“The body keeps the score. If the memory of trauma is encoded in the viscera, in heartbreaking and gut-wrenching sensations, then our first priority is to help people ‘feel’ what their bodies are telling them.” ~Bessel van der Kolk

I used to think my body was a liar. Because how can something that’s supposed to be wise also be so dramatic?

Why did my stomach sink before a coffee date?

Why did I feel like I was going to vomit before a Zoom call?

Why did I freeze before taking a step toward the exact thing I said I wanted?

I used to think all of that meant something was wrong with me. Or maybe I was just anxious. Or overthinking. Or making it up. Pick a label.

But now I know better.

My body wasn’t lying. It just didn’t have the language to explain what it was holding.

I didn’t grow up learning how to listen to my body. I grew up learning how to ignore it. Override it. Be good. Smile. Sit still. Don’t cry. Don’t be dramatic.

So I did what I was taught. I disconnected from it.

Even when I started “healing,” I did it with my mind. Journaling. Talking. Thinking. More thinking. Manifesting. Mindset work. All in the head. Still ignoring the body that never stopped trying to talk to me.

At first, it felt like it was working. I felt empowered. I could reframe my thoughts, set intentions, and write affirmations. But it was like taping over a warning light in my car; I wasn’t addressing the deeper signal underneath. My body kept breaking through. Subtle at first, then louder.

And I truly believed I was doing it right.

If I could just write the perfect affirmation, process the trigger, and map it back to childhood, then I’d feel better. Right? But it never really lasted. Not until I stopped trying to fix it all with my brain and actually felt what was happening in my body.

The signs were subtle at first. A little tightness in my chest. A sudden drop in energy. A weird tension in my jaw that came out of nowhere.

Other times, it would scream. Fatigue. Rage. Anxiety. Autoimmune flare-ups. But I didn’t know how to translate any of it.

Because no one teaches you that a shutdown isn’t laziness. That canceling plans doesn’t mean you’re flaky. That dread isn’t always fear; sometimes it’s your body flagging something misaligned before your brain catches up.

I thought I was broken.

But I wasn’t. I was just trying to live from the neck up.

And I don’t think this is just my story. I think many of us were raised in systems, schools, families, and even spiritual spaces that rewarded intellect and punished emotion. We’re praised for being rational, calm, and logical. And that’s great until you realize you’ve spent your whole life bypassing your own body to meet other people’s expectations.

Now, I understand something that sounds ridiculous unless you’ve lived it: Sometimes, your body knows the truth before your mind can explain it.

And sometimes, your body responds to fear that’s not even yours.

I’ve had moments where I walked into a room and felt like I couldn’t breathe, not because anything bad was happening, but because something just felt off, like the air got heavier, like something in me tensed up before I had a chance to make sense of it.

That’s not logic. That’s not trauma speaking every time.

Sometimes, that’s intuition.

Other times, I’ve mistaken shutdowns for signs.

I said I wanted to show up. I meant it. But every time I got close to putting myself out there with my nonprofit, with my writing, my body would tank. Exhaustion. Brain fog. Fatigue. I’d tell myself, “Maybe this is a sign I’m not ready.” But the truth? It was just fear. Fear of being seen. Fear of being misunderstood. Fear of being rejected.

My body wasn’t trying to stop me. It was trying to protect me. That’s the nuance no one talks about.

Your body is wise, but it’s not always right.

Sometimes it’s responding to a past version of you.

Sometimes it’s responding to someone else’s energy.

Sometimes it’s responding to a thought that isn’t even yours.

But it’s still trying to help in the only way it knows how. And that matters.

There were times when I canceled something exciting, like a podcast interview or a speaking engagement, because I felt sick. Nauseous. Shaky. I thought, “This must be a sign it’s not aligned.” But often, it was just fear. Fear pretending to be intuition.

That’s when I realized: I needed to stop asking, “Is this true?” and start asking, “What’s this from?”

I had to learn the difference between fear and instinct.

For me, fear shows up fast. It’s hot. Tight. Loud. It tries to rush me.

Instinct feels slower. Grounded. Even when it says “no,” it comes through calm, not chaotic.

It wasn’t a switch I flipped. It was a process of remembering. Of noticing patterns. Of asking gentler questions.

And there was a moment that shifted everything.

I was sitting on the floor of my bedroom, crying without a clear reason. Nothing dramatic had happened that day. But my chest was tight. My head was spinning. I had that familiar urge to “figure it out.”

Instead, I just sat. I stopped trying to analyze it. I stopped trying to fix it.

I put one hand on my heart and the other on my belly. I breathed. And I said out loud, “I’m here. I’m listening.”

It sounds small, but it felt like something in me softened. My body didn’t need me to understand; it needed me to be with it.

Since then, that’s been my practice. Not trying to always decode my body like a puzzle. Just making space for what’s happening, even when it’s messy.

I don’t believe there’s one way to “tune in.” No method saved me. No protocol healed me. What helped was slowing down long enough to notice.

Breathing. Listening. Learning the difference between intuition and avoidance. Between truth and trigger. Between safety and comfort.

If you’ve ever felt like your body was unreliable or like it was working against you, you’re not alone. Most of us were never taught how to interpret its language. And that doesn’t mean we’re broken. It means we’re learning a new skill, one that most people never even knew  they needed.

That’s not something you get from a course. That’s something you get from being in your body long enough to tell when it’s reacting and when it’s remembering.

It’s why somatic therapy and polyvagal theory are gaining traction. Not because they’re trendy but because they give us a language for what so many have always felt: that the body holds on. That healing.

It isn’t just about mindset. That regulation doesn’t come from logic; it comes from safety.

Books like The Body Keeps the Score opened that door for me. But living it? That’s where it finally clicked.

I don’t have a neat bow to end this with.

But I can tell you this: Your body isn’t broken. It’s not stupid. And it’s not trying to sabotage you. It just doesn’t speak in words.

And when you start listening—really listening—you stop needing so many answers.

Because sometimes the answer isn’t “figure it out.”

It’s: “Feel what’s actually happening.”

And that’s enough.

About Danielle Aime

Danielle Aime is the founder of Remeria, a nonprofit supporting deep emotional healing through body-based and spiritual tools. Find Raw reflections on marriage, motherhood, healing, faith, and the universe that keeps pulling us toward who we’re becoming on her Substack here.

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“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” ~Anaïs Nin

What is it about us that makes us wait for permission? To do what we want. To be who we are. We wait until we’ve “earned” it, until we’re thinner, smarter, more talented. Until we’re finally good enough.

Everyone has dreams, right? Some want to travel. Some want to write a book. Others dream of running a marathon. Or something smaller: a bold haircut. Or something bigger: quitting a job that drains you.

And still, we wait.

We wait for someone to say, “You’d look amazing with short hair.” Or for someone to nod at our resignation plans and say, “Yes, you should go for it.” That’s when we feel allowed. That’s when we move.

I know that waiting. I’ve lived it.

Finding My Voice

As a kid, I sang constantly. But no one praised it. My family was mostly annoyed. So I stopped. I only sang when I was alone. Later, in a shared student flat, I stopped altogether, afraid of bothering others again. It never occurred to me that I could choose it for myself.

Only last year, at twenty-eight, did I realize that I still loved singing. Deeply. I didn’t need a record deal or an audience. I just needed to sing. So I signed up for lessons.

And something shifted.

The envy I used to feel toward other singers disappeared. I no longer needed to watch from the outside, admiring those who gave themselves permission to take up space. I was finally doing the thing I had always wanted to do.

The Power of Permission

That small, seemingly impractical thing changed how I saw everything. Because it wasn’t about singing, really. It was about permission. It was about allowing myself to follow what lit me up, even if no one else understood it, even if it didn’t look productive or impressive.

The more I sang, the more I felt connected to myself. Singing wasn’t just a hobby. It became a practice of self-connection. A form of expression that didn’t require explanation. A way to feel my emotions directly. A space where I didn’t have to be “good,” just real.

I kept thinking: Why did I wait so long? Why did I assume I needed someone else’s approval to do something that made me feel so alive?

And that made me wonder: What else are we not doing because we don’t think we’re allowed to? What are we hungry for—not in our stomachs, but in our souls?

From Productivity to Presence

The world is full of beauty. There’s so much to explore, to feel, to create. Colors to wear, places to visit, ideas to follow. And yet, so often, we’re taught to value productivity over presence. We’re encouraged to measure our worth by how much we do, not how deeply we live. Even joy is shaped by consumption—buying more, doing more—rather than simply being with ourselves.

As an empathic child, I learned to listen closely. I became good at being helpful, at making others feel better. I was insecure and eager to be liked, especially by the louder kids, the ones who seemed confident and sure of themselves. I felt like a shadow, orbiting them like a small planet around a bright sun.

Without realizing it, I gave others a lot of power. Their approval made me feel like I belonged. But I wasn’t truly seen, because I only said what I thought I was supposed to say. I adjusted, adapted, and slowly drifted away from myself.

Now, as I reconnect with who I really am, I notice how strong and steady my voice feels. It’s warm and grounded. And the more rooted I am in myself, the more I want to reach out to others—not to prove anything, but to share something honest. From a place that feels real.

Becoming My Own Sun

Singing, writing, exploring my inner world—these practices make me glow. As strange as it sounds, they help me see who I am. They help me ask: Who am I circling? Who am I waiting for?

Or maybe, just maybe, I’m no longer circling anyone. Maybe I’ve become my own sun.

A few years ago, I didn’t know I could feel this steady, this full. That it could all be sparked by something as ancient and simple as using my voice is nothing short of awe-inspiring.

Why It Matters

For a while, I wondered, why is it so important that I feel good? Why does it matter that I sing, that I write, that I want to be heard? Isn’t that selfish? Isn’t it enough to live quietly and be kind?

I struggled with that. But I’ve come to believe this: when we’re connected to ourselves—truly, deeply—we show up differently. More honestly. More gently. More powerfully. Not just for ourselves, but for others. Using your voice, in whatever form it takes, isn’t just about being seen. It’s about being aligned. And from that place, it’s easier to love, to give, to create something real.

I’ve also noticed how much I admire expressive people. I love watching them, listening to them, the ones who dare to use their voices and share their insights. Through them, I see myself more clearly. I understand life better. Not just through psychology or theory or polished words, but through colors, soft fabrics, melodies, laughter, and tears.

I never imagined I could be one of those people. Someone who creates something raw and real from lived experience. Someone who turns ache and wonder into something that touches others.

I didn’t think I was talented enough. I didn’t think anyone would care. I didn’t think I had permission. But now I know: I have to try. Because when I don’t, I feel numb. A little lost. It’s like the light dims—not completely, but just enough that I start to question who I am and what I’m meant to do in this world.

An Invitation

I’m deeply grateful if my work resonates with anyone. But more than anything, I hope it encourages others to tune into themselves too—to share what’s on their minds, vulnerably and tenderly, as artists, as friends, as strangers, as humans.

Because I believe this now: when we find and express our true voice, we open the door to real connection. That’s what I’m hungry for. Not just to shine, but to sit beside you in the light and in the dark.

So let me ask you:

What are you hungry for, not in your stomach, but in your spirit? What’s calling to you quietly, again and again?

When I talk to friends or clients, I often notice that many can’t answer this question right away. When our wishes, desires, and creative longings have been ignored or even shamed for years, they tend to go quiet.

But that doesn’t mean they’re gone.

Ways to Reconnect with What You’re Hungry For

Here are a few gentle ways to rediscover what you might be craving, deep down:

Look back at your childhood.

What did you love to do, naturally and freely? What made you lose track of time?

Notice what you do when you’re procrastinating.

What are you actually drawn toward? I used to hum and sing unconsciously while avoiding tasks. Now I see that as my creative energy trying to reach me. What’s tugging at your sleeve?

Pay attention to envy.

Who do you envy, and why? Envy can be a compass, pointing you toward a part of yourself that’s longing to be seen or expressed.

Try something unexpected.

Take a class you never thought you’d sign up for. Explore a new hobby that feels exciting or strange or slightly scary.

Follow what feels warm, light, alive.

It doesn’t have to be big. A color that makes you smile. A conversation that lights you up. A song you keep playing on repeat. That spark matters.

You don’t need permission to begin.

You just need curiosity. And the courage to listen to the quiet, persistent part of you that’s been whispering all along.

About Maria Kleine

Maria Kleine is a psychologist (M.Sc.) specializing in self-development, emotional awareness, and creativity. On her blogmariakleine.com, she combines academic knowledge with personal insight to explore themes like authenticity, inner growth, and meaningful living. Her work encourages reflection, self-trust, and a deeper connection to one’s voice and values.

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