#7 Rewilding: To return to one's natural state

Part 1 - Beginning to listen

Hello perfect PW readers,

I’d like to begin by acknowledging the traditional owners of the land that I live and create on, the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin nation, and pay my deep respects to their elders past and present.

I’ve been shy to start sharing this story because I’m not sure how it will land. I’ve noticed that when I talk about more spiritual concepts, I feel the need to preface with ‘I know this sounds a bit woo-woo’.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s to go on being authentic and through that, connecting with others. I’ve also already shared this with Mum and Dad, and if a couple of boomers can embrace a spiritual awakening, then I have a feeling others might too.

After a long period of feeling disconnected from myself and my writing practice, I’m so happy to be back.

I hope this sparks something in you. I intend to share this one incrementally.

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Part 1 - Beginning to listen

Last year I went to the dentist for the first time since the pandemic. Dentists always make me feel anxious. The combination of needles, drills, and feedback about my ‘high-risk decay’ teeth sends me into a panic. This time was no different. Except as well as fillings, I was offered botox.

“Do you know you grind your teeth?” my dentist asked.

“Ahh no”, I said. I was focusing on breathing in for four and out for four, while wiggling my toes to take attention away from needing to swallow. My jaw was aching from being held open. It was all very uncomfortable.

“Your teeth at the back are quite ground down. It’s very common. I’ve seen a lot of this in people your age since COVID. You must be grinding them in your sleep.”

This news was surprising and not surprising. I didn’t know I was grinding my teeth, but I had noticed my jaw was holding onto tension.

“You can get botox injections as a way to relax the muscles and fix that”, she said.

My adrenaline spiked at the thought of more needles near my face – back to the toes, wiggle the toes. I declined her offer, our eyes awkwardly making contact through my dental glasses.

I was left with four fillings and one dominating thought: surely injecting a synthetic substance into my face isn’t the answer to alleviating stress.

I’ve had other moments like this throughout my life. Moments of clarity, when I’ve questioned the way western society can conceptualise and treat mental health disorders and chronic pain as discrete problems to be medicated, rather than important signals from within us.

Since I was diagnosed with an anxiety disorder, only to realise that everyone I knew experienced similar symptoms, I have felt something wasn’t right. Surely humans aren’t inherently disordered. I could remember a time when I didn’t feel like this – self-conscious, stressed, fearful, numb. I walked through the world feeling more carefree, whole and comfortable in my body. Slowly, without consciously knowing it, I’ve been trying to return to this state.

This process of rewilding – a word I have recently learned – was propelled by a therapy session I had six months ago. It involved very little talking. I entered the session feeling numb and out of my body.  I’d been like this for quite some time. I was living in a new city, dating multiple people, navigating a new job and trying to fit into a new share house. I was also running late to the appointment after taking a wrong turn which took me onto a four-lane freeway. I was completely overwhelmed.

I attempted to organise all the thoughts in my mind, trying to intellectualise the discomfort I was feeling so my therapist could give me a strategy out. At the same time, I was intent on remaining composed. My shoulders were up to my ears and I could hear myself sucking for air between sentences. I wasn’t comfortable sitting still and holding eye contact, so I fidgeted back and forward and tucked my hair behind my ears and looked out the window more times than necessary. My therapist stopped me mid-sentence and asked if I’d feel more comfortable lying down on the couch. 

Lying on my back, she guided me to take some deep breaths and pay attention to the rise and fall of my belly. The breaths didn’t come easily, there was constriction in my torso. After a few minutes of her talking and reassuring me - “all you have to do is breathe in and out” - my awareness fell on the tight, clenching sensations in my belly. As I breathed out and tried to surrender, I could feel something building. But with every breath out, a critical voice surfaced. What are you doing lying down in a therapy session. You’re paying to be here. What’s wrong with you.

She asked me to focus on the sensations in my body and the out breath, and encouraged me to not buy into judgemental thoughts. It was all natural and I was safe. For the first time in a long time, I tried to stay with my body. As I gradually released the muscle tension, energy sensations rolled through me and powerful, gut-wrenching sobs came out. It was a huge release, like a kind of orgasm or a sneeze. The sensations grew so strong that I became dizzy, even lying down. When I told her “it feels too much” she guided my awareness to my toes – it was familiar and safe there. The hour passed in what felt like 15 minutes. She guided me out of the meditation, advising me to take it slowly and carefully. I felt lighter, calmer and more grounded than I had in months. My hands were a bit clammy. Something I’d been holding onto had just washed out.

On the drive home, I felt different. More aware of the way I was holding my body – my muscles contracting around my hips and jaw and shoulders and neck as I navigated peak hour traffic.

In the months following, when I felt particularly overwhelmed or spacey, I came back to the same practice lying on my back.

Five breaths in for four, five breaths out for four.

Five breaths in for five, five breaths out for five.

Five breaths in for six, five breaths out for six.

Five breaths, focusing on the exhale and releasing tension.

I first discovered the term disassociation when I was going through a chaotic period of heartbreak, fulltime work and partying in my mid 20s. It started with a google search of ‘why do I feel numb?’.

Before that time, I was only familiar with the sympathetic nervous system response, also known as hyperarousal. Symptoms like a racing heart or thoughts, shaking hands, sweating palms and jitteriness that we usually call anxiety. One morning after a particularly big night out, my usual hangxiety was replaced by a feeling of numbness. My therapist at the time explained that I was experiencing an overactive parasympathetic nervous response or hypoarousal. This occurs when the body is under such intense or prolonged stress that the mind dissociates so it doesn’t have to feel the uncomfortable sensations. Initially, this felt like a helpful way to cope. But after a while, this numbness led to feeling stuck, disconnected and not like myself. It was like my spirit had gone.

While from the outside I was probably appearing calm, the lack of sensation didn’t feel natural. The physical symptoms of anxiety had lifted, but I couldn’t think clearly and I missed feeling excited for things. I was drawn to thought leaders like Gabor Maté – author of The Myth of Normal and The Body Says No - and Dr Nicole LePera, prominent influencer and author of How To Do The Work. I learned about the impact of chronic stress, complex trauma and suppressed emotions on the body and nervous system. I became increasingly sure that my body was sending me signals that things needed to change.

I started listening. I dropped down to four days of work, despite fears that I wasn’t being productive enough or my career was lacking. I started embracing music and wearing clothes that I enjoyed, instead of worrying if they were considered cool or tasteful. I started running again, focusing less on my physical appearance and more about how much better I felt afterwards. I tuned into the way I felt around different people and situations and put my energy towards those that brought me comfort and encouraged me to be myself.

Frequently, I came back to breath work. One morning during my practice, I felt a shaking sensation in my pelvic area. I stayed with the sensation, less afraid and more trusting of my body to do its thing. I knew something needed to be released and followed the energy with an open mind and heart.

To be continued.

Thank you for reading. Learning to tune into and listen to my body’s wisdom has been a life-changing experience. I hope that by sharing these stories, I can help someone in the way that other writers have helped me.

If you’ve found yourself here and want to read more, I encourage you to subscribe as there is more to come. If you’ve been reading PW for some time, please consider becoming a paid subscriber ($5/mth) to support my writing practice. This is completely opt-in. You can change your subscription settings here.

I would like to caveat that I am not a trained professional and I recommend seeking the support of a therapist if you have the means to do so. As evidenced in this article, my two therapists over the last nine years have been instrumental in guiding me to trust myself again.

Emma/Pooch x