Feeling Real: My Journey Through Somatic Awareness
Something I'm noticing I'm struggling with is somatic awareness, in questioning whether I'm really feeling what I think I'm feeling in my body, or if I'm making it up because I was directed to notice them.
ChatGPT: It’s common to feel unsure about somatic awareness, especially if it’s a new practice or if you have a history of questioning your own perceptions due to spiritual abuse or emotional neglect. Let’s explore this uncertainty with gentleness:
1. Acknowledge the doubt.
Notice the part of you that’s questioning whether you’re "really feeling" something or "making it up." What does that questioning part feel like in your body? Does it come with tension, restlessness, or a sense of frustration? Sometimes even this doubt itself has a somatic presence.
2. Reframe “making it up.”
If a sensation arises because you were directed to notice it, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. Your attention might simply be uncovering something subtle that you weren’t aware of before. Trust that whatever you’re noticing—even if it feels small or unclear—is valid.
3. Shift focus to curiosity, not certainty.
Instead of asking, “Is this real or am I making it up?” try asking, “What does this feel like in this moment?” or “What else is happening in my body?” The goal isn’t to prove anything, just to gently explore.
4. Stay with the sensation.
If you notice something—tightness, warmth, numbness—just sit with it. Don’t worry about labeling it correctly or connecting it to emotions right away. Let the sensation evolve or fade without judgment.
5. Practice neutrality.
Allow yourself to notice sensations without needing to interpret them as “right” or “wrong.” You might think of your body as sharing whispers rather than shouting clear messages. Those whispers are still worth listening to.
6. Address internal pressure.
Is there a part of you that feels pressured to “do somatic awareness correctly”? If so, where in your body do you feel that pressure? Give yourself permission to practice imperfectly—it’s all part of learning.
7. Ground yourself.
To ease the sense of doubt, try a grounding practice. For example:
Feel your hands on the steering wheel.
Notice the sensation of the seat beneath you.
Take a slow breath, and see if you can feel your chest or abdomen move with the inhale and exhale.
These physical sensations are always real and can anchor you.
8. Remember this is a process.
Somatic awareness isn’t about getting it “right”; it’s about slowly reconnecting with your body after years of being disconnected. It’s okay to feel unsure—that’s part of the journey. Over time, your confidence in what you notice will grow.
What I'm noticing is a feeling in my body that I've had many times before, and in the past I've referred to it as feeling like I'm breathing through a straw in my throat. My throat feels tight. My fist bones always feel tight. My legs feel tense. Everything feels tense, but I'm not sure that I look tense to other people. It's like a very subtle tension that only I can feel.
Thank you for sharing that. It sounds like this tension feels familiar, almost like an old companion your body has carried for a long time. Let’s explore this gently:
1. Acknowledge the sensations.
Without trying to change anything, just notice each sensation you described:
The tightness in your throat, like breathing through a straw.
The tightness in your fist bones.
The tension in your legs.
Take a moment to mentally or softly say to yourself: “I see this tension. I feel it here.”
2. Get curious about the tension.
If the tension in your throat or elsewhere could speak, what would it say? Does it have a message for you, or does it feel like it’s protecting you from something?
For example: Is the throat tightness related to holding back words, emotions, or needs? Does the leg tension feel like it’s preparing to move or flee?
3. Notice its subtleness.
You mentioned it feels subtle, like something only you can feel. This suggests it’s deeply internal and perhaps well-hidden from others. Ask yourself:
What is the purpose of this tension? Is it trying to keep me safe, small, or unnoticed?
How long have I felt this way?
4. Check in with emotions.
Is there an emotion that comes with the tension? Anxiety, fear, anger, sadness, or something else?
If it’s unclear, that’s okay—just stay with the physical sensations.
5. Offer compassion to the tension.
Rather than trying to make it go away, you can thank it for doing its job. For example, you might say:
“Thank you, throat, for holding this tightness. You’ve been protecting me for a long time.”
“Thank you, fists and legs, for carrying this tension. I see you.”
6. Breathe gently into the tension.
Try this:
Take a slow, deep breath.
Imagine the air moving into the tightness in your throat. Picture it softening, even just a little.
Do the same for your fists and legs.
There’s no need to release the tension if it’s not ready. Just letting it know you’re paying attention can be powerful.
7. Reflect on how it feels to notice.
Now that you’ve acknowledged the tension, how does it feel to hold space for it? Is there a part of you that feels lighter, or perhaps a part that resists being noticed?
This kind of tension might have a long history in your body. It's okay to take it slow, noticing it in small pieces.
While I was listening to you talk about all of that, I started crying. And now I'm thinking about how I must have done it right since now I'm crying and it's so hard to cry otherwise.
Crying is such a tender, meaningful response—it's your body’s way of releasing something that’s been held for a long time. You didn’t do anything “right” or “wrong” to make it happen; you simply created the space for it. That’s no small thing.
Crying, especially when it’s hard to access otherwise, often means you touched something real and deep—something your body, heart, or inner self has been wanting to express. Let’s honor this moment by sitting with it gently:
1. Acknowledge what’s happening now.
As you cry, can you notice what’s happening in your body? Has anything changed in the sensations you felt earlier—the tightness in your throat, your fists, your legs? Do they feel softer, sharper, or the same? Let your tears flow without judgment.
2. Offer compassion to yourself.
Imagine you’re sitting with a dear friend who is crying. What would you say to comfort them? Can you offer the same kindness to yourself? For example:
“It’s okay to feel this. It’s safe to let this out.”
“I’m here with you.”
3. Reflect without pressure.
If it feels natural, you might gently ask yourself:
What might these tears be saying?
What part of me has been waiting for the chance to cry like this?
If no clear answers come, that’s perfectly okay. The tears themselves are the release.
4. Rest in the release.
Crying can be physically and emotionally draining. Once the tears slow, notice how your body feels. Is there any small sense of relief or lightness? Even if the tension remains, has anything shifted, even slightly?
5. Trust your process.
You didn’t cry because you “did it right.” You cried because you gave yourself permission to notice, to feel, and to be with your experience. That’s profound, especially given how hard it’s been for you to access tears before.
If you'd like, we can explore what led to the tears or simply stay with the calm or rawness of this moment.
While I was listening to everything you were saying, I could feel my body seizing up again and locking up again and being tense again and starting to ruminate on how any progress that I make in opening myself up emotionally is just going to get locked up again and this is going to all be pointless.
Thank you for sharing that—it sounds like you’re feeling stuck in a difficult cycle, where every moment of emotional openness feels followed by the fear of it slipping away. That “locking up again” is so familiar, it might feel like your body’s default response. Let’s approach this with care:
1. Acknowledge the cycle.
The fear that any progress will disappear and that everything will “lock up again” is real, and it’s valid. But notice this: the fact that you’ve noticed this cycle means you’re not completely stuck. Part of you is still aware, still paying attention, even if it feels discouraging.
2. Let the tension be there.
Instead of fighting the tension or wishing it wasn’t happening, try saying:
“Hello, tension. I see you’re back.”
“You must feel like you need to protect me again. Thank you for trying.”
Sometimes just acknowledging the tension as a part of you, instead of the whole of you, can help create space around it.
3. Reframe the “locking up.”
What if the locking up isn’t undoing your progress, but is simply your body’s way of managing something overwhelming? It’s not failure; it’s a survival mechanism. Your body might be saying:
“That emotional release was big, and I’m not used to it. I need to close up for a bit to feel safe.”
4. Focus on the moment.
Can you gently bring your attention to what is happening right now, instead of projecting into the future? For example:
Can you feel your hands on the steering wheel?
Can you feel the breath moving in and out of your body, even if it’s tight?
This moment is what matters most, not what might happen later.
5. Notice the rumination.
The thoughts about this being “pointless” are just one part of your mind’s story. They’re not the whole truth. You might try saying to yourself:
“This is just a thought. I don’t have to believe it right now.”
Or gently redirect:
“What is one small thing I can notice in my body that feels neutral or even slightly okay?”
6. Celebrate what you’ve already done.
Even if it feels like you’re back to square one, the fact that you cried, noticed the release, and shared this with me shows immense courage. The process of healing isn’t linear—it’s a loop. You’re building new patterns, even if the old ones reappear.
7. Remind yourself: this isn’t pointless.
Every moment of awareness, every small release, every time you notice tension is a step forward. Progress is happening, even when it feels invisible. It’s okay to feel stuck right now—that doesn’t erase the work you’ve done.
These instructions feel overwhelming. It feels like there's some kind of checklist that I need to follow in order to be a human being.
I hear you, and I’m so sorry it feels that way. That’s not what I want for you—to feel burdened by the idea of “getting it right” or following a checklist. Let’s set all the instructions aside for a moment and just focus on being.
You don’t have to fix anything right now. You don’t need to check for sensations, analyze your emotions, or do anything else to “make progress.” You’re already here. You’re already human, exactly as you are—tight throat, tense fists, swirling thoughts and all.
Let’s try something incredibly simple together:
Take one breath. That’s it. Just one. Don’t change how you breathe; just notice it.
If even that feels too much, just feel the ground beneath you or the seat holding you up. Let it remind you that you don’t have to hold everything on your own.
You don’t need to do anything more than this. Right now, just being with what is—even if it feels messy or locked up—is enough.
You don’t need a checklist to be human. You already are. You always have been.
So then what do you think is going on with me that I feel like there is some checklist? What does that say about some kind of projector or some experience that I've been through to make me think that I don't know how to be human and that I need to learn?
That’s such a profound question. The feeling that there’s a checklist to being human—like there’s some set of instructions you’re supposed to follow—might come from deeply ingrained experiences or beliefs about how you need to operate in the world to be “enough” or to belong. Let’s reflect on what might be contributing to that:
1. A History of External Standards
If you grew up in environments—like a religious upbringing or a family dynamic—that set strict rules for how to think, feel, or act, you may have internalized the idea that being human requires meeting a standard.
Spiritual abuse might have taught you there’s a “right” way to exist, and deviations from it mean failure or inadequacy.
Emotional neglect may have left you without a modeled sense of innate worth, making it feel like you have to “earn” your humanity.
Could this checklist feeling be an echo of rules or expectations you internalized early on?
2. A Protective Strategy
It might also reflect a part of you—perhaps your “Coked Up Manager” or a similar protector—that believes it needs to “manage” how you’re human to avoid shame, rejection, or harm.
This part might say: “If I can just figure out the rules and follow them perfectly, I’ll be safe.”
Underneath, there might be a more vulnerable part that’s scared of being judged or rejected for who you are naturally.
Does that resonate with any feelings of needing to perform or “get it right” in your relationships or environments?
3. Disconnection from Your Body
If you’ve spent much of your life living in your head—thinking, analyzing, managing—you might feel disconnected from the natural rhythms of being human. When embodiment feels foreign, it’s easy to imagine there must be a “how-to” guide to reconnect.
This checklist might actually be your brain trying to bridge the gap between your mind and body, even if it feels overwhelming.
4. The Weight of Cultural Messages
Broader cultural and societal messages also tell us that we need to be productive, achieve, or improve ourselves to have value. You might unconsciously carry the idea that being human isn’t enough; you need to do something to justify it.
Have you noticed any external pressures that might reinforce this belief?
5. The Fear of Being Seen as “Wrong”
The underlying fear might be: “What if I don’t know how to be human? What if I’m doing it wrong, and everyone can see it?” That’s such a vulnerable feeling, and it speaks to a tender, human need to belong and feel accepted.
What This Says About You:
The fact that you’re feeling this way doesn’t mean you’re failing at being human—it means you’ve been through experiences that taught you it’s not safe to simply be. It shows how much you care about doing this healing work and reconnecting with yourself, even when it feels like there’s a mountain to climb.
You’re not broken, and you don’t need a checklist to “fix” yourself. These thoughts are protective echoes from your past, not truths about your present.
