I’ve been doing this 10-minute practice of mindful movement every day for a couple of weeks now. Fourteen days of setting a timer, meeting my body in simple movement, and starting the day with presence instead of just launching straight into doing.
It doesn’t sound like a big thing on paper. Ten minutes. But something has started to change in how I move through the rest of my day. I’m finding that I’m actually noticing my body at times I used to ignore it completely. Moments that would have just blended into the background are starting to feel a little more alive, a little more available to me.
One of those moments happened on the drive to the coast.
It’s about a five-and-a-half-hour drive. (I still count travel in hours—Wisconsin roots.) At some point into the drive, after I’d been on the road awhile, I started to pick up on how much I was shifting around in my seat. I’d lean a bit to one side, then the other. I would slowly slide forward, then push myself back again. None of this was dramatic, but once I saw it, it was clear that my body was trying to get my attention.
Then I noticed my hands.
One hand was clenching the steering wheel on and off. I’d grip, then loosen, then grip again. My fingers felt a little tight. My breath had changed too—more shallow, with little pauses where it felt like I was holding it without meaning to. All of this was happening while, on the surface, I was just driving like normal.
Before these 10-minute sessions, I don’t think I would have caught any of that. I would have kept going, maybe turned up the radio, told myself I’d stop “later,” and pushed through. My body would have been having an experience and I wouldn’t have really been in on it.
This time, I noticed.
I didn’t launch into fixing mode. I didn’t tell myself, “Relax your shoulders, slow your breath, sit up straight.” Instead, I did what I’ve been practicing every morning: I became aware of what was already happening.
I noticed my seat under me. I noticed the shape of my back against the chair. I noticed my hands on the wheel—how they wanted to clench—and just acknowledged that. I didn’t force them to soften; I just stayed with the fact that my hands were telling a story my mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
Somewhere in that noticing, a simple thought arose: “Maybe it’s time for a break.”
That was the important moment. Not the break itself, but the part where I realized my body was speaking up and I actually heard it. I realized I had a choice. I didn’t have to prove anything to myself by driving straight through. I didn’t have to override what I was feeling.
A little further down the road, there was a turnoff with bathrooms and a place to stop. I pulled over, got out of the car, stretched my legs, moved a bit, and let my system reset before getting back on the road.
It was a small pause in the grand scheme of things. But it felt significant because I could also feel how easily I could have missed it. I almost talked myself out of it—almost told myself, “You’re fine, just keep going.” That old pattern is still there. The difference now is that practice is giving me enough presence to see the pattern while it’s happening, not just after the fact.
The shift wasn’t really about the rest stop or even about feeling the ground under my feet, although that helped. The deeper shift was this: I was more in my body in that moment. I could see what was happening inside me, and from that seeing, I could choose.
That’s what these 10 minutes of mindful movement each day are starting to do in my life. They’re helping me remember that I actually have a body, that it has information for me, and that when I notice that information, more options open up. Instead of going on autopilot, I can pause. I can decide. I can respond.
Presence, for me, is becoming less about doing something “right” and more about being able to say, even in the middle of a long drive: “I notice what’s happening in me right now. And I get to choose what I do next.”
Presence deepens not by doing, but by noticing what’s already here.
Wishing you wellness,
Keri Sawyer
PS – you’re welcome to join me in my journey if 90 days of presence, Facebook live every morning through Jan 30 at 5:30am PT:
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.
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.
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.
In a world that often demands more than our nervous systems were ever designed to manage, learning how to balance our internal state is not just helpful—it’s transformational. When our nervous systems are in balance, we experience life with more clarity, resilience, and connection. We feel safe in our bodies, steady in our relationships, and capable of responding rather than reacting.
But nervous system balance isn’t just about managing stress. It’s about creating healing. And that healing doesn’t always happen in the storm—it often happens in the quiet moments we create on purpose.
Not Just Self-Regulation—This is Healing Work
Too often, nervous system work is viewed as something we do only when we’re overwhelmed—a set of tools to de-escalate panic or calm ourselves under pressure. While those strategies are essential and life-saving in many moments, they are just the beginning.
Most nervous system techniques help us hold pain: to stay with difficult sensations or emotions without collapsing or exploding. But the deeper potential lies beyond holding. When we begin to work with our nervous system intentionally—in the present moment—we open the door to true repair and reconnection.
Healing doesn’t happen just by regulating during distress—it happens when we work with the nervous system in a state of safety and openness.
This is when the nervous system can learn, reorganize, and rewire. It’s how we move from survival into a more authentic, empowered way of being.
One of the most important insights from trauma research is this: trauma is not stored in the past—it’s stored in the now of the body. The nervous system does not register time in the way the thinking brain does. If something was too overwhelming to process safely, the body holds onto it and continues to signal danger—even if the threat is long gone.
Trauma Is Timeless. The Body Holds the Key.
This is why talk therapy or logic alone isn’t enough. Trauma creates a disconnection between body and brain, disrupting the circuits that help us feel, interpret, and respond to experience with clarity. Healing requires us to reestablish that connection—not through rehashing the past, but by building safety in the present moment.
The Brain-Body Connection and the Power of Safety
Neuroscience shows us that the brain and nervous system are deeply responsive to experience. Through neuroplasticity, we can create new patterns—but only when the nervous system feels safe enough to learn.
Trying to regulate or “heal” while in a high-stress state often reinforces survival pathways. In contrast, when we gently engage the nervous system in calm, resourced moments—through breath, movement, or co-regulation—we begin to reshape how the brain and body relate to threat, identity, and emotion.
This is more than self-regulation. This is repair.
Why Non-Coercive, Non-Directive Practices Matter
True healing cannot be imposed—it must emerge from within. This is why non-coercive, non-directive body-based therapies are so powerful. Rather than guiding someone into an experience, we hold space for their own experience to arise. In this model, the facilitator is not the authority on what healing looks like—the participant is.
When we allow individuals to move at their own pace, with full autonomy over their body and their process, we foster a sense of agency and trust that is foundational for nervous system healing. There is no agenda, no narrative required. Simply noticing what arises in the body—without judgment, interpretation, or story—is enough to begin restoring the brain-body connection.
This approach cultivates empowerment in the here and now. It honors that the keys to healing live within the individual, not in someone else’s insights or instructions. The body knows what it needs. When given space, support, and safety, it begins to lead the way.
Living in Alignment with Your Nervous System
Living in alignment with your nervous system is not about striving for control or perfection—it’s about building a relationship with yourself that is rooted in safety, attunement, and trust.
It means:
Rebuilding the connection from body to brain, nurturing a sense of inner communication and wholeness
Engaging in mindfulness that honors your embodied experience, strengthening patterns of presence and coherence
Staying within your window of tolerance—Noticing when you feel supported, stable, and grounded, without needing to push beyond what feels manageable
Making space for your body’s wisdom to guide you, Allowing yourself to be exactly where you are
Choosing practices that prioritize safety, curiosity, and presence, not just performance or outcome
Allowing your healing to unfold in the present, not just in response to the past
When we live in alignment with our nervous systems, we move from effort to ease—from surviving to truly belonging in our own skin.
The Invitation
Balancing your nervous system is not about getting it “right.” It’s about coming home to your body, again and again—perhaps with curiosity, compassion, and care.
When you stop trying to fix the past and start building safety in the now, something powerful begins to happen: You stop just holding the pain—and start healing.
Wishing You Wellness,
Keri Sawyer
P.S.
If you would like to learn more about Nervous System Balance, Check out a workshop with Keri in Sept 2025 Here
Next Blog: There’s a deep wisdom within every person—one that can’t be given, only uncovered. Non-directive healing invites practioners to step back, to trust that the answers don’t come from us, but from within the client. It’s not our insight that transforms—it’s their discovery. When we stop directing and start honoring their pace, their story, their knowing—real, lasting healing can finally begin.I t’s not about leading the way. It’s about walking beside someone as they find their own. Learn more about non directive healing with my next post!
Stepping into Wellness 