On knowing ourselves rather well, and the things that surprise us
After spending a number of decades with ourselves, we understand things quite well.
We know why we react the way we do. We can trace familiar responses back to childhood, identify the circumstances that trigger them, and explain our processes to others with insight and clarity.
Then, in the middle of a regular day, there it is again. The Trojan horse. We apologize for something that wasn't our responsibility. Or agree to something we didn't want. We feel inexplicably uncomfortable when someone is kind to us, praises us or offers a sincere compliment.
So much for all that understanding.
I say this with genuine affection, because I encounter it often in my work, and because insight is a wonderful thing. But it often doesn't accomplish what we expect of it.
The very informed person who still gets stuck
Many people who come to somatic work have already spent years trying to understand themselves. They've read extensively, attended therapy, and learned about attachment patterns, nervous system responses, early trauma, boundaries, and emotional regulation.
Some of my clients could easily give competent lectures on the subject. They know why something happens, but that doesn't necessarily change what happens.
They may understand that disagreement is not dangerous, but still feel their chest tighten when someone expresses displeasure. Or they may know when they should say no, but discover that they are unable to do it. They may recognize that a relationship is no longer good for them and still feel an enormous pull to stay in it. When we consider how much of our experience is organized outside deliberate thought, none of this is really surprising.
But it can be so discouraging when we've come to expect that enough understanding will eventually make the difficulty disappear.
The body hasn't read the books
Are we expecting our bodies to attend the same lectures as our minds? If we've understood the problem, and have maybe identified possible solutions, does that mean the rest of us should now cooperate?
Responses that developed during early life were not necessarily formed through conscious reasoning. They emerged in relationship to the circumstances in which we lived, often long before we could reflect on them or put them into words.
Children don’t need to understand the dynamics of a family to begin adjusting to them. Their bodies learn what happens when someone raises their voice, withdraws affection, becomes unpredictable, or needs more than a child can comfortably provide. Over time, certain responses become familiar ways of maintaining connection, reducing conflict, or finding a little more predictability.
These patterns often persist long after the original circumstances have changed.
Understanding history is enormously valuable, but it doesn't necessarily provide a different lived experience. We cannot always explain ourselves out of something that was not initially organized through explanation.
When trying harder becomes more of the same
This is where things become interesting for me. A client notices a familiar response and decides to work on it. They monitor their reactions more carefully. They practise responding differently. They remind themselves that they are safe, that they have choices, that the present is not the past.
This often helps. But then, the effort itself becomes strangely familiar.
Someone who learned early in life to anticipate other people's needs, often approaches their own healing with the same watchfulness. Someone who was highly competent at managing difficult circumstances may turn their own well-being into another project requiring discipline, progress, and excellent performance. If they spent much of their lives trying not to get things wrong, they may become very concerned about doing their somatic work correctly.
We can become exceptionally skilled at improving ourselves while continuing to organize the effort around the very patterns we hope to change.
I certainly don't mean that we should stop making an effort, or that learning new responses is unhelpful. But I am interested in what happens when we begin to notice how we are approaching change, not only what we are trying to change.
A little less correction, a little more curiosity
Many people find it difficult to receive help. Maybe they became independent very early, or learned that accepting support came with expectations they couldn't fully meet.
They know that receiving help is perfectly reasonable. Nevertheless, when support is offered, the first thing they’ll say is, "Oh, no, I'm fine!" Usually before they've taken the time to consider whether they are actually fine.
There are many ways to approach this. We could encourage them to practise accepting help, explore their beliefs about dependency and vulnerability, or examine the history of the response. All of these have a place.
But we could also become curious about that tiny moment when the offer first arrives. What happens right before the familiar words come out? Is there a movement, a sensation, an impulse to turn away? Does the person's attention shift? Does emotion become hurried?
And what happens when there is enough room to notice these things without immediately requiring a different response?
Maybe nothing particularly remarkable. The person could still say no. But this time they might notice that the answer came before they had a chance to experience the offer.
That is already something new. Definitely not a dramatic breakthrough, but a tangible difference in what has become available to perception.
The unexpected difficulty of not fixing things
For capable, determined people, this can be surprisingly challenging. We are accustomed to using our intelligence to solve problems. When things are uncomfortable, we investigate and look for a solution.
There is a great deal to appreciate about this, although not every experience becomes more accessible when approached as a problem.
The issue here is that sometimes, the impulse to correct what is happening moves so quickly that we barely get to encounter the experience itself. If we notice tension, we immediately try to release it. If we feel uncertainty, we begin searching for reassurance. Meanwhile, the experience has come and gone, largely unexamined.
In this work, I am often interested in allowing a little more room around these moments. Not to prolong discomfort just for the sake of it, and certainly not to suggest that people should stay with experiences that become overwhelming. Rather, to make it possible to notice an experience without immediately having to do something about it.
This can reveal details that our usual efforts to improve ourselves tend to overlook. It can also reveal how difficult we find it to allow things to remain unfinished. Which, of course, is another interesting thing to notice.
When something different becomes possible
We don’t always recognize the beginning of a new behaviour. Sometimes all we recognize is the unfamiliar pause.
If we habitually agree, we notice that we haven't yet decided.
If we tend to withdraw during disagreement, we notice that we have remained curious for a moment longer.
If we respond to kindness with discomfort, we discover that we can feel both the discomfort and a little of the kindness.
Nothing has necessarily been resolved, and we may still experience the same difficulties tomorrow. The difference is that the experience is no longer quite as automatic or inaccessible as it was before. There is a little more to perceive, and perhaps eventually, a little more room for choice. These moments feel particularly valuable to the work, even though they don't usually announce themselves as progress. They can be awkward, uncertain, even disappointing to someone hoping for a more impressive result. Yet they represent a meaningful change in the relationship a person has with their own experience.
Beyond the well-explained self
I value understanding greatly. It helps us recognize patterns, make sense of our histories, and become more supportive toward aspects of ourselves that once seemed inexplicable.
But we can also discover that our most carefully developed explanations don't quite describe what is happening now. Our experience is often larger than our understanding of it.
My interest in developmental trauma work lies increasingly in this space between what we know and what we are able to perceive. In the small interruptions, the pauses, the unexpected softness.
In this work, the next step isn't another explanation. It's noticing that we've already said "I'm fine" before we've even checked. And the willingness to check what else might be there.