I think of embodiment work as taking the journey back home to our bodies. It is healing work, stepping onto the path toward re-embodiment knowing there is no arrival. It feels like unlearning, which seems to have less gold star stickers and societal accolades involved than learning. It feels like remembering. My friends and I joke that engaging in the work of embodiment and healing is not as cute and sexy as we thought it would be when we began. There are a lot of false starts and ugly crying. It actually and annoyingly requires us to put down things like over functioning and perfectionism, which feels so safe and worn-in and leads to so many more pats on the back than sitting still and feeling what my body is feeling or moving and feeling what my body is feeling. And then there is the whole responding to your body after you have remembered how to listen to it. It’s all very inconvenient. The work, which is so slow and unexpectedly vulnerable, does not easily transfer to a flashy Instagram post.
Embodiment work (like so many other forms of transformation) is better done in community than in isolation. I was not thinking about this when I started writing a book on embodiment, but one of the greatest unexpected delights of writing a book about embodiment is that people who are on the journey come find me to tell me their stories and tell me what they thought about my stories in the book. It’s the best. I have had multiple people come take a yoga class I lead because they read The Embodied Path. And then we talk about our bodies and our journeys to deeper embodiment, and before I know it, I am in a posse of badass humans who are up to the brave work of healing and transformation with me.
Well, I decided I should not be the only one that benefits from hearing the stories of those hanging out in their bodies. So every now and then I will share these body shorts, or notes on embodiment. I hope they read as a gentle invitation to share your story, too. Because, as always, we are better together.
My friend had knee surgery a few weeks ago. Leading up to it, she shared how hard it was to rearrange her schedule so she could take a week off of work afterward to heal and rest. A lot of the struggle was internal. She did not want to ask too much of her colleagues or let her athletes down. And some of the struggle was the feedback she got about scheduling the surgery. It is never an opportune time to pause. Our systems are not set up for us to be broken and vulnerable. Our systems are not set up for us to take breaks to rest and heal. She also shared with me that she was nervous about the surgery, much more scared than she was for her knee surgery ten years ago. I offered that maybe she was scared last time too, but this time she is paying more attention to how her body is feeling. Surgery, no matter how small, is not small. It is always invasive, always a risk, and being nervous is an appropriate reaction.
The other day I walked into the yoga studio to take a class and the teacher, who was standing behind the front desk checking people in said to me, “You move through the world like there is always music playing. Like you have a soundtrack backing it up.” It landed. I think I do. I love to move my body, I love to dance, and I have never needed music to dance to. Living in my body has helped me move through the world with joy, in touch with the music of my body and the music of the universe.
Another friend has been struggling with her digestive system. For years she has felt stuck, backed up, knowing something was off in her GI track. She has taken her wellness very seriously, addressing her mind, body, and being. She made changes to her diet and movement. Sees a therapist and a functional medicine professional. She did a series of colonics. And, the other day, she wrote a love letter to her colon. She said, “I’m not sure which of those things made the difference, it was probably a combination of them, but I don’t care. Something worked. I feel light and cleared. Something big shifted.” She said investing in her wellness and loving writing the letter helped her realize that her midsection is part of her body. After years of avoiding, ignoring, and being frustrated with it, she turned toward it with gentleness and attention, integrating it back into the whole, which changed everything.
Similarly, a very inspiring woman came into the yoga studio recently and started taking classes, workshops, and wellness sessions. After class one day, she shared the breakthroughs she has been having. In the middle of an acupuncture session she arrived anew at the realization, “My body is MINE. My body is MY body.” It has become a mantra that helps her with self-compassion and the courageous healing work of deeper embodiment.
Knee surgery went well for my friend, and the world kept turning while she stepped away from work for a week. I got a message from her while she was on a walk, and she was giggling at how slowly she was moving. Her pace felt humbling, and very much outside of her normal speed. It also helped her notice her surroundings in more detail, which brought a little newness, aliveness, and gratitude.
In this most recent season on my embodiment journey, I’ve noticed that I make more sound effects than usual. It is not conscious, per se, but while I am listening to a story, for example, I will have an audible reaction if I hear something really hard or painful or vulnerable or true. In a group I facilitate a woman told me, “Your grunts are a little scary, in a good way.” Yesterday, I did a talk about healing and wholeness, and several times in the talk when I was getting particularly fired up, a noise that rose from deep in my gut and deep in my throat added punctuation to my words. As I was signing books and connecting with folks after, one woman came up to me and said, “I’ve got one thing for you.” Then she made a similar guttural roar then added, “It feels so good!” and we both shared a belly laugh.
What came up for you reading these shorts?
When was the last time you sat with your fear?
When was the last time you danced without music?
What body part might benefit from a love letter today?
Does your body feel like it belongs to you? What helps you claim it as yours?
When you move really slowly, what do you notice?
Without overthinking, make a noise like a roar, growl, or hum. Allow it to come from deep in your body. How does it feel?