My body makes all my decisions now
Learning to trust body wisdom
I sat in a work meeting recently when a small headache kicked in. Chalking it up to a long day, I pop an ibuprofen and stretch my neck. It continues off and on the next day. I’ve noticed a lot of my physical sensations of pain are often emotions so I check in with my body a few times. There are a few tears but I get wrapped up in work and push through. Two days later, tight muscles wrap themselves around me until I wave the white flag.
“Sweet girl, what hurts?”
Three things tumble out.
I miss Jeremy.
Stop taking up so much space. I can’t keep you safe.
You’re quick to help others dream about the future, but I’m sad about all that’s changing in the church.
Well, then.
Our bodies know
I miss Jeremy.
October always feels like my brother. His birthday is coming up, his second one since he died. He loved football season and his commentary brought the season to life for me. I still reach for my phone to text him during a game. We put his box of ashes right by the TV and talk to him while we watch the games.
God, I wish he was turning 35 in a couple weeks.
In the early months, my therapist said part of our heart will never truly accept the death of a loved one. It feels true so far. I still experience moments where I’m shocked all over again. He really died?!
My body is sad. So I make space to feel it. To express it. To tell a few stories. To remember. To grieve.
Stop taking up so much space. I can’t keep you safe.
Oh, this one is tricky. I first suspected I was autistic a year ago. As this new learning unraveled, my nervous system let me know a million times over she’s pretty freaked out by this exploration. I hear her often, “I worked so hard for decades to protect you from everything that didn’t make sense. Now you’re just going out there and *telling* people?! How can I protect you if you take up more space? Please stay small. I must manage everything and you’re making it harder and harder to keep up.” I have so much love and compassion for my younger selves.
My saving grace has been somatic experiencing. Learning to heal my nervous system from decades of dysregulation has been a sweet surprise. I’m learning to listen to my body and what it’s been holding, unsure how to process and release. We’re working together instead of against each other.
Best of all, my nervous system is slowly feeling safe enough to stretch and play in the space that’s always been mine. Boundaries are hard for a lot of us, but I’m learning they’re near impossible for an undiagnosed autistic woman. I feel everyone’s stuff around me, fawn as a trauma response, and immediately disappear into my neurotypical mask around most human beings. So yeah, it’s been a wild year of inner work.
You’re quick to help others dream about the future, but I’m sad about all that’s changing in the church.
This is an entire thread we can explore another time, but my body is harshly whispering the grief of this season of work in the church. The practices, methods, and structure of the United Methodist Church (and many others) are evaporating in front of our eyes. I am genuinely energized by all that’s ahead for humans who want to gather to walk through life together with a spiritual lens. And. I’m grieving right along with the pastors and congregants in my tradition. The familiar practices from my childhood aren’t guaranteed for my kids. Conversations of financial sustainability and generational shift are strategic until my body reminds me it’s deeply personal. This is my vocation. Sure, it will take many forms in my life, but the form I’ve enjoyed (and argued with) for years is fading fast.
So I’m trying to make space to feel my way through this part of the release process.
This wasn’t the piece I planned to write this week. I’ve been waiting a year to tell you everything I’m learning about autism and life and relationships and faith and healing.
But my body makes my decisions now.
And she’s feeling sad. So that’s what we listen to.
Dear reader — I hope you have spaces to express whatever emotions are hanging out in your body lately. There’s a healing that comes in the work of expression. A kind of metabolizing. Integrating.
Interestingly enough, I check in with my body and that headache has eased. I feel lighter. All is well. Emotions can bubble up, be seen, feel heard, and be integrated as we move forward.
A-freaking-men.
October feels like my daughter. She died 11 years ago on the 24th at 29. As the weather cools and becomes darker so does my body. It’s something I can’t explain but I feel the loss deep in my bones this time of year. My son died one year ago in June. He was 31. Trying very hard to quiet my mind and lean into the season. I appreciate your writing Jenny. It reminds me I am not alone in my grief.
Thank you for this. I've been feeling sad for a while now, I know it, but haven't connected with why yet. I know I'm still proceeding my husband's death 8 years ago, just getting in touch with incredible anger about 2 years ago, but this sadness is something different. I keep plugging along with it, and following you because your writing is brilliant and sometimes I have a big AHA. Bless you for all you do.