. Momentum creates change. And change builds resilience that lasts through every season of life.
The takeaway: in-the-moment supports can give you some relief now, while bigger-picture practices reshape the story. Together, they create the flexibility you need to keep moving forward—even when life feels heavy.
I’ve walked every single morning for well over a year — and that one simple act transformed me.
Not just physically. But emotionally. Energetically. Spiritually.
Something in me softened. Realigned. Came home to itself.
Maybe it was the salty ocean air that whispered me awake. Or the steady rhythm of the waves that matched my breath.
Maybe it was simply the ritual — the quiet, mindful movement of walking with awareness, day after day. Each step became a meditation. A returning. A remembering.
Some mornings, I walked alone — fully present to the world around me. Noticing the way the light moved through the trees or how the ocean moved the sand.
Feeling the earth beneath my feet. Breathing in deeply. Listening — not just to the sounds of the ocean, but to the stirrings within.
And on other days, I walked with my husband, my children, or dear friends. There is something sacred about walking with — About being in motion together, side by side, without needing to speak.
A kind of presence that words can’t reach. A connection born not from conversation, but from shared experience.
That’s mindfulness, too. The simple act of doing something with full attention. Mindfulness isn’t always sitting still on a cushion. Sometimes, it’s the feeling of cool air on your skin. The sound of your child’s footsteps beside yours. The knowing that this moment — this exact one — is where life is happening.
And those moments… they add up. They shape who we are. They change how we relate to ourselves and to the people we love. Because: Our choices matter. Our presence matters. How we show up in our bodies and our lives — it all matters.
I found happiness not in a breakthrough, but in the quiet repetition of mindful practice. In choosing to be with myself and others, fully. In learning to listen — to nature, to my breath, to the rhythm of life itself.
Having a clear sense of self — even if it’s something as simple as a daily walk — can change everything.
So: Know yourself. Find your still point — even in motion. Practice presence like it’s sacred. Because it is. And when you find that inner balance — that mindful rhythm — Protect it. Return to it. Honor it. Not because you should. But because it’s how we stay whole in a noisy world. It’s how we reconnect — to ourselves, and to each other.
Even though you’re doing the work of recovery, do you still feel restlessness or unease inside? When we leave the body out of the picture, parts of recovery can feel incomplete.
Your body carries the weight of stress, pain, and memories from difficult experiences. For many of us, addiction became a way to cope with this weight. And even after stepping into recovery, your body may still feel unsettled—tight in your chest, restless in your legs, or on edge in your gut, as if safety is out of reach.
This can make it hard to feel calm or connected. Rooted in Recovery brings together trauma-sensitive yoga and the journey of recovery—intertwining them as a way of creating safety, balance, and connection. It offers a pathway back into stability—a way to feel grounded again in both your body and your life.
Balance, Stability, and Flexibility
Think of a tree. Its roots reach deep into the ground, giving it balance and stability even when strong winds blow. In recovery, you also need roots—steady practices that help you stay grounded through cravings, emotions, and life’s storms.
But trees also bend with the wind. Without flexibility, they would break. In the same way, recovery asks not only for steadiness but also adaptability—meeting change without fear.
Balance in the moment. Noticing what steadies you right now, helping ease intensity in your body.
Stability over time. Maintaining stability practices that feel useful to you so your foundation stays strong when life feels shaky.
Flexibility in change. Meeting the strong winds of life with resilience and adaptability, instead of bracing against them.
From Fear to Presence
In recovery, knowing yourself can feel complicated. Your past may carry shame or regret. Your future might stir anxiety or fear of relapse. Both can pull you out of the present, leaving you disconnected from your own body.
Rooted in Recovery shifts this pattern. Its gentle, mindful movements open the present moment—right here, right now.
Meeting your body in this way creates a chance to experience what is real. Developing a felt sense of yourself—noticing how your body feels in this moment—can bring forward a powerful recognition: you are not your past, and you are not your future. You are here, now.
This awareness supports recovery because it:
Softens fear of who you’ve been or who you might become.
Builds steadiness in the present.
Provides experiences of safety in your body that you can return to again and again.
Weathering the Storms
Imagine standing before a storm. In the past, storms may have overwhelmed you, leaving your body frozen or bracing against what might come.
Through Rooted in Recovery, you can begin developing inner resources—skills and practices that shift how your body responds to stress. Instead of numbing or pushing away, you might pause, notice the storm rising, and respond differently. It could feel like steadying your breath, softening your shoulders, or anchoring through your feet—small choices that keep you present.
This shift supports recovery at its core:
Balance. Meeting intensity in your body with steadiness.
A steady sense of self. Discovering that you can navigate what comes.
Resilience. Facing change with both steadiness and flexibility.
Stability Through Connection
Addiction often thrives in isolation, while recovery grows stronger in community. Rooted in Recovery supports not only grounding in your own body but also a sense of connection with others.
Like trees in a forest whose roots intertwine, practicing in community can remind you that you don’t have to walk recovery alone. Being with others can help your body feel supported, steady, and connected.
Pathways Back to Self
All of these practices—balance, presence, resilience, and connection—come from intertwining trauma-sensitive yoga with the lived experience of recovery. Together, they create gentle pathways back to yourself, helping your body become a safer and steadier place to be.
Noticing
Noticing is the beginning of grounding—like first seeing a tree rooted in the earth. It is the awareness: “I am here. I have a body.”
In addiction, many of us disconnected from our bodies—sometimes even rejecting them. Simply noticing that you have a body, and that it’s here with you, can be a breakthrough. Like roots reaching into the soil, noticing nourishes your connection and lays the foundation for stability.
Meeting
Meeting is like the first tender roots reaching deeper into the soil. It begins with curiosity—becoming interested in a deeper connection with your body.
Meeting creates space for safety—where being in your body can begin to feel more approachable and manageable. Here, you may notice choices—moments of sensing what feels steady, nourishing, or easeful.
Like a young tree settling into the ground, meeting yourself in this way can be the beginning of stability and grounded growth.
Connecting
Connecting is like the trunk of the tree strengthening—linking roots to branches. It reflects forming relationship with yourself, turning toward your body with compassion instead of avoidance.
Here, noticing choices begins to deepen into starting to make choices based on the felt sense of your body. These choices may be small, but they represent trust building within you—trust that you can find steadiness again and again.
Connecting can feel like shaking hands with yourself—a gesture of acknowledgement and respect. Like the trunk of a tree supporting its branches, connecting provides the steady core from which healing can grow.
Rooting
Rooting is like the deep, steady roots of a mature tree. It reflects your body as an anchor—strong enough to hold steady and flexible enough to move with the winds of life.
Rooting may bring the realization that change is possible. Like a tree swaying with the wind, you might notice that the way your body feels can shift. With trust built inside, you can face change—and even create it.
Rooting transforms “I can get through change” into “I can create positive change.”
An Invitation to Grow Roots
Recovery is like planting a tree—you need care, nourishment, and steady ground to grow. Rooted in Recovery helps create that ground through these Pathways Back to Self:
Noticing – beginning to recognize presence in your body.
Meeting – becoming curious, finding safety, and noticing choices.
Connecting – starting to make choices guided by the felt sense of your body.
Rooting – discovering your body as an anchor, steady and flexible enough to meet the winds of life.
These pathways support movement from hope to trust. They open the possibility of facing cravings and struggles not with fear or avoidance, but with grounded presence.
Through Rooted in Recovery, your healing may become more than surviving day to day. It may grow into a rooted, balanced life—steady enough to weather storms, flexible enough to adapt with change, and strong enough to keep growing toward the light.
Wishing you steadiness and connection, Keri Sawyer
P.S. If you feel ready to explore these pathways in community, Rooted in Recovery classes are available at openviewyoga.com, a Trauma-Sensitive Yoga Virtual Studio. This is an invitation to step into gentle practices that support stability, balance, and reconnection.
In today’s fast-moving world, it’s easy to feel like you’re constantly playing catch-up. Between work demands, family responsibilities, and the endless expectations we place on ourselves, many of us find our bodies and minds operating on overdrive. You may notice yourself lying awake at night, unable to relax even when you’re exhausted, or feeling stuck in a cycle of stress and overwhelm.
If this resonates with you, you’re not alone. What you’re experiencing may not be a lack of willpower or “not trying hard enough.” More often, it’s a sign of something deeper: nervous system imbalance.
What Does “Nervous System Imbalance” Mean?
Our nervous system is beautifully designed to keep us safe. It’s always working in the background, managing how we respond to the world—whether we’re gearing up to meet a challenge or winding down into rest and recovery. At its core, two systems are constantly shifting, adjusting, and balancing one another like a dance:
The Sympathetic Nervous System: This is your body’s “accelerator.” It prepares you for action—activating fight, flight, or freeze. Your heart beats faster, your breath quickens, and your muscles tense, all so you can respond to stress or danger. This system is what helps you jump out of the way of a car, meet a deadline, or rise to a difficult situation.
The Parasympathetic Nervous System: Think of this as your body’s “brake.” It supports rest, digestion, healing, and recovery. When this system is active, your heart rate slows, your muscles soften, and your body can absorb nutrients, repair, and replenish. It’s what allows you to feel grounded, calm, and connected.
When these two systems are in harmony, we’re able to flow between them—responding to challenges with the energy we need and then returning to balance when the challenge has passed. This rhythm is what allows us to move through life with resilience.
But when life is filled with ongoing stress, trauma, or tension, the nervous system can get “stuck.” Sometimes the accelerator stays pressed down—you may feel wired, restless, anxious, or constantly “on.” Other times, the brake can feel jammed—you may feel heavy, shut down, disconnected, or emotionally numb. And for many people, it’s a mix of both—swinging between exhaustion and hypervigilance, unable to find steady ground.
This stuckness isn’t a personal failure—it’s the body doing its best to protect you. The nervous system doesn’t always know the difference between real danger right now and old stress or fear carried forward. So it stays on alert, even when the threat has passed. Over time, this can leave you feeling worn out, overwhelmed, or unable to fully rest, no matter how much you try.
You’re nervous system is not broken. It’s adaptable, capable of learning, and responsive to care. With awareness, safety, and supportive practices, you can move back into balance—by creating experiences that communicate that we don’t have to live in survival mode.
How Imbalance Shows Up
Everyone experiences nervous system imbalance differently. For some, it feels like running on empty, while for others it feels like running on overdrive. Often, it can even be a confusing mix of both. Common signs may include:
Physical symptoms: ongoing muscle tension, clenched jaw, headaches, stomach upset, fatigue, or difficulty sleeping. The body may feel “wired but tired”—unable to rest, even when exhausted.
Emotional overwhelm: feeling anxious, irritable, impatient, or on edge, as though even small things push you past your limit. At times, emotions may also feel too big to manage, coming in waves that feel unsteady or unpredictable.
A sense of “being stuck”: difficulty making decisions, struggling to focus, or feeling like you can’t move forward no matter how hard you try. This can show up as procrastination, lack of motivation, or a deep sense of heaviness.
Disconnection: feeling cut off from yourself, your body, or those around you. Some describe this as numbness, emptiness, or “going through the motions” without truly feeling present.
Difficulty relaxing: even in safe or restful environments, the body may resist settling down. You might notice a constant undercurrent of restlessness, scanning for what could go wrong, or the inability to fully exhale and release tension.
For some people, this looks like constant activation—always “on,” unable to sit still, and easily startled or stressed. For others, it shows up as shutting down—feeling drained, disconnected, or unable to engage with life. And for many, it’s a shifting back and forth between the two.
These experiences are not evidence that you are “broken.” They are signs of your body’s intelligent attempts to protect you in the face of overwhelming stress, trauma, or prolonged pressure. Your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do—trying to keep you safe. The challenge is that, over time, these protective responses can become patterns that no longer serve you, keeping you in survival mode long after the original stress has passed.
With compassion, awareness, and supportive practices, your body can learn to find steadier rhythms—ones that allow you to feel safe, connected, and more at ease in your own skin.
Moving Into Balance: Gentle Steps Toward Healing
The path to balance doesn’t require pushing harder or achieving perfection. In fact, trauma-informed care reminds us that healing begins with safety, choice, and compassion.
When you begin to explore nervous system balance, it helps to start small. Healing doesn’t require grand gestures or hours of practice—it can begin with the simplest shifts in awareness, safety, and movement. Here are a few gentle invitations to try:
Coming Home to Now
The first step in balance is moving to the present moment. When we’re caught in the past—replaying what has already happened—or pulled into the future—worrying about what might come—our nervous system often reacts as if those experiences are happening right now. This can leave the body in a constant state of vigilance, unable to truly rest.
By gently returning your attention to this moment, you begin to send your nervous system a new message: “I am here, and I am safe enough right now.” In response, your breath may slow, your heart rate may soften, and the brain’s alarm system (the amygdala) can quiet. At the same time, the parts of the brain that support calm, reasoning, and connection—the prefrontal cortex—become more active.
Awareness naturally grows out of presence. As you anchor yourself in the here and now, you may notice sensations or emotions with more clarity: “My shoulders feel tight,” or “I notice my heart racing.” Naming these experiences with gentleness rather than self-criticism creates space for compassion.
Presence, then, is more than just noticing—it is the anchor that steadies both body and mind. Over time, this practice can help you to move out of survival mode and into greater resilience, clarity, and connection.
Presence is where safety is felt. Awareness is how we learn to trust it.
Cultivating Safety
Safety is the foundation of balance. Before the body can relax or the mind can soften, the nervous system must sense that it is safe enough to do so. Without this felt sense of safety, even the most well-intentioned practices can feel overwhelming or out of reach.
Cultivating safety doesn’t have to be complicated. It can be as simple as creating small moments where your body and mind register comfort and ease. This might look like dimming harsh lights, wrapping yourself in a soft blanket, or choosing to spend time with people who make you feel understood. Sometimes it’s pausing, or finding a quiet space where you can rest without interruption. These choices send powerful messages to the nervous system: “You are safe right now.” Movement can also be a pathway into safety. When stress or trauma has left the body feeling frozen, gentle motion reminds the nervous system that you are here, alive, and capable of choice.
As safety takes root, muscles soften, breathing steadies, and the body begins to find its natural rhythm again. With each small act of cultivating safety—through environment, connection, or gentle movement—you create the conditions for deeper healing to unfold.
Moving With Care
Movement is one of the most nourishing ways to support your nervous system, and it doesn’t have to be strenuous or demanding. In fact, some of the most supportive practices are often the simplest—stretching your arms overhead, rolling your shoulders, taking a slow, mindful walk, or exploring trauma-sensitive yoga.
When approached with care, movement becomes less about exercise and more about relationship. Each small action is an invitation to notice how your body feels and to honor what feels right in the moment. This kind of movement isn’t about reaching a goal or performing a pose—it’s about building connection, presence, and trust with yourself.
These moments of movement also create opportunities to reclaim choice. In trauma-informed care, this is sometimes called agency—the ability to decide what feels right for you. You might choose to move, to pause, or simply to notice the sensations in your body. Having this freedom to choose—even in the smallest ways—can be deeply supportive for the nervous system, especially if life has felt overwhelming or out of control.
Over time, moving with care helps your body and mind remember that it’s safe to feel and safe to be present. Each nourishing step of movement is like a gentle reminder: “I am here, and I am listening to myself.”
Rooting Through the Senses
Your senses are one of the most accessible ways to return to the present moment. When your mind is racing into the past or future, your body can gently guide you back to now through sight, sound, touch, smell, and taste. Each sense becomes an anchor, reminding you that you are here, in this moment, safe enough to pause and breathe.
You might try:
Feet on the ground – Notice the pressure of your feet on the floor
Listening deeply – Pause to notice the sounds around you, whether it’s the hum of a fan, birds outside, or even your own breath.
Touch and texture – Hold something soothing, like a stone, a warm mug, or soft fabric, and notice how it feels.
Engaging smell or taste – Light a candle, smell fresh herbs, or sip tea slowly, paying attention to the sensory experience.
Grounding through the senses works by gently shifting into connection with the present. These simple practices help your body register: “I am here, I am steady, I am supported.”
Over time, sensing the present can become a trusted tool—a way to root yourself whenever stress feels overwhelming or life pulls you away from balance.
Reclaiming Your Ground
When your nervous system begins to come into balance, it’s not about becoming a “new” person—it’s about returning to the wholeness that has always been within you. Healing allows your body and mind to move out of survival mode and into states of greater ease, presence, and connection.
You may begin to notice:
Increased ability to relax and rest — falling asleep more easily, or simply feeling calmer in your daily rhythms.
More emotional steadiness and resilience — finding yourself less reactive, and more able to pause and respond with clarity.
Greater connection with yourself and others — rebuilding trust in your own body, and opening space for authentic relationships.
A renewed sense of safety and presence — feeling more grounded in the here and now, instead of caught in constant worry or vigilance.
It’s important to remember: Balance does not mean eliminating all stress or “fixing” yourself. Life will always bring challenges, but balance gives you the capacity to meet those challenges without being consumed by them.
When your nervous system is balanced, you can shift fluidly between activation and rest—just as nature intended. This is where resilience is born, and where hope takes root. Balance opens the door to living with more choice, more presence, and more freedom.
Moving Forward With Compassion
If you’ve been feeling overwhelmed, stuck, or disconnected, know that this is not your fault. Your body has been doing its best to protect you, often in ways that you may not even realize. Feeling restless at night, snapping at someone you care about, struggling to focus, or shutting down when life feels too heavy—these are not signs of weakness. They are signs of a nervous system that has been working tirelessly to keep you safe.
Healing begins when we honor this truth. Instead of meeting ourselves with criticism—“Why can’t I just get it together?”—we begin to offer compassion: “Of course I feel this way. My body has carried so much.” This shift from blame to understanding is where space for healing opens.
Moving into balance is not about forcing yourself to be calm or striving to become someone new. It is a gentle journey of rediscovery—of remembering that your body holds wisdom, that your pace is valid, and that your needs matter. Sometimes this means reconnecting in small ways: noticing the warmth of sunlight on your skin, pausing to take a slow breath between tasks, or choosing a movement practice that feels supportive instead of demanding.
With time, intention, and support, your nervous system can learn what it means to feel safe again. You may notice moments of ease appearing where there used to be tension, or find that you can stay present in situations that once felt overwhelming. Slowly, balance becomes less of a distant hope and more of a lived experience.
Healing doesn’t mean erasing the past—it means creating a new relationship with yourself in the present. And in that relationship, you may discover resilience, softness, and a deeper sense of peace than you thought possible.
Wishing you Wellness,
Keri Sawyer
P.S. Remember: Healing doesn’t have to be a race. It can begin with awareness, safety, and compassion.
Openviewyoga.com – check out classes and Workshops that support nervous system balance.
Life experiences can leave lasting imprints on our bodies and minds. Stress, loss, or trauma can sometimes make us feel unsettled or disconnected—not only from others, but from ourselves. At times, our bodies may not feel predictable or steady, and that can make it difficult to trust our own signals or feel grounded in daily life.
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga offers a gentle, compassionate practice that isn’t about perfect poses or pushing through discomfort. Instead, it’s about noticing what’s happening inside and making choices based on a felt sense of the body. Each movement is an invitation to come back to yourself in a way that feels steady and empowering.
Cultivating Safety Within
When we carry stress or trauma, our bodies can sometimes feel unfamiliar or hard to predict. A racing heartbeat, sudden tension, or a sense of numbness may seem to come out of nowhere. These experiences can make it difficult to feel safe in our own skin.
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga introduces gentle and consistent practices that support a more reliable relationship with ourselves. Each movement is offered as an invitation. You choose what to explore, what to leave out, and when to pause. Over time, these body based choices create something powerful: a steady, more predictable sense of self. Instead of bracing for what might come next, we begin to notice that we can meet our experiences with curiosity and choice. That sense of steadiness becomes the ground for healing.
From Powerless to Possibility: The Role of Agency
Agency is more than just the ability to make choices—it’s the recognition that our choices matter. In Trauma-Sensitive Yoga, we learn that the way we move, breathe, and notice our bodies can actually change how we feel in the moment. A single decision to pause, stretch, or take a breath can create a shift in our bodies, helping us move toward presence.
Over time, these small moments of choice remind us of something even bigger: we are not stuck. We can influence how our bodies feel, and in doing so, we begin to influence the trajectory of our lives. Agency gives us the capacity to move from surviving toward thriving—one intentional choice at a time.
When we discover agency—the ability to shift how we feel and the course of our lives—we create the foundation for stronger, more authentic connections with others. Healing begins inside and ripples outward, carried forward on the currents of connection.
Strengthening Relationships Through Inner Steadiness
As we begin to build a greater sense of safety and agency within ourselves, it often shifts how we relate to others. When we feel steadier on the inside, we can show up in our relationships with more presence and ease.
We might notice moments where we can pause and respond more thoughtfully instead of reacting right away. We may find it feels a little easier to share honestly, because we’re more connected to our own voice. Over time, we can begin to create boundaries that respect both our own needs and the needs of those around us.
The healing we cultivate inside doesn’t stay inside—it ripples outward, helping us build relationships that feel safer, stronger, and more authentic.
Practicing Together: The Power of Non-Verbal Connection
Another unique part of trauma sensitive yoga is the experience of practicing alongside a facilitator. It’s not a teacher–student dynamic where one person instructs and the other follows. Instead, both the facilitator and participants are practicing together—each noticing sensations in their own body in the same shared space.
This creates a non-verbal connection that can feel deeply healing. To move and breathe alongside someone who is modeling healthy presence, respect, and choice—without judgment or pressure—offers a new experience of relationship. It’s a way of being with another person that is safe, grounded, and mutual.
Over time, this experience can carry into future relationships. Practicing non-verbal presence with someone trustworthy helps us learn that connection doesn’t have to mean control or fear. It can mean mutual respect, safety, and authenticity. This new template of relationship can become a foundation for building healthier, more supportive connections beyond the yoga space.
Currents of Connection
Trauma-Sensitive Yoga is more than movement—it’s a practice of rebuilding our relationship with ourselves and, through that, creating deeper connections with others. By cultivating safety, predictability, and agency, we nurture qualities like trust, openness, and compassion that allow relationships to grow in healthier, more supportive ways.
Healing begins within, but it doesn’t stop there. Like water flowing outward, each time we practice presence, each time we choose what feels right for us, each time we meet ourselves with kindness—it extends into our relationships and communities.
What if feeling understood didn’t depend on finding the right words?
What if connection could start with simply being in the same space, breathing or moving at your own pace, and knowing the other person is truly with you?
Many of us have had moments where talking didn’t feel like enough—when we wished someone could just get us without us having to explain. This is the heart of attunement through the body—an experience of being met, not with words, but with presence and shared humanity.
Building Well-Being Through Connection
When we’ve been through something stressful or overwhelming, the way others respond matters more than we often realize. If you’ve ever felt unseen, dismissed, or not believed—especially after something painful—you know how isolating that can be. It can make connection feel risky, even in relationships that seem safe. This is even more true when the difficult or harmful experiences happened in relationship—particularly those marked by control, neglect, or disconnection. The wound often leaves the body believing it has to choose between connection and safety. Even when those events are long past, we may find ourselves bracing, holding back, or disconnecting just to protect ourselves.
Attuning through the body offers a different way of relating. It’s not about finding the perfect advice or response, and it’s not about rehashing the past. It’s about being alongside someone in a way that says, without words: I’m here with you, and I’m also here with myself. This kind of connection matters because our bodies and nervous systems are always reading cues from the people around us. When someone can stay steady and present without trying to fix us or pull us into their pace, our system can begin to settle. That settling is where the possibility for trust and change begins.
Attunement in the body creates the chance to be in connection without feeling pressured, to take up space without fear of intrusion, and to feel mutual respect without a hierarchy. Over time, these moments can give the nervous system a new reference point—one that shows it is possible to be connected and still keep hold of yourself.
Connected in Experience
When you’re attuned to yourself, you’re paying attention to your own internal state—your breath, body sensations, emotional cues, and energy. You notice when you’re grounded, when you’re tense, when your breath shifts. This self-awareness isn’t for self-focus alone—it’s the foundation for being truly present with another person.
From there, you can meet someone without needing them to match your pace, mood, or state. Instead, your steady internal presence becomes a cue of safety for them. You’re not just reacting to their signals—you’re in a kind of parallel process where you remain connected to yourself and open to them at the same time.
Builds Mutuality: This isn’t one person “fixing” the other—it’s two people each having their own experience, in the same space, in a way that honors both.Attunement in a body-based setting is not one person giving the other an experience. It’s about each person—whether you’re a participant or a facilitator—having their own personal experience at the same time.
Creates Safety: When you’re grounded, the other person’s nervous system can sense it. This is especially important for people with stress or trauma histories, whose bodies are constantly scanning for cues of danger or safety.
Prevents Overriding: If you lose connection with yourself, you’re more likely to override their needs, push your own agenda, or subtly “pull” them toward your state. Staying with yourself allows you to respect their pace and process.
You might be quietly noticing sensations in your shoulders, the rhythm of your breath, or the impulse to shift position. The other person, at the very same moment, is tuned into their own body’s signals. Neither one is trying to match the other or make the other’s experience happen. Yet, there is connection. It’s a mutual awareness that says: We’re both here, and neither of us has to leave ourselves to be together in this moment.
When both people are tuned into themselves, the connection between them becomes more genuine—rooted in presence rather than performance. It’s a kind of meeting that happens beneath the surface, where each person can feel the other’s authenticity without anything needing to be said. This is not something that can be forced or faked—it’s something that arises naturally when both people are grounded in their own bodies and open to the moment.
In these instances, trust begins to grow—not because of the perfect words or gestures, but because both people can sense that what is being shared is real. The body knows when it’s safe to relax, when it’s being respected, and when the other person is truly there. That mutual awareness creates a quiet, steady foundation for connection, where neither person has to give up themselves to stay in relationship.
Over time, these moments weave together into something lasting—a felt knowing that connection and selfhood can exist together. And once the body learns this, it becomes easier to enter into new relationships, experiences, and conversations with openness rather than fear.
Connection You Can Feel
You don’t have to talk it all through for connection to happen. In fact, sometimes words can pull you out of the very experience you most need to feel. Attunement through movement or presence often happens in subtle ways—moving in a rhythm that feels natural, breathing without trying to sync up, or responding to small shifts in posture and energy. It can also mean being in the same space without the pressure to make eye contact or fill every pause with conversation.
Attunement doesn’t have to happen only in a formal practice space—it can arise in all kinds of shared activities where each person is tuned into themselves while also aware of the other. Hiking side by side on a quiet trail, for example, allows for a shared rhythm of steps and breath, without the need for constant conversation. Walking through a neighborhood together can offer the same sense of connection, where pauses, pace changes, and moments of noticing become shared experiences. In a yoga class, attunement might emerge when two people practice in the same room, each exploring their own movements but held in the energy of the group. Even in other forms of movement—like tai chi, dancing, or paddling a canoe—there’s an opportunity to be in your own body while also subtly syncing with another’s presence. These moments build relational trust non-verbally, creating a quiet but powerful bridge between self-awarenes.
Choosing Connection, One Movement at a Time
When movement is used—not as a performance to get right, but as an open exploration—it becomes a living conversation between two people. The aim isn’t to choreograph an outcome or get somewhere specific, but to be in the moment together. Each of us stays rooted in our own body while also staying aware of the other’s presence. You’re with yourself, I’m with myself—and we are also with each other.
In this space, there’s no pressure to match or mirror perfectly. We each move, pause, and breathe according to our own needs, yet the awareness of one another becomes part of the experience. This isn’t about leading or following—it’s about moving alongside, in a way that says, Your pace is welcome here, and so is mine.
Over time, these shared moments begin to build something that words often can’t: trust. Trust that the connection between us can hold differences without breaking. Trust that you can express yourself without fear of being corrected or hurried. Trust that I can stay with my own sensations and choices while still being attuned to yours.
This kind of trust grows slowly, often quietly, but it’s deeply stabilizing. It’s not only trust in the relationship—it’s also trust in yourself. The more you feel that your own rhythms, signals, and responses are valid and worth listening to, the easier it becomes to stay present in connection. That’s when relationship stops feeling like a risk and starts feeling like a place of possibility.
The Space Where We Meet
Attunement isn’t something one person does to another. It’s something both people engage in, moment by moment. You listen to your body. I listen to mine. We share a space where no one has to match or fix the other.
In that shared, unforced space, something important shifts. The body begins to believe: It’s possible to be connected and still be myself. That realization is more than a fleeting moment—it’s a re-patterning. It tells your nervous system, I don’t have to abandon myself to stay in relationship.
Once that possibility is felt, it becomes a living resource you can return to again and again. It’s there when you navigate a difficult conversation with a friend, when you set a boundary at work, when you choose rest instead of pushing past exhaustion. It reminds you that connection doesn’t have to mean compliance, and that self-trust can exist right alongside relationship.
Over time, this felt experience strengthens like a muscle. You start to notice earlier when you’re leaving yourself to please, perform, or protect. You begin to recognize the cues—tight shoulders, shallow breath, a pull to disconnect—and instead of overriding them, you respond with care. The more often you practice staying with yourself while staying with another, the more natural it becomes.
And in that, relationships shift too. They feel less like a negotiation for safety and more like a space where two whole people can meet—each grounded in their own center, each offering presence without losing themselves. This is the heart of attunement: not matching perfectly, not fixing, but being together in a way that makes room for both people to belong fully.
If you’ve ever longed for connection that feels natural, safe, and without pressure—or if you want to learn how to create that space for others—body based attunement through relationship is a profound place to begin.
Wishing You Wellness,
Keri Sawyer
P.S. Stay tuned: The next blog will explore how turning inward can deepen the connections we build outward.
As yoga teachers and facilitators, it’s easy to believe that we are responsible for giving our students an experience—a moment of calm, a sense of peace, a meaningful release. This belief often comes from a sincere place of wanting to help. But what if we paused and asked: Am I creating space for an experience, or am I trying to give one?
There is a profound difference between the two.
Giving someone an experience can unintentionally become a kind of imposition—a subtle message that we know what should be happening for them. Allowing someone to have an experience, on the other hand, honors their internal wisdom. It shifts the role of the teacher from director to compassionate companion.
Many of us have been trained—explicitly or implicitly—to give an experience. We’ve been taught to lead from the front, to cue with certainty, and to keep the room flowing. There’s nothing inherently wrong with this approach, but it’s important to name it. When we stay in that mode too long, we can unintentionally bypass a deeper opportunity: the chance to help others access their own, real-time experience of self-awareness and choice.
And often, we teach from what we’ve been taught. We repeat language, patterns, and cues because they were given to us—sometimes without pausing to ask whether they are truly aligned with our own felt sense of teaching. This isn’t a failure; it’s a starting point. But over time, the invitation is to turn inward. To ask: Am I guiding from my own embodied knowing, or from someone else’s map? Am I creating space for others to connect with their own journey of breath and movement—or am I unknowingly scripting it for them?
When we as facilitators practice introspection, we begin to notice when our guidance is rooted in someone else’s facilitation versus when it emerges from a relational, responsive moment. We stop trying to control or perform, and instead begin to co-create space that is alive and real.
Creating Conditions for Introspection, Not Outcomes
Yoga, at its heart, is an introspective practice. When we try to create a specific experience for others, we risk overlaying our own needs or assumptions onto their process. We might be subtly responding to our own desire to feel useful, meaningful, or liked—and that’s human. But it’s not what creates the deepest healing space.
In many Western yoga spaces, the emphasis has shifted toward following the teacher, floating away on music, and turning off rather than tuning in. That’s not necessarily wrong—it can be restful and enjoyable. But when practiced exclusively, it may disconnect us from the very source of yoga: a living relationship with body, breath, and awareness.
Learning to explore movement as meditation—choosing from the inside out rather than performing—can be a profound experience. And it’s one that only you can have. In that truth, no experience is wrong. Meeting yourself where you are in the moment is the most honest and healing practice there is. And if following along with a class feels right in a given moment, then that is your truth in that moment—and it’s absolutely valid.
Instead of putting something onto our students, we can ask:
Am I giving or guiding based on what I think they need?
Am I allowing space for something organic to arise?
Can I trust the process enough not to control it?
The Role of the Facilitator: Trust, Not Control
The facilitator’s role isn’t to create a perfect experience. It’s to create a safer container where experiences can emerge, shift, and be explored without judgment. It’s to offer tools, not prescriptions; presence, not pressure.
When we drop the need to control outcomes, we make space for something more profound: the reawakening of internal trust. And that trust—in one’s own body, sensations, and timing—is the foundation of lasting, embodied healing.
In the end, being non-directive isn’t about doing less. It’s about doing differently. It’s about honoring our students’ ability to feel, to know, and to heal in their own time.
How We Show Up: Our Energy, Tone, and Intention
Being a facilitator in a non-directive space also means looking at how we show up energetically. Are we arriving with an agenda, even unconsciously? Are we hoping to do something to the room? Or are we willing to be in the experience with our students?
Your tone of voice, pace, and presence communicate just as much as your words. A tone that doesn’t rush, a grounded presence that doesn’t seek to fix or guide too quickly—these cues help co-regulate the space. They say: “You’re safer here. I’m not here to shape your experience, only to support it.”
It’s okay—beautiful, even—to have your own experience while facilitating. You’re not outside the container; you’re part of it. The more relational the space feels, the more students tend to feel that they can be in their own truth.
How to Support an Experience
Supporting others in having an experience means shifting our role from instructor to space-holder—one who opens the door, but doesn’t dictate the path. It means trusting that each person’s process is meaningful, even when it’s quiet, non-linear, or looks different than what we might expect.
Inviting body awareness This begins with gentle language that draws attention inward. For example, saying “You might notice where your body makes contact with the ground” invites someone into a felt experience without judgment or demand. It reconnects them to the here and now and builds the foundation for embodied presence.
Welcoming all experiences This involves affirming that all experiences are valid, not just the calm or centered ones. Saying something like “You’re welcome however it is that you are showing up today” helps remove the pressure to feel a certain way. It tells students: you don’t need to be fixed or improved—you just get to be.
Creating room for self-directed movement True support includes options. Instead of one way, we can say, “You could stay in this shape, come out, or move into something else if you would like.” This honors autonomy and nervous system safety. Choice creates space for curiosity, self-trust, and real-time inner listening.
Allowing the moment to be what it is Perhaps the hardest and most vital piece. Trusting that the experience someone is having is valid—even if it doesn’t look the way you imagined—is the heart of non-directive work. This practice means releasing your own agenda and standing in the belief that each person’s body knows the way, even if it unfolds differently than your own.
This way of teaching is less about choreography and more about collaboration. It says: “I trust you to know what you need—and I’m here with you”
Opening vs. Directing
One of the most practical and impactful ways to embrace a non-directive approach is through the language we use. Instead of short, directive commands like “inhale,” “exhale,” “stand tall,” we can begin to speak in full sentences that offer invitation and possibility:
“You might notice the sensation of your breath as it moves in and out or perhaps you notice a sensation in your mid back.”
“You’re welcome to explore standing and extending through your spine or you might notice your feel against the ground.”
“You might stay here or adjust in any way that that works for your body in this moment.”
This language leaves room for the person to stay in choice, to listen to their body, and to respond in a way that feels safe and attuned. It is not passive; it is spacious.
Exploration becomes meaningful when it comes from within. When students feel a posture or movement arising from their own body’s cues—not because we told them to—they’re more likely to connect to that experience as real, as theirs. This kind of internal ownership supports deeper embodiment and trust.
Invite the Shift: Discovery, Not Direction
When the teacher is grounded, centered, and genuinely having their own experience within the practice, it quietly gives others permission to do the same. This inner steadiness isn’t about performance—it’s about presence. When students feel the authenticity of a teacher who is attuned to their own body and breath, it models a way of being that feels safe, honest, and possible. In this way, the teacher’s inner state becomes part of the healing environment, not through control, but through shared humanity and embodied leadership.
Non-directive yoga classes are more than just a teaching style—they represent a fundamental shift in both philosophy and power dynamic. Rather than the facilitator holding all the power, they intentionally create a space where students are empowered to reclaim it for themselves. In this kind of class, the teacher doesn’t offer answers or outcomes—they offer presence.
This shift invites each practitioner to listen inwardly, respond authentically, and trust their own process. It encourages students to be their own guide within the practice, supported—not shaped—by the facilitator. In this shared space, the teacher and the student meet as humans: both exploring, both learning, both growing.
Creating non-directive spaces in yoga is not just a shift in language or style—it’s a shift in philosophy. It’s a commitment to honoring the autonomy, wisdom, and inner timing of each individual. It reminds us that our job is not to deliver transformation, but to make space for it to unfold. In this space, healing becomes more than a possibility—it becomes a personal, empowered, and embodied truth. And that’s what yoga, at its most authentic, is all about.
Wishing You Wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS – My next blog will explore attunement—how we connect with ourselves and with others in grounded, embodied ways. It’s about more than just presence—it’s about meaningful connection. We’ll look at what it means to truly listen inward and feel seen in relationship. Stay tuned—this is a conversation that invites reflection, curiosity, and care.
In many wellness and therapeutic spaces, we’re often told what to feel, how to move, or what healing should look like. But for many people—especially those recovering from trauma or nervous system dysregulation—this kind of direction can feel overwhelming, even re-traumatizing.
That’s where the non-directive approach to somatic therapy comes in. It’s slower. Deeply respectful. And it begins with a simple belief: Your body already knows.
What Does “Non-Directive” Mean?
In traditional or more directive therapy, the practitioner might lead the process by suggesting specific techniques, postures, breathing patterns, or emotional releases. While this can be helpful in certain contexts, it can also unintentionally override the your sense of agency (that you can change the way your body feels) or safety—especially if you feel you “should” go along, even when it doesn’t feel right.
A non-directive somatic approach flips that script. Instead of guiding or pushing, the practitioner creates space for your experience.
This means:
You’re not told how to feel something.
You’re not rushed to “release” or “fix” anything.
You’re never pressured to go deeper than what feels right.
You are always asked, never told. Your body is the guide.
Why Non-Coercion Is Essential in Somatic Work
For many people, trauma involves a loss of choice: being told what to do, being touched without consent, or being stuck in situations that felt unsafe. These experiences don’t just live in memory—they live in the body. The nervous system remembers what it feels like to have no say.
So when therapy—even somatic therapy—is overly directive or structured, it can unintentionally recreate that same dynamic. It might feel subtle, but it can still land as pressure or even threat.
Non-coercive work means:
You can pause, shift, or say no at any time
Nothing is expected or required of you
Your boundaries are honored as they arise
This isn’t about avoiding challenge—it’s about creating the conditions where you can be met with support. When choice and voice are present, the body can begin to feel what safety really is—not as a concept, but as a lived experience.
What If I Just Want to Be Told What to Do?
This is a completely valid feeling. In fact, it’s an incredibly important one. Wanting to be told what to do is often an intelligent survival strategy—especially for those who have lived through trauma, codependency, or environments where autonomy wasn’t safe.
In these situations, giving away choice can feel like:
Relief from internal pressure
A way to avoid judgment or failure
A way to stay safe in relationships or systems that punished dissent
While this strategy may have protected you in the past, it can also keep you from reconnecting with your own wisdom. This approach gently rebuilds your muscle of choice-making — without force.
It helps you move from external authority to internal guidance, without judgment or pressure. Over time, your body learns: It’s safe to choose. It’s safe to listen to myself. I can trust what I feel.
This is what makes this so powerful: It doesn’t push you to be “independent” or figure it all out. It helps you rediscover that your choices matter—and always have.
What Changes – When You Stop Trying to Change
With this approach the focus is less on fixing a symptom or reaching a specific outcome—and more on simply being with what’s here, just as it is, in a supportive and relational way. There’s no pushing, no pressure to get somewhere else. The body isn’t treated like a problem to solve, but like a part of us that longs to be heard.
Because healing doesn’t come from force. It doesn’t come from trying harder, or from overriding what we feel. Healing comes from listening. From allowing. From the present moment. When we stop trying to fix and instead offer deep permission to just be, something begins to shift. And the body starts to unwind—not on demand, but in its own time, in its own way.
This gentle approach invites trust. Trust that you don’t have to force change for change to happen. It’s in this spaciousness—in the absence of pressure, in the presence of connection—that real healing begins to take root.
You’re Not Being Led—You’re Being Accompanied
Something powerful happens when the practitioner walks beside you- not an expert who takes the lead.
You can begin to feel a sense of trust in yourself. You can notice what’s happening in your body and realize you have options. You can begin to understand that what you feel matters, and you get to decide what’s right for you in each moment.
Over time, this builds a steady kind of confidence. You can also experience what it’s like to feel safe in relationship—not just because someone says it’s safe, but because it actually feels that way. You are met with patience and respect. There’s room for you to be exactly as you are, without pressure or expectation.
This is the foundation for embodied healing. Healing that begins from within. Healing that doesn’t rely on someone else having the answers, but grows as you listen to their own body and follows what feels supportive.
And it all begins when the client is given space to take the lead.
Healing in Relationship
This work isn’t something that you do alone. It’s something that unfolds between two people—together. When the practitioner is also attuned to their own body—pausing, noticing, breathing—they’re quietly saying: “I’m here with you. I’m listening to my own body too.”
This shared presence creates a different kind of safety. It’s not about one person fixing another. It’s about two nervous systems learning how to be with what’s real—side by side, moment by moment. When the practitioner stays connected to their own somatic experience, it opens the door for you to do the same. Without words, it communicates: “You don’t have to do this alone.”
In this kind of relationship, healing becomes less of a task and more of a natural unfolding. A gentle return to connection—within, and between.
Something to Carry With You
A non-directive somatic approach isn’t about doing less. It’s about doing what’s most aligned with how healing really happens: through relationship, choice, and presence.
It’s not about a practitioner “healing” you. It’s about you returning to your own body, your own timing, and your own truth—with someone by your side who truly honors that.
Your body already knows. Sometimes, it just needs the space to speak.
Wishing you wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS – The next blog will be about how to bring non-directive approaches specifically into yoga spaces and what that looks like – Stay tuned!
Stepping into Wellness 