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Why are there bodies that feel like home…
and others that feel like uncertain territory?
It begins here:
in the capacity —or the absence—
to feel safe inside yourself.
For a long time, I didn’t.
My body lived in constant alertness:
tense, rigid, disconnected, hidden.
When I was younger, I hid behind edited versions of myself—
versions I created so I wouldn’t feel so exposed.
Not because I wanted to look a certain way,
but because I didn’t know how to live in my own skin.
I didn’t know how to stay with myself.
And eventually, something uncomfortable became clear:
I wasn’t hiding from the world.
I was hiding from myself.
Developmental psychology says something fascinating:
before we learn how to talk to ourselves kindly,
we learn how to feel safe in our own bodies.
That safety rests on two deep systems:
1. Interoception — the ability to sense what happens inside
(heart rate, breath, temperature, tension).
Cambridge University calls it “the silent sense.”
2. Proprioception — the ability to know where you are in space
(orientation, balance, physical presence).
When these systems are disrupted by anxiety,
mild trauma, chronic stress, or body shame,
the body becomes confusing terrain.
We don’t feel contained.
We don’t feel at home.
Stephen Porges doesn’t just talk about internal safety—
he talks about neuroception,
the nervous system’s automatic ability
to detect safety or danger
before the mind has time to think.
That’s why, when you don’t feel safe in yourself,
everything outside feels more threatening:
glances, new environments, change, emotional closeness.
Krishnamacharya taught that
“the body is not a spiritual obstacle—it is the first teacher.”
And Patanjali described sthira (steadiness) and sukha (ease)
not just as physical qualities,
but as an internal state where the body becomes
a stable container for the mind.
Desikachar, his son, said:
“Practice is not about perfecting the body,
but about forming an intimate and honest relationship with it.”
A real relationship with your biology—
with the signals your body sends,
and with how you choose to inhabit them.
And that relationship is built in very concrete ways:
1. Interoceptive regulation
Your body learns safety through physiology, not psychology.
Not through thoughts—but through what the body repeatedly experiences.
– Slow breathing → activates the vagus nerve → lowers alertness
– Long exhale → reduces amygdala activation → lowers perceived threat
– Feeling your feet on the ground → decreases dissociation → increases presence
Each of these cues reorganizes your internal map
long before they reorganize your thoughts.
2. Conscious movement
Research from Dr. Norman Farb shows that slow, precise, attentive movement—
especially with spinal rotations, balance, and intentional breath—
reconnects the insular cortex,
the region that integrates interoception, compassion, and safety.
When taught with presence and technique,
yoga isn’t just stretching:
it’s neuroregulation in motion.
3. Somatic honesty
Listening to the body before the ego:
– What tightens when you try to fit in?
– What contracts when you don’t say what you feel?
– What dims when you compare yourself?
– Where does shame first appear in your body?
Shame is not an idea.
It is physiological.
It shows up in the plexus, the throat, the skin.
And safety does too.
For years, I believed my body wasn’t “right.”
I tried to soften parts of myself—
my voice, my opinions, the way I take up space.
But eventually I understood:
my body wasn’t the problem.
I had simply never learned how to live inside it.
I had learned to hide,
to compensate,
to compare,
to make myself smaller so I wouldn’t disturb anyone.
But I had never learned to inhabit myself.
Yoga taught me to feel my limits
without fighting them,
to return my attention
without insulting myself,
to stay in my body
without running away from me.
Internal safety doesn’t appear on its own—
it is practiced.
It builds through small, steady, almost invisible actions
that teach the nervous system
that it can finally rest.
It grows in the most ordinary moments:
in how you breathe when you’re nervous,
in how you talk to yourself when you fail,
in how you treat yourself when you don’t fit in,
in what you choose to do with yourself
when no one is watching.
It’s a process that unfolds
in the way you begin to know yourself.
Sometimes my body knew before I did—
in the way my shoulders dropped without my noticing,
in the moment my jaw finally softened,
in the first time I could say “I’m scared”
without feeling ashamed of it.
Neuroscience explains it clearly:
when you acknowledge yourself without judgment,
the prefrontal cortex lights up,
the amygdala quiets,
and the body interprets:
“I’m not in danger—I’m just feeling.”
And that tiny shift changes everything.
Other times, internal safety showed up
when I stopped performing the “correct” version of myself
and started revealing the parts I used to hide.
It’s strange, but the body knows—
it can tell when you’re pretending
and when you’re telling yourself the truth.
Porges calls it neuroception of safety:
that inner sense of trusting yourself.
And that’s when the body starts feeling like home—
a place you can return to
without hiding,
without demanding,
without disguising yourself.
Each time you return,
inner safety grows.
Because feeling “enough”
is not a thought.
It is a bodily experience.
And when your body becomes home,
life feels less threatening.
Presence expands.
Authenticity feels natural.
You become you—
undefended,
undisguised,
unafraid of being seen.
That is the real safe place—
the one you build inside.
And from that inner home,
you can finally see what you couldn’t see before:
Everything that’s already okay.
Everything you already have.
Everything you already are.
When you realize there’s a place within you that holds you,
you stop living from scarcity
and start living from abundance.
Life stops feeling like a race
and starts feeling like a return.
A return to yourself.
Because the most important home
is not the one you live in—
but the one you learn to live from.
