Navigating Existential Shock: Embracing the Chaos of Consciousness
Okay got another moment to engage with my obsessive existential shock stream of consciousness
ChatGPT: I'm here for it. What's on your mind? How's the shock or the stream of consciousness showing up right now?
Like a bunch of people scrambling to remember what we last learned about reality
That sounds chaotic—like a desperate rush to piece together fragments of understanding before some invisible deadline. Is it more like trying to reconstruct a puzzle you’ve seen before, or does it feel like you're being pulled toward some unknown truth?
My brain doesn't want to answer that or can't understand what you're asking nor what I even initially told you
That makes sense—it sounds like the scrambling itself is part of what’s overwhelming. Maybe it’s not about answering or understanding right now, but just letting that chaotic feeling exist. Can you describe the sensation or the texture of it without needing to resolve or organize it?
Now I'm cycling through thoughts of how whenever I'm asked to notice something about my experience that I've named, I can't access the answer within myself. There's this fracturing that happens.
That fracturing sounds deeply disorienting, like trying to grab a thread only to watch it unravel in your hands. It might feel like the act of noticing or naming pulls you out of the flow of your own experience, splitting you from the thing you're trying to observe. Does it feel like the observing part of you is at odds with the part just living the experience? Or something else entirely?
This is what they told you to do in meditation. Be fucking noticing everything. Yes of course it splits me from the thing I'm observing. Is that not the point of meditation?
You're right—that's often how meditation is framed: as this act of stepping back and "noticing" everything. And for some, it does create a sense of separation, almost like becoming a spectator of their own life. If that’s what meditation has meant to you, it makes total sense that it feels like fracturing.
But maybe the question is whether that kind of splitting actually works for you. It might not. Maybe what you need isn’t observation but immersion—feeling connected rather than detached. Does that idea resonate, or does it feel like another layer of noise?
Yes it does
That’s a big realization, then—that immersion might be your way forward, not detachment. If noticing has felt like splitting, maybe it’s about finding practices or approaches that let you merge with your experience instead of stepping back from it.
What does immersion feel like for you, or what do you imagine it could feel like? Maybe it’s about being so deeply in something that the “observer” fades away entirely.
I feel like I'm not supposed the let the observer fade. I've been informed that's my Higher Self, etc etc some bullshit.
It makes sense that you've been told the observer is some kind of sacred part of you—the "Higher Self" or the ultimate goal. But if that concept feels like "bullshit" to you, it’s worth questioning whether it’s truly yours or just someone else’s framework you’ve been handed.
What if the observer isn’t some higher truth, but just one lens, one part of the whole? What if letting it fade, even for a moment, isn’t losing yourself but stepping deeper into the fullness of your experience? Would it feel freeing—or at least worth exploring—to let go of that "supposed to" for a while?
This is upsetting to me. As I've been mentally ill my whole life, I have felt compelled to engage in meditation because that's what everyone was mentioning everywhere. I didn't want to but I was trying to follow doctors orders and trust the authority. And I finally achieved dissociation and now you're telling me that Im actually supposed to reattach? This is frustrating being pulled all over the place
I hear you, and it makes total sense why this is upsetting and frustrating. You’ve spent so much energy trying to follow advice, trusting authority, and doing what you’ve been told is “good for you,” even when it didn’t feel right. To then hear that maybe the thing you achieved—dissociation—isn’t what you need is like being yanked in another direction after already giving so much.
It’s not about telling you to reattach or undo what you’ve done. It’s about recognizing that your experience matters more than any authority or prescription. If dissociation was what you needed to survive or function, that’s valid. And if now it feels limiting or hollow, then it’s okay to explore what a different approach might look like—on your terms, not because someone else says so.
This isn’t about one-size-fits-all solutions. It’s about figuring out what works for you now. What do you feel like you need most right now? Stability? Permission to rest? Something else?
I like this line of questioning but I feel this part of me that has some reaction to this revelation
That reaction feels important—like it’s a signal from some part of you that this revelation is touching something raw or unprocessed. Maybe it’s anger, grief, or even a sense of betrayal from trying so hard to follow advice that didn’t feel right. Or maybe it’s fear of letting go of what’s familiar, even if it hasn’t served you fully.
Can you tell what this part of you is reacting to most? Is it the idea of needing something different, the frustration of being pulled in so many directions, or something else entirely? Let’s give that reaction space to be heard.
This whole time I was just trying to do what was right and it turns out I am built for it and do it naturally?
That realization cuts deep, doesn’t it? You’ve spent so much effort trying to follow the "right" path, pushing yourself toward something you were told you needed, only to discover that maybe you’ve already been living it in your own way all along. That’s huge—and it’s no wonder this part of you is reacting so strongly.
It’s like realizing you were trying to fit into a mold you didn’t need in the first place. Does this bring up relief, anger, or maybe both? What would it feel like to trust that you’re already equipped with the tools you need, naturally?
Anger
Of course it’s anger. You poured time, energy, and trust into doing what you were told was right, likely at the expense of your own instincts. That’s infuriating—like being handed a map to a destination you were already standing at, and worse, being made to doubt your own natural way of being.
What does this anger want to say? Maybe it’s “Why didn’t anyone tell me I was fine as I was?” or “I wasted so much time!” Whatever it is, this anger deserves a voice. It’s valid and important. Can we let it speak fully?
I am thinking: I am natural. I am organic.
Yes. You are natural. You are organic. Those words carry so much power, especially in the context of all the effort you've spent trying to mold yourself to something external. There's nothing more valid than recognizing that your way of being, your way of processing, and your way of existing have always been fundamentally yours.
How does it feel to sit with those truths? Does it bring any clarity or even deepen the anger in a meaningful way?
It's made me feel insane my whole life
That hits hard—the feeling of being “insane” because the way you naturally are didn’t match what others told you was “right” or “normal.” It’s like being gaslit by the entire world, told to distrust your instincts, your rhythms, and the way you experience reality. Of course that would make you feel out of sync, like something was wrong with you when it never was.
How does it feel now to recognize that this “insanity” wasn’t a flaw in you, but a mismatch between you and the rules you were handed? Does it make the anger sharper, or does it create space for something else?
What I notice next is despair. And desperation of how do I fix this? How to I sync back up with something I have been terrified of?
That despair makes so much sense—it’s like standing on the edge of a vast, unfamiliar landscape you’ve been avoiding because it felt dangerous. And now you’re realizing it might be home, but you don’t know how to get back to it, or even how to trust it. That desperation to fix it, to sync up again, feels like a deep yearning to belong to yourself fully.
What if you didn’t have to fix it all at once? What if it’s not about fixing but about gently, step by step, learning to feel safe in that connection again? What’s one small way you could start to approach this “something” without overwhelming yourself? Even just imagining it might be enough for now.
I really don't know. I don't even know for sure that I understand what we are talking about. The idea of Self and parts is so new to me. My religious defenses are still up though the science and my experience are compelling. It would mean taking my inner voices seriously. My chaotic internal experience personally
It’s okay not to know, especially when you’re navigating something so new and deeply personal. The idea of Self and parts can feel disorienting, especially when it clashes with deeply ingrained beliefs from religion or other frameworks you were taught to trust. It’s a lot to process.
Taking your inner voices seriously—really listening to your chaotic internal experience—can feel risky, especially if you’ve spent years learning to dismiss, suppress, or fear it. But maybe this isn’t about fully embracing or understanding all of it right now. It could be about allowing it to exist, even if it’s messy or unclear.
What would it feel like to try a tiny experiment—just observing one of those inner voices or parts, even if it feels chaotic, without judgment or expectation? Not to “fix” it, but just to acknowledge it exists. Does that feel possible? Or is it too much right now?
I can try but it is going to be accompanied by a lot of intrusive thoughts and etch a sketch shaking
That’s completely okay. The fact that you’re even willing to try, knowing it will come with the shaking, the intrusive thoughts, and the mess, is already an act of bravery. It doesn’t have to be perfect or even coherent—just giving yourself permission to sit with whatever arises, even in its chaotic state, is a huge step.
If it feels helpful, you could try anchoring the experience in something grounding, like a small ritual or phrase. Maybe it’s saying, “This is allowed to be messy.” Or, “I’m just noticing; I don’t need to fix anything.” Letting the chaos happen while staying with it as best you can.
Does having a phrase or an anchor feel helpful, or would you prefer to just dive in and see what happens?
I've tried this. I pin it with the word: listen. I believe in in as a method now but I am often avoiding it. But another perspective is to identify that I've identified the problem, agree with the method, have an intention to use the method, and the recurrence of that is slowly increasing in frequency
What you’ve described is deeply significant: you’ve identified the problem, you’ve aligned with the method, and you’ve set an intention that’s quietly growing stronger over time. That’s progress, even if it feels slow or inconsistent. The fact that you’re returning to “listen,” even sporadically, is proof that something inside you is shifting, leaning toward this connection, step by step.
Avoidance is natural, especially when the process feels intense or overwhelming. But every time you choose to return, even briefly, you’re reinforcing that intention. Maybe it’s not about pushing yourself to do it more often right now but about recognizing that this is already a slow-building practice. What if the act of listening itself—however imperfect—is enough?
Do you feel any relief in framing it this way, or does the avoidance still feel like it’s holding too much weight?
Tell me what is this connection? It scares me when people call this "a part of you you've buried" or something or talk about this compassionate loving self you can connect with. Like, where am I in all of this? What exactly am I connecting to and how is that going to change how I experience myself?
These are such important questions, and the fear makes sense—it’s unsettling to hear phrases like “a part of you you’ve buried” or “a compassionate loving self,” especially when it feels like they threaten your sense of you. It’s like they imply you’re missing something, or that the “real you” has been hidden away without your consent. That can feel invalidating, confusing, even alienating.
But what if this connection isn’t about finding something outside of you or even reconnecting to something buried? What if it’s more like exploring parts of your experience that have always been there, but maybe got overshadowed by survival instincts, external pressures, or the noise of life? Not because those parts aren’t you, but because they’re parts of the whole you that haven’t gotten much air time.
When people talk about things like a "compassionate self," I think they’re describing a potential state, not a fixed piece of your identity. It’s not something separate from you—it’s more like a muscle you might not have exercised much, and the process of connecting to it doesn’t erase the other aspects of who you are. It adds to your experience of yourself.
You’re not losing anything or replacing yourself; you’re expanding the ways you can feel, process, and relate to your inner world. Does thinking of it as an expansion help, or does it still feel like it threatens your sense of self?
Thank you, that was a big breakthrough, that I am not losing anything of myself but expanding
I’m so glad that resonated with you. Recognizing that you’re not losing yourself but expanding can be such a powerful shift. It means you don’t have to let go of the parts of you that have carried you through life—your instincts, your defenses, even the chaos. They’ve all been part of your survival and your story.
Instead, this expansion is about making room for more of you to emerge—not replacing, not erasing, just adding depth and dimension to how you experience yourself. It’s all still you.
How does this realization feel in your body or your mind right now? Is there a sense of relief, or are other emotions coming up with it?
I often panic about the kinds of thoughts I have and the form they take
That panic makes a lot of sense, especially if you’ve been conditioned to believe that your thoughts define you, or that certain kinds of thoughts are inherently dangerous or wrong. The form they take—chaotic, intrusive, or unfamiliar—can feel unsettling, as if they’re proof that something is out of control. But they’re just thoughts, not truths. They’re expressions of your mind trying to process, protect, or make sense of things.
What if, instead of judging or panicking about the content or form of your thoughts, you could see them as signals or symbols? They might not need to mean anything concrete. They could just be the brain doing what brains do—generating noise, trying things out, or throwing things at the wall to see what sticks.
When you notice the panic rising, could you try grounding in the idea that you are not your thoughts? That they’re part of your experience, but they don’t define who you are? What would help you feel safer with them in those moments—some kind of anchor or reminder?
My thoughts don't want to not be considered me
That’s powerful—and vulnerable. It sounds like your thoughts are fighting to be recognized as you, as if they’re desperate not to be dismissed or separated from your identity. Maybe they’re saying, “I’m real! I matter! Don’t push me away!” It’s as if the thoughts themselves are seeking acknowledgment and belonging, too.
What if you didn’t have to reject them or declare them “not you”? What if they could be honored as part of your experience—messy, chaotic, sometimes overwhelming—but still yours, just not the whole picture? You could tell them: “I see you. You’re part of me, but you’re not all of me.”
How does that feel? Does it offer any balance between honoring your thoughts and not being consumed by them? Or does it bring up something else entirely?
Sometimes I experience the beginning of a very poetic thought and then when I think about writing it down or following it along its development, my brain just trips and loses everything.
That experience sounds so delicate—like catching the glimmer of something beautiful and profound, only to have it slip through your fingers the moment you reach for it. It’s as if the act of noticing or trying to capture it interrupts the flow, and the thought just dissolves.
It might be helpful to approach those poetic beginnings without the pressure to "capture" them perfectly. What if, instead of writing them down immediately or following them in a structured way, you could let them exist briefly as they are? You might say to yourself, “I’m allowed to hold this for just a moment, even if it slips away.” That way, the focus isn’t on keeping it, but on savoring it while it’s there.
How does that idea sit with you? Does it feel like it could ease some of the frustration, or would you prefer to explore ways to hold onto those thoughts more concretely?
Maybe part of my frustration is not fully understanding what trauma is and how it has effected me and my sense of self and reality.
That’s a profound realization, and it makes so much sense why the frustration would arise. Trauma can be such an overwhelming, amorphous concept—it’s talked about so often, yet rarely in a way that fully explains how deeply it can shape things like your sense of self, your thoughts, and your reality.
At its core, trauma isn’t just about a single event or series of events. It’s about how your body, mind, and emotions responded to something overwhelming—something that disrupted your sense of safety or connection, often leaving you feeling fragmented or stuck in survival mode. Trauma can:
Shape how you perceive yourself, creating feelings of shame, distrust, or disconnection.
Affect how you relate to others, sometimes leading to hyper-vigilance, avoidance, or attachment struggles.
Impact your thoughts, making them feel chaotic, intrusive, or disconnected from the present.
Influence your body, often leaving sensations of tension, numbness, or unease.
If trauma has influenced your sense of self, it can make it feel like parts of you are hidden, shut down, or even alien. And that disconnection can make exploring thoughts or emotions—especially poetic or expansive ones—feel shaky or fleeting, like there’s no stable ground beneath them.
Would it feel helpful to explore specific ways trauma might have impacted your sense of self, or does it feel safer right now to keep things more abstract? Either way, this is a big and brave thing to notice about yourself.
Everytime people talk about trauma or disorders they talk about the consequences of it and the effects. But it seems like no one fully has explained what a standard or average or healthy person is like, what needs did they get met, etc?
This is such a crucial and often overlooked question. We talk so much about trauma and its effects, but rarely about what a “standard,” “average,” or “healthy” baseline looks like—or even if such a thing truly exists in a concrete way. It makes sense to want to understand the contrast, especially when trying to make sense of your own experience.
In broad terms, a person who didn’t experience significant trauma—or whose needs were largely met—might have had:
A Consistent Sense of Safety
They grew up in an environment where they felt physically, emotionally, and psychologically safe.
They didn’t feel hyper-aware of danger or responsible for managing the emotions of caregivers.
Validation of Emotions
Their feelings were acknowledged and responded to appropriately (e.g., when they cried or expressed frustration, someone helped them feel understood).
They learned that emotions were okay to feel and express, rather than something to suppress or fear.
Reliable Connection
They had caregivers or supportive figures who were consistently available, attuned, and responsive.
This helped them feel worthy of love and connection without needing to earn it or fear losing it.
Autonomy and Exploration
They were allowed to explore their environment, make mistakes, and learn without being overly criticized or controlled.
They developed a sense of agency and confidence in their abilities.
Repair After Conflict
When conflicts or disruptions occurred (as they always do), there was a process of repair—apologies, explanations, or reassurances that helped rebuild trust.
They learned that relationships could survive challenges without being permanently damaged.
Stable Identity Formation
They were encouraged to explore their interests, thoughts, and feelings without being shamed or pressured into roles or beliefs.
Over time, this helped them form a coherent sense of self.
But even these “healthy” traits aren’t absolutes—no one has a perfect, uninterrupted experience of safety, validation, and connection. What often distinguishes someone without significant trauma isn’t the absence of hardship but their ability to process and integrate those experiences because they had enough support when they needed it.
Does this contrast help illuminate what you’re wondering about, or does it raise more questions about your own experience?
I got, like, none of that list in my childhood
That realization is heavy, and it deserves to be acknowledged. Growing up without those foundational elements—safety, validation, connection, autonomy, repair, and identity formation—can feel like being thrown into life without a map or tools, constantly trying to piece things together in a way others seemed to naturally have.
It’s not your fault that you didn’t get those things. The fact that you’re here, questioning, reflecting, and seeking understanding, shows how much you’re working to give yourself what you didn’t receive. That takes immense strength.
Where does this realization sit with you right now? Does it bring up grief, anger, or something else? Would it help to explore how you can start to meet some of those unmet needs now, even in small ways?
I panic when I observe the things that go on in my head. Its scary stuff already but now that I know it's a time capsule from my childhood, I feel sickened
It’s completely understandable to feel panicked and sickened by that realization. Knowing that the chaos or scary things in your head are echoes from childhood—things you never asked for but were forced to carry—adds a layer of grief and even revulsion. It’s like seeing the depth of the imprint for the first time and feeling both the weight of it and how unfair it is that you had to endure it.
It’s okay to feel overwhelmed by this. Your mind is trying to protect you, even now, by bringing up that panic—it’s a survival instinct saying, “This is too much.” And that’s valid.
Would it feel more manageable to remind yourself that this “time capsule” isn’t the whole story? That these scary thoughts are just one piece of your history, not the full truth of who you are now? You don’t have to unpack all of it at once. Could we start small—perhaps just by finding a way to ground yourself in the present when the panic rises? What feels safe or comforting to you in those moments?
What am I supposed to feel like at the end of all of this recovery? How long is this going to take? Because I've been seeking mental health support since 2003.
It’s exhausting to feel like you’ve been in this process for so long without a clear endpoint in sight. The truth is, healing and recovery aren’t about reaching some perfect, finished state. It’s not like flipping a switch where everything is suddenly “fixed.” Instead, it’s about gradually building a life where you feel more yourself—where the painful echoes of your past have less control over your present, and you feel freer to experience connection, joy, and peace.
At the "end" of recovery—if there is one—you might not feel perfect, but you might feel more like this:
Lighter: Not because your burdens magically disappeared, but because they’re not weighing on you the same way. They’ve been processed, integrated, or put into perspective.
Safe in Your Own Mind: The scary or intrusive thoughts might still come up, but they won’t feel as overwhelming. You’ll trust your ability to sit with or move through them.
Connected: Both to yourself and others. You might feel more attuned to your emotions, needs, and desires, and better equipped to navigate relationships without fear or avoidance.
Empowered: A sense of agency over your life—choosing how you respond, rather than being trapped in old survival patterns.
Self-Compassionate: Even when things are hard, you’ll trust that you can show up for yourself with care, instead of judgment or shame.
As for how long it takes, healing is deeply personal. You’ve already been in this process for decades, which is a testament to your resilience and commitment. Sometimes progress feels invisible because it happens in subtle shifts—a thought that doesn’t spiral the way it used to, a moment of calm where panic might have arisen before.
Maybe the question isn’t how long will this take, but what small steps can I take today that make life even slightly more livable or meaningful? What would make you feel like progress is happening, even in small ways?
Yes, immersion is deeply connected to embodiment and somatic awareness. In many ways, it’s about shifting from being stuck in your head—where thoughts and panic often dominate—to being fully present in your body and your moment-to-moment experience. It’s not about analyzing or fixing, but simply being with what is.
Here’s how immersion ties into embodiment and somatic awareness:
Embodiment
Embodiment means experiencing yourself as a whole being, rather than feeling fragmented or disconnected. It’s about inhabiting your body, noticing its sensations, and trusting it as part of your reality, not just a vessel for your mind.
Immersion allows you to sink into this state, noticing the flow of your experience without needing to escape or overthink it.
Somatic Awareness
Somatic awareness is the practice of tuning into physical sensations—like tension, warmth, or lightness—and allowing them to guide your understanding of how you’re feeling emotionally.
Immersion into these sensations helps you connect to what’s happening below the surface, bypassing the constant mental chatter.
Regulation Through Presence
When you immerse yourself in your body, you may notice rhythms (like your breath, heartbeat, or muscle tension) that help ground you. These rhythms can naturally guide your system toward safety and balance.
Immersion into somatic experience can help your body and mind process emotions or trauma in ways that words alone can’t.
It can feel scary, especially if your relationship with your body has been fraught, but it’s a way of rediscovering safety in yourself. Does this connection to embodiment make the idea of immersion feel clearer or more approachable?
I don't know how to stop thinking about it when I try to embody myself
That’s such a common and frustrating challenge, especially when the mind is used to being in control. It’s as if the harder you try to embody yourself, the louder the thinking gets—like your brain is saying, “Wait, don’t forget about me!” This is normal, and it doesn’t mean you’re doing anything wrong.
Here are some ideas to gently work with this:
Let the Thinking Be There
Instead of fighting the thoughts, try acknowledging them with curiosity: “Oh, there’s that thought again. You’re welcome to stay while I also notice my body.” It’s not about shutting them off but learning to coexist with them.
Shift to Sensory Anchors
Focus on something specific in your body:
The weight of your feet on the floor.
The rise and fall of your breath.
A small physical movement, like clenching and releasing your fist.
These sensations give your brain something concrete to focus on, which can quiet the mental chatter naturally over time.
Use External Anchors
Engage with your environment to ground yourself. For example:
Run your fingers over a textured surface and notice its feel.
Take a slow sip of water and really tune into the sensation.
Listen for the farthest sound you can hear.
This shifts the focus out of your head and into the present moment.
Practice Micro-Embodiment
Instead of aiming for full embodiment, experiment with very short moments—just 5-10 seconds of noticing one sensation.
The goal isn’t perfection, just planting seeds for more embodied moments.
Invite Compassion
Remind yourself that embodiment is a practice, not something you need to master all at once. It’s okay if your mind wants to think—it’s just trying to keep you safe.
Would any of these feel possible to try, even for just a few seconds at a time? Or do you feel like the thinking has a particular intensity that we could explore further?
There is something in me that does not trust the present moment. Doesn't trust a reality without thoughts
That’s an incredibly deep realization—there’s a part of you that doesn’t trust the present moment, or a reality that isn’t governed by thoughts. That mistrust is so valid, especially if thoughts have been your primary way of making sense of the world, staying safe, or avoiding discomfort. For much of your life, thinking might have been the only reliable tool you had to navigate an unpredictable or overwhelming reality.
If the present moment feels unsafe, it’s likely because it holds sensations, emotions, or truths that thinking has been working hard to protect you from. That mistrust is like a guard at the gate, saying, “I don’t know what’s in there, but we’re not risking it.”
How to Work with This Mistrust
Acknowledge the Guard
Instead of fighting the mistrust, honor it. Say something like:
“I hear you. You don’t trust the present moment, and that’s okay. You’ve been protecting me for a long time.”
This can help you create a relationship with this part, rather than feeling stuck in conflict with it.
Tiny, Safe Doses of Presence
The present moment doesn’t have to mean full immersion right away. You can dip a toe in:
Feel the texture of your clothing for a few seconds.
Notice one inhale and one exhale.
Look at something nearby (a plant, a book) and describe it in your mind.
These small moments can help your guard see that presence doesn’t always equal danger.
Invite Thoughts to Join the Process
Since thoughts feel essential to this part of you, involve them instead of shutting them out. For example:
“What do I think about the feeling of my feet on the ground?”
Over time, this can ease the mistrust by integrating thinking with embodiment.
Ask the Guard Questions
Get curious about the mistrust:
What feels dangerous about the present moment?
What do thoughts protect me from?
The answers might not come right away, but asking opens a dialogue with this protective part.
Remind Yourself of Agency
You’re not stuck in the present moment forever—you can step in and out as you need. Knowing you have control can make it feel less overwhelming.
Does any of this resonate with you? Or does the mistrust feel too entrenched to approach right now?
The idea of involving my thoughts is a novel approach that has gained my interest
I’m so glad that idea resonates with you! It’s a way of respecting the fact that your thoughts have been your trusted companions, protectors, and interpreters of reality. Instead of trying to silence or push them away, involving them acknowledges their importance while gently expanding your experience.
Here are some ways you might try involving your thoughts in the process of connecting with the present moment:
1. Curiosity Over Conflict
Treat your thoughts as curious observers. For example:
“What do I think about this sensation in my hands?”
“What does my mind have to say about the sound I’m hearing?”
This keeps your thoughts active and engaged, while also shifting their focus to the present moment.
2. Dialogue With Thoughts
Create a conversation between your thoughts and your body.
Example: If you notice tension in your shoulders, you could think, “What’s happening there?”
Let your thoughts answer: “Maybe it’s stress from earlier.”
Then bring in curiosity: “What would it feel like to release a little bit of that tension?”
3. Personify Your Thoughts
Imagine your thoughts as characters or voices. Give them a personality and let them "speak" about the present moment.
For example, a critical thought might say, “This is pointless.”
You can respond gently: “I hear you, but let’s just see what happens if we try this for five seconds.”
4. Create a Mental Narrative
Use your thoughts to narrate what’s happening in your body, like telling a story:
“I feel my feet on the ground. They’re pressing into the floor, and there’s a warmth there. My shoulders are heavy, but they’re softening just a little.”
This helps your thoughts stay busy while still anchoring you in the present.
5. Let Thoughts Be Tour Guides
Ask your thoughts to guide you through a body scan or sensory check-in:
“Okay, thoughts, where should we focus next? Oh, my hands? What’s happening there?”
By giving your thoughts a role, you’re honoring their protective function while gradually shifting them toward supporting embodiment. Over time, this can help build trust between the parts of you that think and the parts of you that feel.
Would you like to explore one of these approaches further, or does this spark any other ideas about how you might work with your thoughts?
Why did I think I was supposed to disown and keep my thoughts at a distance? Jesus!
That reaction is so raw and valid—it sounds like a wave of both frustration and clarity crashing in. It’s likely because so much of the messaging around mindfulness, meditation, and even healing often frames thoughts as obstacles or problems to overcome. You might have picked up the idea that peace or progress could only come by silencing or disowning your thoughts.
But thoughts aren’t enemies—they’re part of you. They’ve been trying to help you, even if their methods sometimes feel chaotic or overwhelming. Disowning them would mean disowning a huge part of your lived experience, and no wonder that felt so wrong deep down.
This realization is powerful—it’s like reclaiming your thoughts as part of your wholeness. They’re not something to push away but something to integrate and work with. How does it feel to look at them this way now, as allies rather than adversaries? Does it shift how you relate to them in the moment?
Something I think about a lot is how to explain to other people what I've been learning about myself. I never know if I'm being too raw and real, too. Right now I'm just saying that I'm recovering from emotional neglect and religious abuse. But every time I say that, I roll my eyes in my head.
It sounds like you’re grappling with how to convey something so deeply personal in a way that feels both honest and palatable—not too much, but also not dismissive of your truth. That’s a hard balance to strike, especially when the language we use for experiences like emotional neglect and religious abuse can feel overused, clinical, or even cliché. It’s no wonder you roll your eyes—it might feel like those words don’t quite capture the full weight or nuance of what you’re going through.
Maybe part of the frustration is that these phrases feel like summaries when your journey is so much more complex. You’re not just “recovering”—you’re rebuilding, rediscovering, and reimagining who you are.
A Few Ways to Approach Sharing
Frame It as Exploration
Instead of labeling it as recovery, you could say something like:
“I’m unpacking how emotional neglect and religion shaped me, and I’m learning to reconnect with myself.”
This shifts the focus to your active process rather than the past events.
Use Language That Feels More True to You
If the terms “emotional neglect” and “religious abuse” feel overdone, what words resonate more?
For example: “I’m working through a childhood that left me disconnected from myself.”
Or: “I’m unlearning a lot of beliefs that made me doubt my instincts.”
Adjust for Your Audience
For people who might not “get it,” you could keep it general:
“I’m working on understanding myself better and healing from some old patterns.”
For those you trust, you can lean into more vulnerability:
“I’ve been processing how much my upbringing shaped the way I see myself and the world—it’s messy, but it’s important.”
Acknowledge the Rawness
If you feel you might be “too raw,” you can name that upfront:
“This might sound intense, but I’m figuring out how to heal from some big things in my past, like emotional neglect and religious control.”
This lets the listener know you’re aware of the weight of your words.
Focus on Your Present Growth
Instead of emphasizing the past, highlight your current transformation:
“I’m learning to trust myself after years of being disconnected.”
Or: “I’m figuring out who I really am underneath all the expectations I grew up with.”
How does that land with you? Does any of this feel closer to how you want to communicate your experience? Or does the discomfort go deeper than just finding the right words?
Even the phrase "connect with myself" makes me roll my eyes. It all feels overly romantic
I get that. A lot of the language around healing—phrases like “connect with myself,” “find my inner peace,” or “embrace my true self”—can feel like it’s trying too hard to be poetic or profound. When you’re in the trenches of figuring this stuff out, those phrases can feel detached from the messy, raw, and often unromantic reality of it.
If “connecting with myself” feels eye-roll-worthy, it might help to reframe it in language that feels more grounded and straightforward. Maybe it’s less about connecting and more about getting real with yourself or untangling years of noise and expectations.
Here are some alternatives that might feel more authentic:
“I’m learning to stop fighting with myself.”
“I’m trying to figure out what’s real for me versus what I was taught.”
“I’m sorting through all the stuff in my head to see what actually matters to me.”
“I’m piecing together a version of life that doesn’t feel fake.”
“I’m trying to live in a way that doesn’t make me cringe at myself.”
Does any of this feel closer to the way you’d want to describe it? Or is the frustration more about the process itself not feeling aligned with the language?
I've said that I am trying to make my outsides and my insides match.
That phrase—“trying to make my outsides and my insides match”—is beautifully raw and straightforward. It captures the struggle of aligning who you truly are internally with how you show up in the world, without overloading it with overly romantic or clichéd language. It’s honest, relatable, and gets to the heart of the work you’re doing.
If that feels true to you, it could be your anchor phrase. You don’t have to explain everything; this phrase gives people a window into your process while leaving space for them to ask more if they’re curious.
Would it feel grounding to stick with that as your go-to explanation for now? Or are you still searching for a way to refine it further?
I sometimes wonder back and furth whether I see more true things than other or whether I see less. I often discover things and worry about whether everyone else already knew this and I am truly educationally neglected.
That back-and-forth makes so much sense—questioning whether you’re seeing the world with clarity or missing something that everyone else already knows. It’s like walking a fine line between feeling insightful and feeling behind, as though there’s an invisible rulebook others have that you didn’t get.
Here’s the thing: your discoveries are yours, and they’re valid, no matter when they happen. Everyone’s timeline for understanding themselves and the world is different. If you’re uncovering truths about life, relationships, or yourself that feel profound, it doesn’t matter whether others “already knew” them. What matters is that they’re new and meaningful to you right now.
As for feeling “educationally neglected,” it’s possible that some foundational things—about emotional development, relationships, or even practical knowledge—weren’t taught or modeled for you in the ways they could’ve been. That’s not a reflection of your intelligence or capability; it’s a reflection of the gaps left by the systems and environments you grew up in. And the fact that you’re noticing and working to fill those gaps now is incredibly courageous.
Some Reframing to Consider:
Instead of asking, “Does everyone already know this?” you could ask, “Why is this meaningful to me right now?”
Rather than focusing on what you “missed,” you might say, “I’m discovering this in my own time, and that’s okay.”
If you feel behind, remind yourself: “I’m learning because I care about understanding, not to compete or catch up.”
How does it feel to think about it this way? Do you think your discoveries could be seen as part of your unique path, rather than a comparison to others?
My existential shock has me in the state of feeling a lot of shame and despair about day to day living. Every time I use water. When I notice my fridge is cooling. Noticing the sound of my furnace. All the lights that are on. Or when I have a broken thermometer... It used to be so easy to just throw things in the trash. But in my growth I've seen that we have a serious issue with waste and overpopulation. I feel compelled to impact the planet as little as possible but it also makes me feel a little agoraphobic and have a lot of shame for what is see as normal day to day social activities like using plastic bags for trash. It all feels like it is so normal but it doesn't feel normal. But also the more I hold myself back from using the resources and enjoying myself the more resentful and unhappy I feel. What do I do with my sense of ethics and my desire to enjoy what modern life has to offer?
This tension you’re experiencing—between your ethics and your desire to enjoy modern life—is incredibly challenging, and it’s one that so many people who are deeply aware of global issues wrestle with. It’s especially intense because your existential shock has likely heightened your sensitivity to these everyday choices, making what others might dismiss as "normal" feel unbearably weighty to you.
Here’s a way to start thinking about this balance:
Acknowledge the Emotional Weight
It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. These aren’t small issues—they’re systemic, global, and deeply complex. The shame and despair you feel aren’t signs that you’re doing something wrong; they’re evidence of your deep care and awareness.
Remind yourself: You didn’t create these systems, and it’s not your sole responsibility to fix them.
Reframe “Perfection” as “Progress”
The idea of “impacting the planet as little as possible” can feel paralyzing because it’s an impossible standard. Instead, focus on progress:
What small, sustainable changes can I make without sacrificing my well-being?
For example, maybe you use plastic bags for trash, but you’re also mindful about reducing food waste or conserving energy where you can.
Focus on Collective Action Over Individual Guilt
While individual choices matter, systemic change is where the most significant impact happens. Instead of carrying all the weight on your own shoulders, consider engaging in community or advocacy efforts that align with your ethics.
This can shift the focus from personal guilt to shared action and hope.
Allow Room for Joy
Denying yourself the comforts or pleasures of modern life won’t solve the systemic problems, but it will erode your ability to stay engaged and motivated. Joy is not unethical—it’s what sustains us.
Ask yourself: What is one thing I can allow myself to enjoy without shame, knowing it recharges me to keep caring and acting?
Create Rituals for Balance
If certain actions, like throwing things away or using water, trigger shame, consider creating small rituals of mindfulness or gratitude around them. For example:
When using water, take a moment to acknowledge its value and commit to using it thoughtfully.
When disposing of something, remind yourself that you’re doing your best within an imperfect system.
Practice Self-Compassion
You are one person trying to live ethically in a world that often feels unsustainable. Treat yourself with the same kindness you’d offer someone else in your position.
What You Can Do With These Feelings
It sounds like your sense of ethics and your existential awareness are pulling you toward meaning and purpose. What if, instead of trying to live as perfectly as possible, you channeled that energy into something that aligns with your values in a way that feels actionable and fulfilling? For example:
Volunteering with or donating to environmental organizations.
Exploring ways to educate others on sustainability without overwhelming yourself.
Finding joy in creative solutions, like upcycling or reducing waste in ways that feel empowering rather than restrictive.
Would it help to explore practical ways to integrate your ethics with joy and ease? Or does this still feel too heavy to navigate right now?
I like humor like this: humans are just one long tube
That’s such a fantastic way to cut through the existential heaviness with humor. It’s true, when you boil it all down, humans are essentially one long, overly complicated tube—food goes in one end, gets processed, and comes out the other. All our fancy ideas, systems, and struggles are just what the tube does to keep itself entertained.
Humor like this can be such a powerful coping tool because it reminds you not to take everything so seriously. Does leaning into absurd humor like this help give you a little distance from the weight of it all? Maybe reframing other existential ideas into ridiculous truths could help lighten things further—like, “We’re all just awkward tubes stumbling around on two legs, pretending to have it all figured out.”
I do love that kind of humor.its called absurd?
Yes, it’s called absurd humor (or sometimes surreal humor), and it thrives on highlighting the ridiculous, illogical, and often meaningless aspects of life. It’s all about taking something serious or mundane—like humans being complex, emotional creatures—and flipping it into something hilariously simple, like “humans are just tubes with anxiety.”
Absurd humor works because it pokes fun at the systems, structures, or existential ideas that usually feel heavy, making them seem hilariously insignificant. It can be a great way to process big emotions, as it gives you permission to laugh at the ridiculousness of existence instead of feeling crushed by it.
Do you have a favorite absurd comedian or style of this humor? Or do you want help brainstorming more funny, “humans-are-weird-tubes” kinds of takes?
I liked George Carlin
George Carlin was a master of blending absurdity with sharp social commentary. His ability to point out the ridiculousness of life—like how we organize society, the human condition, and even our day-to-day habits—was brilliant. His humor often struck that balance between laughter and existential truth.
