It was during an intense bridge pose in yoga class that I first understood how the body holds on to untold stories. Tears streamed down my face, unbidden and unstoppable, and I was overwhelmed by a surge of emptiness, guilt, and grief that I had repressed for so long. The death of my grandmother, a loss I had tucked away, finally burst out of me, defying all attempts to control it. This moment wasn’t an isolated incident—it marked the beginning of my journey into understanding the profound link between our physical selves and the traumas we carry.
Trauma, I came to learn, doesn’t just reside in the mind. It weaves itself into the very fabric of our bodies, hiding in muscles, tissues, and postures. The body becomes a living record of experiences that we may not even consciously remember. This understanding brought clarity to many moments of inexplicable pain or discomfort I had endured and ignited a desire to learn how to truly release these hidden burdens.
The Journey Through Trauma in the Body
Looking back, my relationship with trauma began long before I had words for it. My childhood was marked by a turbulent home life where love was conditional, and criticism was constant. I remember the days when school report cards became battlegrounds, not just between my father and me but within my own sense of worth. Each grade that fell short became proof of my inadequacy, reinforced by harsh words and physical punishment. This environment left imprints that I carried unknowingly—tight shoulders from the stress of anticipation, a clenched jaw from trying to swallow my voice, and a mid-back that ached with the weight of grief I didn’t know how to process.
As I grew older, these physical manifestations continued. My body bore the signs of an emotional battlefield: tension headaches, tightness in my hips that I only later associated with childhood betrayal and chronic stress, and a lower back that pulsed with financial anxiety. Each twinge and ache told a part of my story I hadn’t been ready to face, or even remember, consciously. I found myself slouching, trying to physically make myself smaller, to blend in or at least not stand out. In my early adulthood and working life the constant stress weakened my immune system, resulting in frequent infections, a subtle but persistent reminder of my body’s inner turmoil.
The turning point came when I started working with coaches at age 42, who introduced me to somatic practices. They helped me see that these physical sensations weren’t just random pains—they were markers, signals that my body was holding on to more than it could bear. Through somatic exercises, breathwork, and intentional movement, I began to feel my body releasing long-held traumas.
It was intense work, often accompanied by unexpected waves of emotion that were both liberating and unsettling. Memories surfaced that had been buried for decades: the ache of abandonment during my parents' divorce, the deep sense of unworthiness from high school bullying, and the overwhelming guilt that had coloured much of my adult life. These emotions—shame, guilt, sadness—were all considered by society, and by me, to be “unmanly.” But this process also unearthed subtler feelings that, for years, I didn’t realize I was carrying simply because they felt so at odds with what I thought a man “should” feel.
Self-doubt, for instance, had been a near-constant companion. I’d been conditioned to suppress it, to bury any awareness of my own insecurities and press forward without question. Yet as these somatic practices took effect, self-doubt became almost tangible, a weight I’d been carrying in my chest and stomach for years. I came to see that my self-doubt wasn’t a weakness or something to be ashamed of—it was a reflection of the uncertainty I’d experienced in my formative years, a survival mechanism that my body had held onto, just in case.
Then there was self-consciousness, another “unmanly” feeling I had long ignored. As a man, I’d internalized the idea that I should be strong, confident, and sure of myself at all times. But through this work, I uncovered layer after layer of moments where I felt scrutinized, misunderstood, or judged—moments that had turned my self-image into a fragile construct, one that couldn’t tolerate criticism or failure. I’d thought that self-consciousness was something I should’ve outgrown, but as I gave myself space to explore these memories, I saw how my body had protected me, creating tension in my neck and back as if to guard against the impact of being “seen” too clearly by others.
A lack of feeling grounded was yet another unspoken part of my story. As I began to tune into my body, I recognized how disconnected I had been, floating through life without a firm sense of security or belonging. I’d convinced myself that I was resilient, adaptable, and able to handle whatever came my way, yet underneath that bravado was a profound instability. This lack of grounding showed up physically—tightness in my legs, a tendency to fidget, and even a reluctance to stand still. My body was constantly preparing to flee, to escape judgment, rejection, or disappointment.
As these hidden layers came into awareness, I realized that society often labels these emotions—self-doubt, self-consciousness, lack of groundedness—as “unmanly,” training men to avoid them at all costs. But in rejecting them, I had unwittingly rejected parts of myself. In my somatic work, I began to embrace these emotions as valid aspects of my humanity, letting my body finally release the burden of trying to hide them. I came to see that feeling these emotions didn’t make me “less of a man”; rather, it allowed me to live more authentically, acknowledge my full emotional range, and heal more profoundly.
The Power of Release
As I progressed, I found that movement and mindful practices were more than just physical exercises—they were pathways to emotional freedom. Yoga, for example, became a sanctuary where I could explore emotions in a way that felt real and accessible. Each pose, from child’s pose to heart-opening backbends, invited me to tune into what my body was saying, to feel my emotions physically rather than intellectualizing them. Sometimes, the release was gentle; other times, it was like opening floodgates.
Affirmations and mantras, though helpful to some, always felt hollow to me—like they were just words, a mask covering the real work that needed to happen deeper down. The idea of saying “I am safe to feel” or “My body is my home” sounded reassuring, but it didn’t absorb fully, not in the way movement did. For me, true healing wasn’t about speaking words into existence but about embodying those feelings through the physical release of tension, old patterns, and stored memories.
In movement, I didn’t have to force myself to believe anything; I could just be with whatever emerged, no judgment or explanation needed. Allowing my body to express pain, grief, or anger without trying to rationalize it or justify it felt like a powerful surrender. This release was my way of reconnecting with parts of myself I had silenced. I realized that sometimes, simply letting the body lead the way—trusting its wisdom without adding mental labels—was where the true healing began.
Practical Steps for Self-Healing
For those on a similar path, here are some daily practices that have helped me:
Morning Body Check-In: This has become a cornerstone of my daily routine. Spend five minutes after waking to truly feel into your body. Notice any areas of tension, heaviness, or warmth, and breathe deeply into those areas. This practice grounds me for the day ahead and fosters a deeper connection with my physical self.
Somatic Exercises: Physical movement has been a powerful tool for releasing stored emotions. Simple practices like shaking out the limbs, doing hip circles, or lying on a foam roller to release tension in the back can be transformative. These movements help me access and release feelings that words often can't touch.
Grounding Practices: Connecting with the earth brings a sense of stability and peace. Walking barefoot on grass, practising deep breathing exercises, or holding a grounding stone can help release stored tension and anchor you in the present moment. These practices have been essential in alleviating feelings of anxiety or disconnection.
Exploring Mantras (Optional): While mantras and affirmations don't always resonate with me, I've found that over time, they can supplement my healing journey. If they feel authentic to you, consider integrating gentle affirmations such as, "I am safe to feel" or "My body is my home" to reinforce a sense of safety and presence. It's okay if they don't feel impactful right away; sometimes they become more meaningful as we grow more comfortable with them.
The Ongoing Journey
Healing is not linear, and releasing trauma from the body is an ongoing process. There are days when the weight of past stories feels lighter and days when they come roaring back. Each day, different tools may serve us better, and something that resonated deeply last week might feel out of reach today. The journey is about having multiple tools and modalities to draw from, knowing that on some days, physical movement and release feel right, while on other days, grounding practices may be what we need most.
Some days, finding the energy for the physical work can be difficult, and on those days, focusing on grounding or reconnecting with my authentic self offers a gentler path back to balance. With each release, I reclaim more of myself—the child who needed protection, the young man seeking approval, and the adult learning that worth is not conditional.
I invite anyone reading to explore their own body’s stories and to find the practices that resonate with them in each moment. Healing is unique to everyone, and discovering what brings a sense of peace or self-acceptance may just be the beginning of a profound and personal journey.
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