“The body always brings us home… if we want to listen.”
For over a decade I lived in my body trying to tell me what I wasn’t ready to hear. But in the end, he cried out loud enough to make the message unwilling to ignore.
It started with a migraine – always on the left side.
Then there was a series of sinus infections and dental problems.
A mass formed on my left breast. Then the pain in my left rib bone. Next, the left side of the numbness that the doctor had an MRI performed for multiple sclerosis. All the tests are back to normal. Still, my body felt anything.
At one point I even developed pains in my left arm and numbness in my left arm which made everyday tasks difficult. My body was technically functional. But it felt like one side of me was closed. Whisper. protest. I have something I didn’t admit.
For years I joked that the left side of my body was about to revolt. But beneath the joke there was a persistent unrest. Questions you don’t want to ask loudly: What if my body is saddened by something that doesn’t make me feel?
The side I abandoned
At the time I was left with an emotionally abusive relationship. I moved to a new town that no one knew. I had three young children and a car that was barely working. My sister died of breast cancer at just 28 years old. That was a lot. excessively. But there was no time to fall apart.
So I kept moving. I’ve hardened. I’m highly functional, resilient and always “fine.” I made sure the bill was paid, the kids were fed and my ex couldn’t find us. But the cost of staying “strong” was that I stopped being the real thing.
There was no time for softness. I didn’t have any space for sadness. I had no energy to ask for help and didn’t admit that I needed it.
Looking back, I realize that I’m not just leaving the relationship. I left myself.
Particularly the softer, slower, and more intuitive parts. The part that made me cry easily. The part I curled up under a warm blanket and asked for a hug. The part that allowed joy, creativity and even rest.
These parts felt dangerous in life, where survival was our only priority.
And I shut them down.
Feminine aspects – inflamed with ignol
In many spiritual and energetic traditions, the left side of the body is associated with a woman. Receptiveness, emotions, intuition, nurturing, moon, mother. The right side is often associated with a masculine thing.
I lived almost completely on the right. It’s doing everything. Control what I can do. I pushed every feeling so deeply, I couldn’t even find it anymore.
My left side? Did my part feel, soft, surrendered? She was abandoned.
And slowly, to the point of pain, she began to break down.
How my body spoke when I couldn’t
Looking back, I can see that the symptoms were not random. They were amazing. My body communicated through physical discomfort in the only way I was willing to listen to. Through the pain. Through the pattern.
It reflected the exact part of me I was taught, that I was suppressed by trauma, by culture, by survival.
The part of me that needed softness. The part I longed for sadness. The part that I wanted to keep, not just bringing it all together.
My body wasn’t malfunctioning – it was mourning.
She was saddened by the years I spent silent. She was exhausted from pretending everything was fine. She was hoping I would come back to her.
I’ll slowly go home
There was no “aha” moment. No diagnosis. There are no major mental breakthroughs. Just remember. A small rebellion against numbness.
I began walking silently every morning. There is no music or podcasts. Just me, the trees, and the sounds of my breath.
I sat outside with my tea and watched the steam rise instead of scrolling. I held my gaze into the mirror and whispered, “I miss you. Let’s try again.”
I cried when I needed it. And sometimes when I didn’t.
I placed my hand on my chest – on the left – “I will meet you. I am listening to you. I am here.” That was everything I could do. One day, that was enough.
There was a set time. There was a moment when I decided not to do anything more. But even as shame tried to bring me back into survival mode, I continued to show up in softness.
I stopped forcing joy. I stopped apologizing for being tired. I stopped pretending that “putting it all together” is some kind of virtue. Instead, I quietly committed to holding myself.
An invisible work of healing
The healing wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t impressive from the outside. It was a job that no one would see: defeating invitations when you need to rest. Instead, you’ll have lots of laundry sit in the dryer while you sit with emotions. Choose the softness when the old pattern screams for control.
I read about the regulation of the nervous system and the vagus nerve. I have learned that trauma is not just psychological, but physical. It lives in tissue, fascia and breathing. It is hidden by a clenched jaw, narrow hips and shallow breaths.
I began to move slowly and calmly, which made me feel safe in my body again – not “productive” but “fit”, but safe. I allowed myself to stretch it out to be worthy of space. I let go of the voice in my head.
I took a salt bath and made art for no reason. I danced barefoot in the kitchen because there was no audience. Connectivity, love, softness, tranquility, beauty, I want things again.
And little by little, my body responded.
The pain in my rib bones faded. My migraine on the left side stopped. The numbness has disappeared. Not everything at once, but little by little. It was like my body held my breath, then exhaled slowly.
Lessons I need to learn
I thought healing meant “fixing” myself. The goal was to go back to the woman I was in before everything fell apart.
Now I know: the woman I used to be never felt safe. She was praised for being strong because no one knew how scary she was. She had to break down.
I didn’t fix what I was really doing. I had reclaimed it. It will restore my softness. I’ll regain my truth. Reclaim your right to be a human, not a machine of performance and perfection.
And now? I’m still learning. I’m still learning that healing isn’t linear. I’m still learning to trust my body wisdom. When something hurts, you learn that it is not always a sign of breakage. That could be a signal of attention. For love.
If you’re reading this and you’re feeling pain, emotionally, physically, energetically – I want you to know this:
You are not broken. You haven’t failed. And you are not alone.
Sometimes our pain asks us to slow down and feel something we cannot feel. Sometimes our symptoms are a sacred message. Go back to yourself. It’s not you were. But just like you are now. whole. worth it. And it’s ready.
