the guide to embodied living

I was giving a medical update recently, and I used the words “it’ s a lot of listening to my body.” I’ve said this before, but something about this time made it sink in for me that this is exactly what it’s like.

One of the most popular questions I’ve been asked by chronic illness and non chronic illness people alike is what do you do?

People want guides. They want things broken down into steps that, if followed, will end in x,y,z. I know I did, and if I’m being honest often times I still do. It’s a big struggle I have in explaining what exactly I do, because the short answer is I’m an embodiment coach and I help people be in their bodies, but that answer usually opens up a lot more questions than it answers.

The plan, when I sat down to write this post, was to list out what I do to thrive in the middle of transplant life. I could write a list about how currently for me I do pilates and drink smoothies. And I do do those things. But sometimes I don’t. Which leads me back to the concept of there is no guide for embodied living, and thriving. If there was and I had it, I’d be rich.

There is no blueprint, and I certainly can’t tell you what embodiment and listening to your body looks like. I can’t tell you the right length of time to work out or the right food to eat to make you feel better. What I can do is ask you what is coming up in your body right now?

July was really freaking hard for me. Chronic pain fed into a negative mental state, and I couldn’t revert to the things I knew to do to help my mental health because they all involved things my body currently wasn’t capable of doing, and it all felt like a chaotic spiral. And I remember one morning after spiraling down into is it going to be like this forever despair, after lines and lines in my journal of shame for being sick and shame for my mental health and this is hopeless, I’ll never get better, I always get so close to my dreams and then they get ripped away, I wrote the words i am so sad for my body

Writing that phrase didn’t immediately make me feel better, but it did clear up some space in me to start feeling, and releasing.

You’ve got to let the truth exist somewhere other than in your body

Having a chronic illness makes it really hard to practice embodiment, because the last place you want to be is your body. AND the answers are never external ones, they are always found in your body. And being disconnected from your own body means being disconnected from the body of the world.

Being embodied, really truly being in my body, looks like telling the truth about my sadness and pain. Sometimes its physical movement and sometimes its admitting my body really doesn’t want to (or can’t) move today and so we lay in bed and breathe. We breathe through the pain and I look in the mirror and whisper with all the strength I can muster I’m here, I’ve got you, we’ll get through this even if I don’t 100% believe it yet. Instead of saying I am healthy and strong I pose it as a question. What if I am? What if I’m capable of more than I ever thought possible?

My own internalized ableism response, often, to my own pain is to not believe myself. But what if I did? What if it was that hard, and I’m surviving it?

I’ve been trained to live in a world where I see things through other peoples lived experiences. I, as a marginalized person, do not fit into the main stream narrative, and therefore am handed the idea that I am the one who is wrong. And part of being embodied looks like deeply trusting my own perception, senses, thoughts. What if I’m right? What if I’m not bad or broken? What if I never was? What if all these variations my body has experienced in living with different stages of illness and wellness have all just been different perceptions of what it means to be fully alive and human?

I’ve noticed, when I actually listen to my body instead of berating her, she is so so wise. When I accept the possibility of what she’s expressing could be the truth instead of lying to and about her, I open myself up to the possibility of healing.

I’m sad, so I let myself be sad. When I’m in pain, I let myself be in pain instead of saying I’m not and trying to push through it. I am continually doing things to bring me back to my body, and to the experience of what it means to have a body.

I can’t give you a guide, but I can help you embody your truest, most authentic self. Where are you fighting her? Where are you denying her power and how is it making you sick? How would life be easier if you just stepped into the flow?

You can use the above questions as prompts for journaling, or just sit with them and see what comes up. More tips for finding a state of embodiment is just asking and noticing what your body is feeling right now. What physical sensations are arising? If there’s pain, what does it feel like? Can you breathe into it, even just for one breath? The opposite of what you are feeling could be what am I not feeling? What am I not letting myself feel?

self touch is another powerful embodiment practice I use, especially on high pain days. A lot of my pain is along my incision line, so I’ll place my hands there, or gently rub my incision. Heat or ice also work well for me. The objective is to bring attention to that area. If I notice I’m super in my head or anxious, I also utilize what I call the squish, in which I will get my husband or my dog to literally compress my body so I can co-regulate with someone else not experiencing my physical pain.

In transplant medical care, you’re given a list of things to do and things not to do. And when I say I don’t follow that list like it’s the Bible, I get a lot of weird looks. What do you do, people ask me?

I listen to my body. I witness her, witness me. And I wholeheartedly believe embodiment is what is going to guide us all the way home.