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There is a strange point
where things begin to go well.
Not perfect.
Not resolved.
But steady.
Livable.
Good enough
to finally lower your guard.
And right there,
when life stops pushing
and starts holding you,
something inside you stirs.
Not a clear thought.
A sensation.
A subtle tightening in the chest.
An urge to move.
A discomfort that’s hard to name
when there’s nothing left to fix.
As if your body doesn’t quite know
what to do with so much calm.
You start touching what works.
Questioning what felt solid.
Imagining endings
when you’re barely beginning.
Shifting one small piece
just to make sure
you still have control.
And without realizing it,
you begin to disrupt
what was slowly finding its shape.
That, too, is self-sabotage.
The quiet kind.
The confusing one.
The one that appears
when you’re no longer surviving.
The body learns first
the states it lives in.
It learns tension.
It learns alertness.
It learns how to hold itself
when something hurts,
or is missing,
or threatens to leave.
And when, for the first time,
the experience changes—
when stability arrives,
when someone stays,
when something actually works—
the body has no reference.
It doesn’t recognize that state
as home.
From the inside,
calm feels unfamiliar.
Expansion feels too wide.
Stillness feels uncomfortable.
Not because something is wrong,
but because you’ve never stayed there
long enough.
The nervous system seeks coherence.
It repeats what it knows.
It returns to the ground
where it knows how to respond.
So sometimes,
when things begin to go well,
the body tries to return
to the familiar.
To doubt.
To tension.
To the “just in case.”
Not as punishment.
As protection.
This happens on the mat too.
It happens when a posture begins to open
and the body wants to leave
before it’s ready.
It happens when the breath grows wide
and there’s an impulse
to shorten it.
It happens when savasana feels long,
too quiet,
and the mind looks for something
to interrupt it.
This isn’t mental resistance.
It’s bodily memory.
The body saying:
“This is new.”
“I don’t recognize this.”
“I don’t know how to hold this yet.”
The mind imagines futures,
but reality takes shape
from the place where the body
feels safe.
Life organizes itself
around what the body can inhabit
without going into alarm.
You can long for a fuller life,
but if your nervous system
has only practiced survival,
fullness feels unstable.
You can want healthy love,
but if the body learned
that loving means tightening,
it will create distance.
You can ask for calm,
but if calm has no internal reference,
the urge to stir something
will arise.
Self-sabotage is not a flaw.
It’s a learned limit.
And practice is the place
where that limit becomes visible
and, slowly, flexible.
Each time you stay
a little longer
in an opening posture.
Each time you hold
the breath
without escaping the sensation.
Each time you allow
stillness
without filling it with noise.
The body learns.
It learns it can expand
without losing itself.
That it can soften
without dropping its guard.
That it can receive
without bracing for impact.
And that learning
is not mental.
It’s cellular.
It’s slow.
It’s deep.
Over time,
you no longer need to sabotage what’s good.
Not because you control it,
but because you can hold it.
Calm stops feeling dangerous.
Stability stops feeling dull.
Expansion stops feeling frightening.
You stay.
And in that staying,
life no longer breaks
when things begin to go well.
Because now,
your body also knows
how to live inside it.
It knows how to remain in stillness
without searching for noise.
How to receive without tightening.
How to hold without preparing to lose.
It no longer needs to sabotage
what once felt like too much.
It no longer needs to test
whether something will fail.
The body learns,
through slow breaths,
through repeated practice,
through moments when you choose not to flee,
that goodness can also be safe.
That not everything that arrives
has to hurt.
That not everything that opens
has to close quickly.
And little by little,
you begin to inhabit your life
in a different way.
More present.
More available.
More open.
Not because fear disappears,
but because it no longer leads.
Because now,
when something begins to go well,
you don’t run.
You don’t question it until it breaks.
You don’t pull away to feel safe.
You breathe.
You stay.
And from that place,
another way of living begins.
One where you don’t have to sabotage
what you always asked for.
One where your body, finally,
feels at home
in what is truly meant for you.
