When My Body Won’t Let Go: Meeting the Part of Me Stuck in Survival

This morning I woke up feeling like my whole system was clenched in a fist I couldn’t open.

The last few days have been one hit after another — a septic pipe backing up into our basement, my youngest burning his hand, the fear of medical bills stacking so high I can’t breathe. The looming dread of being forced back into the system we’ve worked so hard to step away from. That subtle, sinking question of Are we going to lose everything we’ve been building?

And underneath it all… the anger.

The quiet anger of Why is this happening to me?

The anger I don’t even want to feed, because I know the energy it carries.

I’ve been praying for signs, asking for direction, trying so hard to stay aligned. But no matter how much I breathe or stretch or talk it out, my body has felt stuck in fight-or-flight — like danger is happening right now even when nothing is currently on fire.

This morning, instead of pushing through it, I finally sat with it.

And when I listened, really listened, I realized the fear wasn’t coming from my adult self at all.

It was coming from a tiny part of me who’s been holding all of this alone.

Finding the Part That Was Bracing

The overwhelm was showing up as tightness in my lower abdomen and a pressure in my lower left back. In somatics, that’s the place of survival, security, fear of collapse, and the pressure of carrying too much on your own.

When I focused there, an image rose quickly — a child.

Five years old.

A little girl inside me bracing with all her strength, trying desperately to keep everything from falling apart.

She wasn’t angry at me.

She was terrified of losing control…

and even more terrified of losing me.

That stopped me in my tracks.

Because it wasn’t about septic pipes or money or medical bills.

It was about the part of me who once learned she had to hold everything together to stay safe — the part who never had an adult to help her carry the weight.

She believed that if she loosened her grip, everything would collapse and I’d disappear.

It makes perfect sense why my body wouldn’t calm down.

A 5-year-old has been running the entire system.

Meeting Her With Compassion

I placed my hand on my lower belly — her home — and whispered:

“Sweetheart, I see you. You’re not losing me. I’m right here.”

The fear softened just a little, enough for her to tell me what she needed:

Connection.

Through reading.

Something so simple.

Something so childlike.

Something so human.

She didn’t want solutions, or productivity, or hustle.

She didn’t want me to fix the septic or the bills.

She wanted me to sit with her, open a book, and let her feel my presence.

She wanted the warmth, the rhythm, the safety of words spoken slowly.

She wanted to know I wasn’t going anywhere.

A Reading Ritual for the Part of Me Still Learning Safety

So I created a small ritual for her — something I’ll come back to whenever the ground trembles beneath my feet again.

1. Sit somewhere grounded — bed, couch, floor by the fire.

Let a blanket fall over my legs. Let my back be held.

2. Invite her in with a hand on my lower belly.

“Come sit with me.”

3. Choose something comforting to read — a poem, a spiritual passage, even a children’s book.

4. Let her know this time is for her.

“You don’t have to hold everything right now.”

5. Read slowly, gently, like reading to a child who just needs to hear my voice.

6. When the reading ends, place a hand on my belly again:

“I’m not leaving you. We’ll figure this out together.”

Because the truth is…

I will.

And she doesn’t have to do it alone anymore.

I’m Learning That Overwhelm Is a Signal, Not a Failure

My body wasn’t malfunctioning.

It was protecting me.

This pressure, this tightness, this buzzing fear — none of it meant the vision is collapsing. None of it meant I’m being punished or redirected away from the life we’re building.

It meant a young part of me was scared.

And all she needed was connection.

All she needed was me.

In Peace, Love and Service,

Rebecca