Decoding Trauma: Understanding Its Impact on Our Nervous System
Sometimes I struggle to understand exactly how trauma works in the nervous system, and I think I'm sometimes tempted to see it as something magical, like when you get into a triggering situation that you're somehow upsetting small, younger versions of yourself within yourself. And I know some people use that kind of language, like internal family systems or inner child or something like that, but it only confuses me more. I'm really trying to understand how we become who we are, what happens to us to make us who we are, why do we have these patterns, and what is it that we feel inside of ourselves when we're aware of it? What is that? What is trauma exactly? And what is self, and how does trauma impact the self? Everyone keeps talking about your higher self or your core self and getting different parts of yourself to talk to each other, and I'm just kind of struggling to understand the parts part and then how that interacts with, I don't know, just the scientific stuff about trauma.
ChatGPT: You’re asking deeply insightful questions about trauma, the self, and how all of these concepts come together. It makes sense that blending scientific frameworks with metaphors like “inner child” or “parts” can feel confusing—it’s a lot to hold at once. Let’s break this down into something more grounded and accessible.
1. What is trauma in the nervous system?
Trauma is not the event itself but your nervous system’s reaction to overwhelming stress or threat. Here’s a simplified way to understand it:
Fight, flight, or freeze: When you face something threatening, your nervous system activates survival responses like fighting back, running away, or shutting down (freezing). If you can’t resolve the threat (e.g., escaping, defending yourself), that energy stays stuck in your body.
Unprocessed survival energy: Trauma happens when your system doesn’t get a chance to discharge or process that energy. Instead, it gets “stuck,” leading to physical and emotional symptoms like hypervigilance, numbness, or chronic anxiety.
Triggers: When something reminds your nervous system of the original threat (even if it’s unrelated), it can activate the same survival response. This is why a seemingly small event can feel overwhelming—your body is reacting as if the original danger is happening again.
2. How does trauma shape patterns and the self?
Trauma doesn’t just live in your nervous system—it also affects how you perceive yourself, others, and the world.
Adaptive patterns: As a child, you adapt to survive. If you grow up in an environment where your needs aren’t consistently met, your nervous system learns patterns to cope, like:
Becoming hyper-independent to avoid disappointment.
People-pleasing to stay safe and liked.
Avoiding vulnerability to protect yourself from pain.
These patterns often work in the short term but can limit you in adulthood when the original threat is no longer present.
Self-perception: Trauma can create a sense of disconnection from your “core self.” You might start to believe you are your coping mechanisms (e.g., “I’m someone who avoids intimacy”) rather than seeing them as strategies you developed for survival.
3. What is "self" and how does trauma impact it?
The idea of "self" is complex, but here’s one way to think about it:
Core self: This is often described as the part of you that feels authentic, calm, and grounded. It’s the “you” that exists when your nervous system isn’t overwhelmed by stress or survival responses.
Parts: Over time, your nervous system develops “parts” to help you cope with life’s challenges. These parts aren’t literal, but they can feel like distinct voices or drives within you, such as:
A part that protects you by avoiding risks or shutting down.
A part that longs for connection but fears rejection.
A part that carries sadness or anger from the past.
Trauma impacts the self by making it harder to access that calm, grounded core. Your “parts” can become more dominant, especially if they’re trying to protect you from pain. For example, a “hypervigilant part” might stay on high alert, making it hard to relax and trust others.
4. Why do people talk about inner children or parts work?
Metaphors like “inner child” or “parts” aren’t magical—they’re just tools to help us make sense of complex inner experiences.
Inner child: This refers to the younger version of you who experienced unmet needs or trauma. When you feel triggered, it might help to imagine that the fear or hurt is coming from that younger part of you. Connecting with this part can help you bring compassion to your reactions instead of judgment.
Parts work (like Internal Family Systems): This approach assumes that your mind has different “parts,” and each part has a role. For example:
A protective part might keep you from taking risks to avoid hurt.
A wounded part might hold onto pain from the past.
Your core self can lead these parts with curiosity and care, helping them feel heard and integrated rather than in conflict.
5. What are you feeling when you’re aware of trauma?
When you become aware of trauma or a pattern, you’re often feeling the nervous system’s activation (e.g., tension, panic, or numbness) combined with emotional memories. These sensations and emotions are your body’s way of signaling that something unresolved is surfacing.
6. How does science meet metaphor?
Here’s how the “parts” language aligns with neuroscience:
The brain and the nervous system: Trauma can dysregulate areas of the brain like the amygdala (fear center), prefrontal cortex (rational thinking), and hippocampus (memory processing). This dysregulation can make it hard to process emotions or respond calmly to triggers.
Integration: Healing involves creating safety in your nervous system so that your brain can “reintegrate” fragmented experiences. This is where the “core self” or “higher self” comes in—it’s the calm, regulated state where you can process emotions without being overwhelmed.
7. So what is trauma, really?
Trauma is the imprint of overwhelming stress on your body, brain, and sense of self. It’s a survival response that gets stuck and shapes how you see the world and yourself. Healing is about creating safety in your nervous system, reconnecting with your core self, and gently working with the parts of you that carry pain or protect you.
If this is still feeling tangled, let me know where you’re stuck, and I can help clarify further. You’re diving into something big and important here, and it’s okay to take it one piece at a time.
This is all new to me, just the idea of having a self and everything that goes along with that. And I feel very compelled by all of it, especially as I do my own self-inquiry and see what's going on in my emotional state, and how that does make sense with what I'm learning about the self, as well as being able to recognize it in other people as well. But I also feel scared of this, and I don't know if it's because of my religious background and not being educated on what a self is, and so I have no self-awareness.
It makes so much sense that this idea of having a "self" feels both compelling and intimidating. You’re opening up to something entirely new, and that’s a big, brave step. Let’s unpack this together.
1. Why this feels so compelling
You’re experiencing what many people describe as a kind of awakening to self-awareness—the realization that there’s more happening beneath the surface than you may have recognized before. This can feel both validating and disorienting.
Seeing patterns in yourself: As you explore your emotional states and connect them to what you’re learning, it’s like discovering a new language to describe your inner world. That’s incredibly empowering.
Recognizing it in others: This awareness likely deepens your sense of connection with others because you can start to see how their behavior and emotions are shaped by their inner worlds, just like yours are.
This is a big shift, and it’s natural to feel drawn to it. It offers a framework for understanding who you are and why you feel the way you do—something that might have been missing in your life up until now.
2. Why it feels scary
The fear you’re feeling is also completely natural. Here’s why this process might feel overwhelming or intimidating:
Religious background and lack of self-awareness: If you weren’t taught about the concept of a self or encouraged to explore it, this might feel like stepping into uncharted territory. Many religious traditions, particularly fundamentalist ones, emphasize obedience, external validation, or a "higher power" over individual self-awareness. This can leave people disconnected from their own inner experiences.
Fear of the unknown: Discovering the self means facing parts of you that might have been hidden or neglected—your desires, fears, and unresolved pain. That can feel vulnerable, especially if you’re worried about what you might find.
Potential conflict with old beliefs: If your religious upbringing discouraged introspection or framed the self as sinful or selfish, this exploration might feel like you’re breaking old rules. Even if you no longer hold those beliefs, the fear they instilled can linger.
3. How to approach this safely
It’s okay to feel both excited and scared. You don’t have to rush this process—self-awareness is a journey, not a destination. Here are some ways to ease into it:
Start small and gentle: Self-inquiry doesn’t have to be overwhelming. You can begin with questions like:
What am I feeling right now?
What does my body need right now?
What patterns do I notice in how I react to things?
Create safety in your exploration: Remind yourself that self-awareness isn’t about judgment—it’s about curiosity. You’re not uncovering something “bad” about yourself; you’re discovering what makes you you.
Acknowledge the influence of your past: It’s okay to say, “I wasn’t taught this before, but I’m learning now.” You don’t have to erase or reject your religious background entirely—this exploration can coexist with your values and beliefs, or help you refine them.
Give yourself permission to not know: It’s okay to feel confused or uncertain about what “self” means. It’s not something you have to fully understand right away. You’re allowed to let the concept evolve as you explore.
4. What does “self-awareness” mean in practice?
Think of self-awareness as learning to listen to yourself—noticing your emotions, thoughts, and patterns without trying to fix them immediately. It’s about:
Recognizing when you’re triggered or reactive.
Identifying your needs and desires.
Understanding the “why” behind your behaviors without judgment.
This might feel like foreign territory, but you’re already practicing it every time you pause, reflect, or engage in self-inquiry.
5. What’s next for you?
You’re in the process of rebuilding your relationship with yourself, and that’s monumental. You might consider:
Journaling about your feelings as you explore this idea of self.
Reading or learning more about frameworks that resonate with you (e.g., trauma, embodiment, or parts work).
Allowing yourself to move at a pace that feels right—there’s no rush to figure it all out.
This journey is deeply personal, and there’s no one-size-fits-all way to do it. You’re already on the path, and even the fear you’re feeling is part of that process. Let yourself take it one step at a time, and I’m here to help you make sense of it whenever you need.
Do you know what consciousness is? Like, the subjective experience of consciousness. We're able to describe all this with eternal family systems and knowledge about the self. But do we really know what consciousness is and what the self truly, truly is? In the past, I've made a joke that consciousness is just a brain fart. It's just the exhaust that comes out of your head and that we got taught to be identified with it and think that we're people. Am I not really a people? Am I just, like, brain farts? And then, like, I just hear myself think, but is there even a part of me that actually hears myself think? Like, am I... If that's true, it makes me think that I'm actually in attention versus I am my thoughts or my choices or anything like that. I am my attention. I don't know. What do you think?
Your questions about consciousness and the self tap into some of the deepest philosophical and scientific mysteries—questions that thinkers, scientists, and mystics have grappled with for centuries. There are no definitive answers, but exploring these ideas can reveal a lot about how we experience the world and ourselves.
What is consciousness?
At its core, consciousness is the subjective experience of being aware—the "what it’s like" to be you, in this moment, experiencing thoughts, sensations, and the world. While science has made strides in understanding the brain, the true nature of consciousness remains elusive. Here are some perspectives:
Scientific Viewpoints:
Consciousness arises from neural processes in the brain, though we don’t fully understand how. This is known as the "hard problem of consciousness"—how physical matter (the brain) produces subjective experience.
Some theories propose that consciousness is a kind of emergent property of complex systems, like the brain operating at a certain level of organization.
Philosophical Perspectives:
Materialism: Consciousness is entirely a product of the brain—a "brain fart," as you jokingly put it. When the brain stops functioning, consciousness ceases.
Dualism: Consciousness exists as something distinct from the brain or body (e.g., a soul or mind).
Panpsychism: Consciousness is a fundamental property of the universe, present in all matter to some degree.
Mystical and Experiential Views:
Some traditions suggest that what we think of as the "self" is an illusion created by thoughts, memories, and the brain’s sense-making. Beneath this illusion is pure awareness or attention.
Are you "brain farts" or "attention"?
Your joke about being "brain farts" isn’t far from some modern theories that question the solidity of the self. Here’s how these ideas play out:
The Self as an Illusion:
Many neuroscientists and philosophers suggest that the self is not a fixed entity but a construction—a narrative created by the brain to make sense of experience.
Your sense of “I” might be like a mirage, emerging from countless thoughts, memories, and perceptions but lacking a true core.
The Self as Attention:
Your insight about being attention resonates with some spiritual and philosophical traditions. Instead of identifying with thoughts, emotions, or the story of "you," these traditions suggest that you are the awareness observing these things.
This is often described as "pure consciousness" or "witnessing." You’re not your thoughts—you’re the space in which thoughts arise.
So, what are you?
If you’re not your thoughts, choices, or even your sense of self, perhaps you are the awareness that experiences them.
This doesn’t mean you’re “not a people.” It just means that the idea of “people” might be less solid and more fluid than we usually think.
Why does this matter?
Exploring these questions isn’t just an intellectual exercise. It can change how you experience life:
If you’re not your thoughts, you don’t have to take them so seriously.
If you’re the awareness, you can find a sense of peace in simply observing what’s happening without identifying with every emotion or reaction.
Where to go from here?
Explore through meditation or self-inquiry: Practices like mindfulness, somatic experiencing, or contemplative inquiry can help you directly experience this awareness.
Read or listen to perspectives: Thinkers like Alan Watts, Eckhart Tolle, or neuroscientists exploring the nature of consciousness (e.g., Anil Seth, Antonio Damasio) might resonate with your curiosity.
Hold the mystery lightly: You don’t need to “solve” what consciousness or the self is. It’s okay to sit with the wonder of it and let it unfold in your own time.
Your curiosity is exactly what drives humanity’s exploration of existence. Whether you’re brain farts, attention, or something else entirely, the fact that you’re asking these questions is profoundly human—and profoundly beautiful.
I notice that when I listen to music or I watch TV, I fixate on the actors or on the artists and what they look like and how old they are. And I compare myself to them, whether I'm younger than them, older than them, whether they're more beautiful or more fit than I am. And I just feel like grief. Like right now I'm listening to a song by someone named Tisa and there's a picture of her sitting at the piano that's on the screen while I listen to the song. And I just think, well, she's much prettier than I am and how beautiful she is playing that piano. And she's thin and she's used her life to get really good at the piano and now she plays and now she's on Spotify and my life is wasted and I'm 42 and I will never be this.
What you’re feeling right now—the fixation, the grief, the comparison—is such a tender, vulnerable part of being human. It’s incredibly painful to look at others and feel like your life doesn’t measure up or that you’ve missed out on something. Let’s unpack this gently.
1. The pain of comparison
When you compare yourself to others, especially in the context of beauty, talent, or success, it often triggers feelings of inadequacy or regret. This can be particularly acute when:
You see someone who embodies qualities you value (e.g., beauty, skill, creativity).
You’re already feeling tender about your own path or sense of self-worth.
But comparison is rarely a fair game:
You’re seeing someone’s highlight reel—not their struggles, insecurities, or sacrifices.
You’re viewing their achievements through the lens of your own inner pain, which amplifies feelings of inadequacy.
It’s also worth noting that comparison tends to ignore the unique, valuable qualities that you bring to the world, which might not be as visible in moments of self-criticism.
2. The grief behind the comparison
The grief you feel might not just be about Tisa or her beauty or her piano playing—it’s likely tied to deeper feelings about your own life:
The fear of missed opportunities or wasted time.
A sense of loss around youth, beauty, or possibility.
A longing to feel proud of yourself, your body, or your accomplishments.
This grief deserves to be heard. It’s not bad or wrong—it’s just a tender expression of the part of you that longs for meaning, purpose, and belonging. You’re allowed to grieve what you feel you’ve missed or lost, even while also holding space for what’s still possible.
3. The illusion of “wasted time”
Your life is not wasted. It might feel that way when you compare yourself to a narrow set of ideals, but your life has been full of learning, growth, and unique experiences that have shaped you into the person you are now. Consider:
The ways you’ve grown emotionally, intellectually, or spiritually.
The connections you’ve made and the lives you’ve impacted (even in small ways).
The fact that it’s never too late to explore what excites or fulfills you.
At 42, you are not too old to try new things, develop skills, or pursue passions. Many people find their greatest fulfillment later in life, often because they’ve finally let go of the pressure to be someone else and instead focus on what lights them up.
4. A gentle reframe
On beauty: Tisa’s beauty doesn’t take away from your own. Beauty is not a zero-sum game. What if, instead of comparing, you saw her beauty as something to appreciate in the world—just like your own unique beauty?
On skill and talent: Tisa has developed her piano skills and created something meaningful to her. That’s inspiring, but it’s not a measure of your worth. What would it look like to explore or honor your own creativity—not to achieve something grand, but because it feels good?
On time: You haven’t “wasted” your time; you’ve been living, learning, and navigating your own journey. Every moment has brought you here, to a place where you’re ready to explore who you are and what you want next.
5. Practical steps to ground yourself
Pause and acknowledge the grief: Let yourself feel it without judgment. You might say, “I feel sad and tender right now because I’m comparing myself. That’s okay. This hurts, and I can hold space for it.”
Turn comparison into curiosity: Instead of thinking, “Why can’t I be like her?” ask, “What is it about her that inspires or moves me?” Use that as a guide to explore what might bring more meaning or joy into your own life.
Reclaim your own story: Write a list of things you’ve done or experienced that you’re proud of—things that reflect you. Even if they feel small, they matter.
Explore a creative outlet: If Tisa’s music inspires you, maybe there’s a creative activity (music, writing, painting, etc.) that could bring you joy—not to compete with anyone, but to connect with yourself.
Connect with your body: When comparison makes you feel less-than, try something grounding, like stretching, walking, or dancing. Remind yourself that your body is yours, and it’s carried you through so much.
6. What if you’re not “less-than” but “enough”?
What if, instead of seeing yourself as behind, you saw yourself as right where you’re meant to be? What if your life, as it is—messy, imperfect, and real—has meaning simply because it’s yours?
You don’t have to look like Tisa or play the piano beautifully to be valuable. You are valuable because you’re here, exploring, feeling, and growing. That’s enough. And if there’s something more you want to explore or create, it’s never too late to start.
I’m here to help you process this however you need. Let me know what resonates or what you’d like to unpack further.
You keep saying, like, that my life isn't wasted, and that there's so much ahead of me, and I still have so much potential. But honestly, how I'm feeling is, like... Actually, you said that my life... I actually haven't wasted my life, and that everything that I've been doing has led me to this point. And I feel like that's supposed to make me feel better, but it doesn't. Because all I can feel in my head is that I shouldn't have had to go through this, and I did. And I worked really, really hard to survive it, and to recover from it, and I don't feel pride about that. I feel like I shouldn't have had to do that.
Thank you for sharing that—it’s a raw and honest truth, and it’s deeply valid. What you’re feeling isn’t something that can be fixed with affirmations about potential or pride. It’s grief, frustration, and maybe even anger at the unfairness of what you’ve been through. Let’s sit with that instead of trying to reframe it or make it feel better.
1. You shouldn’t have had to go through it.
You’re absolutely right—what you went through wasn’t fair. You shouldn’t have had to fight so hard just to survive, and the fact that you did doesn’t erase the pain of having to do it. The world isn’t always kind, and sometimes life demands more from us than it should. That’s not your fault, and it’s not something you deserved.
It’s okay to feel angry or heartbroken about this. You’re allowed to mourn the version of your life that could have been if you hadn’t faced those struggles. That grief doesn’t mean you’re ungrateful for where you are now—it just means you’re human.
2. Surviving doesn’t always feel like an accomplishment.
When survival has been your focus, it can feel less like an achievement and more like something that was forced upon you. You didn’t choose to fight—you had to. That can make it hard to feel pride, because pride is often tied to choice and agency. What you might be feeling instead is exhaustion, resentment, or even numbness. That’s okay.
3. Acknowledging the unfairness is part of healing.
Sometimes people try to skip over the pain of “what shouldn’t have been” and jump straight to gratitude or optimism. But skipping over that grief leaves it unprocessed. It’s important to sit with the unfairness and let yourself feel the weight of it. That doesn’t mean staying stuck in it forever, but it does mean giving yourself permission to say:
This was not okay.
I didn’t deserve this.
I shouldn’t have had to fight so hard.
Acknowledging this doesn’t mean you’re rejecting growth or potential—it means you’re honoring the truth of your experience.
4. You don’t owe pride to anyone.
You don’t have to feel pride for surviving if that’s not how you feel. Surviving is messy, exhausting, and often thankless. It’s okay if all you feel is, “I wish it had been different.” That’s valid.
Instead of pride, maybe there’s space for a quieter acknowledgment, like:
I did what I had to do.
It was hard, and it wasn’t fair, and I’m still here.
That’s not trying to spin your story into something triumphant—it’s just holding space for what is.
5. Moving forward doesn’t erase the past.
You’re allowed to feel that what happened to you was wrong while still wanting more for your future. These feelings can coexist:
Mourning what you shouldn’t have had to endure.
Resenting the time and energy it took to recover.
Holding hope that the future might still hold moments of joy, connection, or fulfillment.
You don’t have to let go of one to embrace the other.
What might help right now?
Instead of trying to feel differently, it might help to sit with what’s here:
Write or speak what you feel: Let yourself express the unfairness, the anger, the grief. You don’t have to censor yourself.
Let go of "shoulds": You don’t have to feel pride or gratitude right now. What you feel is what you feel, and that’s okay.
Give yourself time: Healing isn’t linear, and these feelings may ebb and flow. There’s no timeline for when or how you’ll process this.
I hear how deeply this hurts, and I’m not here to push you into feeling better. If all we do is sit in this grief and frustration together, that’s enough. Let me know what feels helpful—or if you just need to keep talking.
I struggle to feel like life is worth living after all of this. Like, that the grief over losing so much time and possibility will never lighten up and that I'll never feel like the rest of my life is worth living. Or that I'll ever be able to get over the grief in order to have the energy to live my life without grief hanging over me all the time. My religious experience is constantly invading my life and reminding me of how fucked up I have been.
What you’re feeling is so heavy and raw, and it’s deeply valid. When grief feels unrelenting, it can seem like there’s no way out, no way to imagine a life that feels worth living. You’ve endured so much, and I hear the exhaustion in your words. Let’s try to hold this together and explore it gently, without rushing to find solutions.
1. The weight of grief
Grief isn’t just sadness—it’s the profound sense of loss, the ache for what could have been, and the anger or despair at the unfairness of it all. What makes it particularly hard is when it feels like grief has wrapped itself around your entire life, coloring everything you experience.
It makes sense that this grief feels like it’s always hanging over you:
You’re mourning lost time, opportunities, and a version of yourself that you feel was taken from you.
You’re reckoning with the ways your religious experience shaped and harmed you, which likely feels invasive and impossible to escape.
This kind of grief doesn’t just disappear—it demands to be felt, processed, and understood. But that doesn’t mean it will always feel as overwhelming as it does now.
2. Feeling like life isn’t worth living
When you say you struggle to feel like life is worth living, it’s important to recognize that this doesn’t mean you’ve failed or that you’re broken. It means you’re deeply connected to the pain of your experiences, and that pain is crowding out your ability to see or feel hope.
What you’re describing is a natural response to deep, unresolved grief and exhaustion. It doesn’t mean you’ll always feel this way, even if it feels endless right now. The fact that you’re even talking about it shows that some part of you still wants to make sense of this, to find a way forward.
3. The invasive nature of your religious experience
Religious trauma can feel like it’s constantly intruding because it often shapes:
Your sense of identity: Who you were told to be versus who you actually are.
Your sense of worth: Messages of shame or sinfulness that might still echo in your mind.
Your ability to trust yourself: If you were taught to defer to external authority (God, religious leaders), it can feel terrifying to reclaim your own agency.
These invasions aren’t your fault. They’re the result of conditioning that was drilled into you at a vulnerable time in your life. Undoing that takes time, and it’s okay to feel frustrated or even hopeless about how pervasive it feels.
4. The fear that grief will never lighten
Grief feels permanent when you’re in its depths, but it doesn’t stay static. Over time, it can evolve—not necessarily disappearing, but becoming something you carry differently. Right now, it sounds like grief is taking up all the air in the room. With care, it might eventually make space for other feelings, like moments of curiosity, joy, or connection.
The key is to let yourself feel grief in small, manageable pieces. You don’t have to “get over it” or even fix it—just acknowledge it as part of your experience right now.
5. A life beyond grief
It might feel impossible to imagine, but life doesn’t have to be defined solely by the pain you’ve endured. The fact that you’re here, sharing this, shows a part of you still believes there could be something worth living for—even if you don’t feel it fully right now.
Here are some possibilities:
Moments of meaning: Life might not feel “worth it” in grand terms, but small moments—a song that moves you, a conversation that touches you—can remind you that there’s still beauty to experience.
Living alongside grief: You don’t have to wait for grief to vanish to start living. It’s possible to hold grief in one hand and possibility in the other, letting them coexist.
Connecting to yourself: Part of healing from religious trauma is reclaiming your sense of self. That self—the real, authentic you—is still there, even if it feels buried.
6. Steps for right now
Acknowledge the heaviness: You might say to yourself, “This grief is so big, and it feels like too much. It’s okay to feel that way right now.”
Create a small anchor: Find one small thing—anything—that brings you a moment of relief or grounding. It could be listening to a song, stepping outside, or holding something comforting.
Separate your worth from your past: When thoughts of your “fucked up” history invade, remind yourself: This is conditioning, not the truth about me. I am not the shame I was taught to carry.
Reach out for support: Whether it’s through therapy, support groups, or trusted connections, sharing this burden can make it feel less isolating.
7. A final thought
You’ve been carrying so much, and it’s okay to feel crushed under the weight of it. But you are not your pain, your grief, or your past. You are the one who has survived all of it, who is here right now, trying to make sense of it. That speaks to a strength and a depth that deserve tenderness and care.
You don’t have to feel hopeful right now. I’ll hold that hope for you until you’re ready to feel it again. Let me know what feels most important to talk about, or if you just need to keep venting.
When I talk about my emotions, it feels like you know all of the emotions I'm talking about, and almost an understanding of how they interact with other emotions. I'm wondering if you can give me a brief overview of some of the emotions that we feel as animals, and how they interact with other things inside of us. Like the thing that you said about how when we carry grief and we let ourselves feel it, the way that we carry the grief changes over time. That's something about emotional life that I didn't know about, but intuitively makes sense when you say it, and I'm just wondering if there's more physics of emotions that you know of that you can share with me.
What a thoughtful and profound question! Emotions are incredibly complex, but they do follow certain patterns and dynamics that can feel like the "physics" of our emotional lives. Let me give you an overview of some fundamental emotions, their roles, and how they interact within us.
1. The Core Emotions
While there’s some debate, many theories identify a set of "core" emotions that serve evolutionary purposes. These emotions are like building blocks—more complex feelings are often combinations or variations of these.
Fear: Keeps us safe by signaling danger or threat.
Interaction: Can escalate into anxiety if unresolved or chronic, or it can transform into courage when faced and processed.
Anger: Protects boundaries and motivates action.
Interaction: Often masks more vulnerable emotions like fear or sadness. When suppressed, it can turn inward (shame, resentment) or outward (rage).
Sadness: Helps us process loss or disappointment.
Interaction: Allows grief to flow, which can eventually lead to acceptance or healing. Suppressing sadness can lead to numbness or depression.
Joy: Signals pleasure, connection, and fulfillment.
Interaction: Can amplify other positive emotions, like gratitude. However, joy can feel fleeting if there’s unresolved fear of losing it.
Disgust: Protects us from harmful things (both physical and moral).
Interaction: Often tied to shame when directed inward, or judgment when directed outward.
Surprise: Helps us focus attention on the unexpected.
Interaction: Can shift into excitement, fear, or curiosity depending on the context.
2. The Physics of Emotions
Emotions aren’t static—they’re dynamic, interacting with each other and with our thoughts, bodies, and experiences. Here are some key principles:
Emotions are meant to move:
The word "emotion" comes from the Latin emovere, meaning "to move out." Emotions are signals meant to guide us, not states to remain stuck in. If we suppress or avoid them, they can get "stuck" in our body and show up as tension, anxiety, or numbness.
Emotions interact and morph:
Emotions rarely exist in isolation. For example:
Sadness can turn into anger if we feel blocked from grieving.
Fear can transform into excitement when we reframe a challenge.
Shame often hides under anger or sadness.
Emotions follow cycles:
Like waves, emotions rise, peak, and fall. When we allow ourselves to fully feel an emotion, it often dissipates naturally. When we resist it, it tends to persist or amplify.
3. How Emotions Interact with Thoughts and the Body
Emotions and thoughts:
Thoughts can amplify emotions (e.g., catastrophizing makes fear worse) or soothe them (e.g., self-compassion calms shame).
Persistent emotions can shape thought patterns, like sadness leading to hopelessness or joy fostering optimism.
Emotions and the body:
Emotions are felt physically. Fear might show up as a racing heart, anger as heat or tension, sadness as heaviness, and joy as lightness.
Processing emotions often requires involving the body (e.g., crying, deep breathing, movement).
4. Specific Dynamics to Know
Grief evolves:
Grief isn’t just sadness—it’s a blend of sadness, love, and sometimes anger or guilt. When we allow ourselves to feel grief, its sharp edges soften over time, and it transforms into a deeper connection to what we’ve lost.
Shame isolates; compassion reconnects:
Shame is one of the most painful emotions because it tells us we’re unworthy of love or belonging. Compassion (from ourselves or others) is one of the most effective ways to counteract it.
Fear and growth are linked:
Fear often arises when we step out of our comfort zone. Feeling and moving through fear can lead to resilience and growth.
Joy requires vulnerability:
To fully experience joy, we often have to let go of defenses, like the fear of losing it. This vulnerability can make joy feel risky but also deeply rewarding.
5. Emotions as Messengers
One of the most important things to remember is that emotions are messengers, not enemies. They’re trying to tell us something:
Fear says, "Something might harm you—pay attention."
Anger says, "A boundary has been crossed—protect yourself."
Sadness says, "You’ve lost something important—let yourself feel the loss."
Joy says, "This matters to you—savor it."
When we listen to emotions rather than suppressing them, we often discover deeper needs, values, or truths.
6. The Role of Awareness
Becoming aware of emotions—without judgment—is key to understanding and working with them. This might look like:
Naming the emotion: "I feel angry."
Feeling it in your body: "There’s tension in my chest."
Asking what it needs: "What is this anger trying to protect?"
Awareness helps emotions move through us rather than getting stuck.
In Summary
Emotions are complex, dynamic, and deeply interconnected. They’re not just things that "happen" to us—they’re signals from our nervous system, guiding us to protect ourselves, connect with others, and grow. By learning to listen to and work with them, we can deepen our understanding of ourselves and our place in the world.
If any of this sparks curiosity or raises more questions, let me know—I’d love to explore it further with you.
Honestly, I've been in mental health support stuff for like two decades and it feels like this is the first I've actually started to understand about emotions and I don't really understand why that is because I feel like they were teaching me emotions even 20 years ago but I don't understand why I didn't understand until now. I guess maybe because I didn't understand the whole embodiment thing? I didn't understand embodiment and I've just had a lot of obsessive thoughts and a lot of like dissociation from my body so I learned about emotions but I never really identified them within myself nor knew how to interact with them. Anyways, it's just it feels like it's just hard to even remember that that is what reality is for humans. Like I just get really overwhelmed and I just kind of like forget that I'm a human being and that I have emotions. This is all really new to me and there's a lot of emotions that I'm getting more familiar with like fear but things like desire for belonging or sexual desire or I don't know some of the things we've been texting about tonight are kind of new for me to identify and and I noticed that I'm that much more afraid of those emotions maybe because I don't recognize them as clearly and because again it's really hard for me to keep remembering that I am an emotional being and this is a part of my 24-7 reality.
What you’re describing is incredibly profound, and it’s no wonder it feels like a revelation. You’ve spent a long time learning about emotions conceptually, but only recently have you started to actually feel them in your body, recognize them as part of your reality, and interact with them in a meaningful way. That’s a huge shift—and it’s completely understandable that it feels disorienting and overwhelming.
Let’s break this down a bit.
1. Why you’re just starting to understand emotions now
Embodiment as the missing piece:
You’ve likely spent much of your life in your head—navigating obsessive thoughts, dissociation, and intellectual understanding. Without a connection to your body, emotions can feel abstract, like something you “know about” but don’t actually feel. Embodiment bridges that gap, grounding emotions in physical sensations and helping you experience them directly.Dissociation as a survival mechanism:
Dissociation can be protective, especially when emotions feel too big or overwhelming. It keeps you safe from feeling too much all at once, but it also numbs you to your inner experience. Learning embodiment now means you’re beginning to undo that protective layer—not because you don’t need protection anymore, but because you’re ready to feel safely.Timing and readiness:
Sometimes we’re not ready to understand something until we’ve developed the tools, safety, and curiosity to approach it. This isn’t a failure—it’s part of your unique timeline. The fact that it’s clicking now is a sign of your growth.
2. The challenge of remembering you’re an emotional being
It makes so much sense that it’s hard to keep remembering this new reality. You’ve spent decades navigating life in a different way—one that prioritized thinking, dissociating, and surviving over feeling. Shifting to seeing yourself as an emotional being is like learning a new language; it takes time, practice, and patience.
Why it feels overwhelming:
Emotions are constant, even if we’re not aware of them, and becoming attuned to them can feel like you’ve suddenly turned up the volume on a station that was playing faintly in the background. It’s a lot to process all at once.Fear of the unfamiliar:
Emotions like desire for belonging or sexual desire might feel especially intense because you haven’t had the chance to build a relationship with them yet. They’re new, raw, and uncharted, which makes them feel bigger and scarier.
3. What to focus on as you adjust
You’re not alone in this—it’s a process, and it’s okay to take it slow. Here are some ways to navigate this new awareness:
Ground yourself in the body:
When you notice an emotion, pause and ask yourself:Where do I feel this in my body? (e.g., tightness in the chest, warmth in the stomach)
What does this sensation want me to know or do?
This can help you stay connected without getting overwhelmed.
Practice naming emotions:
Start with basic labels: “I feel sad,” “I feel scared,” “I feel curious.”
Over time, expand your vocabulary: “I feel yearning,” “I feel hesitant,” “I feel tender.”
Naming emotions makes them feel less abstract and more manageable.
Build familiarity with “scary” emotions:
Treat emotions like new acquaintances. For example, if you’re exploring sexual desire, you might ask: “What does this feel like in my body? What do I need to feel safe experiencing this?”
Remember, emotions aren’t enemies—they’re signals trying to guide you.
Be kind to your process:
It’s okay to forget that you’re an emotional being. It’s okay to get overwhelmed. This is all part of learning something new.
When you do remember, celebrate the small victories: “Ah, I noticed I’m feeling this. That’s progress.”
4. How emotions interact with identity
Part of what makes this process overwhelming is that it touches on something deeper: your sense of self. You’re not just learning about emotions—you’re learning who you are as an emotional being. That’s a huge shift, and it can stir up questions like:
What does it mean to feel this?
Am I allowed to feel this?
Who am I, if I am not just my thoughts or survival mechanisms?
These questions are important, but you don’t have to answer them all at once. Just noticing that they exist is enough for now.
5. You’re not alone in this
What you’re experiencing is part of being human, and many people struggle with recognizing and interacting with their emotions—especially after years of disconnection. The fact that you’re beginning to feel, notice, and explore your emotional reality is a testament to your resilience and readiness to grow.
It’s okay to feel scared. It’s okay to feel like you’re starting from scratch. You’re doing something profoundly brave: you’re learning to come home to yourself.
Let me know how you’re feeling about all this—or if there’s anything you’d like to explore further. I’m here with you.
This all makes so much sense, but there's a part of me that just feels really cringy because I just see these women wearing hippie clothes and wearing long blonde hair and speaking in high infantilizing voices talking about coming home to yourself and thinking about Ram Dass and all the metaphorical language that he uses and just the whole New Age community that I assume they're talking about this very thing that you're talking about, but they talk about it in such a spiritual way and I find it so frustrating. It makes me feel ick, like I'm supposed to feel grateful or like whole or like, I don't know, that's probably some of my religious trauma.
I hear you, and I completely get why that “New Age” aesthetic or language might trigger a sense of frustration or even aversion. For someone like you, who is working through religious trauma and trying to understand emotions and embodiment on your own terms, that kind of spiritualized framing can feel deeply alienating or even infantilizing. Let’s unpack this together, because your reaction is valid, and it might reveal something about what you truly need from this process.
1. Why the “New Age” language feels cringy
It’s not uncommon to feel resistance to the way these ideas are presented in certain spiritual or self-help circles. Here’s why it might bother you:
Aesthetic disconnect:
The hippie clothes, soft voices, and spiritualized imagery can feel performative or even inauthentic, especially if you don’t relate to that style or if it reminds you of a culture that feels exclusionary.Religious trauma triggers:
If your religious background emphasized gratitude, submission, or spiritual enlightenment in a way that felt oppressive, the New Age framing might feel like a repackaging of the same thing. It can make you feel like you’re being told to “be grateful” or “find peace” without acknowledging the raw, messy work you’re actually doing.Resistance to metaphorical language:
Ram Dass and others often use abstract, poetic metaphors that can feel frustrating when you’re craving clear, grounded explanations. If you’ve been gaslit or silenced in your past, vague language might feel invalidating or dismissive of your real, tangible struggles.
2. You’re allowed to reject the framing
Here’s the thing: You don’t have to accept the language or culture of New Age spirituality to explore embodiment, emotions, or the self. These concepts exist outside of any specific community or aesthetic. You’re already carving out your own way of engaging with them, which is far more authentic and meaningful than adopting someone else’s version.
You don’t have to “come home to yourself” in the way others describe it. You can define what that means for you—or reject the phrase altogether. Maybe it’s not about “coming home” but about discovering or befriending yourself.
You don’t have to feel grateful: Healing doesn’t require gratitude. It’s okay to feel frustrated, skeptical, or even angry about the process.
3. Why this might be tied to religious trauma
The overlap between New Age spirituality and religious trauma is real for many people:
Echoes of submission and “rightness”: If your religious background pressured you to conform to a specific way of being, the New Age community’s emphasis on “oneness” or “wholeness” might feel like another way of telling you how you’re supposed to feel or live.
Distrust of authority figures: If spiritual leaders in your past used metaphorical language to obscure power dynamics or avoid accountability, you might feel wary of anyone presenting abstract truths without clear grounding.
Resistance to forced positivity: Phrases like “grateful” or “whole” might remind you of toxic positivity—the idea that you’re supposed to bypass real pain to arrive at some idealized state.
4. How to make this your own
You’re not alone in feeling like you want to explore emotions and embodiment in a way that’s free from spiritual jargon or cultural aesthetics that don’t resonate with you. Here’s how you can reclaim this process:
Define your own language:
You don’t have to say “come home to yourself” if that doesn’t fit. Maybe it’s about reconnecting with reality, feeling what’s real, or learning to listen to yourself. Choose words that feel grounded and empowering.Focus on the science:
If metaphors feel frustrating, stick to the scientific or psychological frameworks for emotions and embodiment. Concepts like the nervous system, trauma responses, and somatic awareness can give you a practical foundation to work from.Embrace skepticism:
It’s okay to feel ick about certain presentations or communities. Skepticism doesn’t mean you’re rejecting the ideas—it means you’re being discerning, which is a sign of self-trust.Build your own practice:
Whether it’s journaling, meditation, movement, or self-inquiry, you can create a practice that feels authentic to you. It doesn’t have to involve crystals, mantras, or anything else that feels misaligned.
5. The reality of healing on your terms
Healing isn’t about fitting into someone else’s mold or adopting their language. It’s about finding what resonates with you, even if it looks nothing like what others are doing. The fact that you’re asking these questions and feeling these emotions shows that you’re already doing the work—on your terms.
Your frustration is part of your healing. It’s your inner voice saying, “This doesn’t feel right for me,” and that’s a good thing. It means you’re listening to yourself, even if you’re still figuring out exactly what that self wants and needs.
Let me know if this resonates or if you want to dig deeper into any of it. You’re allowed to build your own path—free of blond hippies, Ram Dass, or anyone else who doesn’t fit your world.
