When the Body Speaks Before We Have Words
I grew up feeling like I had to hold everything together. After my parents divorced, life felt uncertain and quietly sad, and without being taught to do so, I began keeping my emotions inside. I wasn’t trying to be strong — I was trying to make things easier for the people I loved. I smiled when I didn’t feel okay and learned how to move through my days as if everything was fine, even when it wasn’t.
I didn’t have words for what I was carrying, but my body did.
In first grade, during a simple writing assignment, my hands were sweating so badly that the paper became wet and my pencil tore straight through it. I remember sitting at my desk, unable to complete the task, feeling a deep wave of embarrassment. I didn’t want my teacher or classmates to notice, so I tried to make myself smaller and invisible, hoping the moment would pass.
At the time, I didn’t understand what was happening. I didn’t know that stress and unprocessed emotion often show up in the body — especially in children who are still making sense of change and loss. I only knew that something felt overwhelming, and I didn’t know how to ask for help.
Looking back now, I see that moment differently. I see a child doing the best she could with the tools she had. I see a nervous system responding to uncertainty. And I see how often children adapt quietly, carrying far more than we realize.
As I grew older, that experience stayed with me. It sparked a curiosity about how the body holds emotion — and how it can also learn to release it. Over time, I began learning simple ways to slow down, breathe, and soften my own nervous system. Not to eliminate stress, but to meet it with awareness and care.
What I’ve come to understand is this: calm develops over time. It grows through attention and intention, and through learning simple, healing tools that help the body release what it’s been holding. Often, it begins by listening to what the body has been trying to say — and giving it a way to move, soften, and settle.
Many children — and adults — move through their days with forced smiles, clenched hands, stomach aches, or quiet worry. They may not have the words yet, but their bodies are speaking. When we learn to notice with compassion, we create space for something different to emerge: ease, connection, and the knowledge that we don’t have to hold everything together on our own.
As you finish reading, you might pause and ask yourself gently:
What has my body been holding — and what support might help it begin to release?