When Connection Is Really a Wall…

How I’ve been hiding behind roles and responsibility.

For four days I’ve had pain: intense body aches, spasms, weakness in my joints that give way without notice, a constricted throat, fatigue, and a whole array of other symptoms.

This is familiar territory. Something I’ve come to know well. I’ve been dancing with it for most of my life, leaning in and pulling away, desperately seeking solutions, and at times feeling completely defeated.

I’ve traversed the medical world, from west to east. Along the way I’ve encountered holistic practices and plant medicines, the full range of diagnostic testing, bodywork, heavy medications, and energy healing.

There have been many allies: dietary considerations, physical exercise, somatic practices, supplements, cleanses. Even pharmaceutical medications have been helpful, for a while.

But nothing has “cured” me. Nothing has “healed” the root cause.

And so I’ve learned, each time I meet this place again, to lean in and ask the sacred questions: What’s happening here? What is it teaching me?

I’ve learned that in the welcoming - not mind-based acceptance or resignation, but genuine, complete welcoming - there’s relief. The symptoms ease, and I find clarity on the heart of the matter, often an emotional attachment or a situation I’ve been resisting. And when I recognise that place, then release it fully, the symptoms almost instantly disappear.

This time, though, the headache really took me down. Like a knife being driven through my eyes and twisted into my brain. It demanded that I be still, eyes closed, inward. It was challenging to welcome that in, but I listened. Unable to open my eyes much, for two days I slept.

It’s easing now, and I can look out at the world again. Though wearing glasses still hurts, and I need to rest my eyes (and body) often.

Last night I gathered outdoors around the fire with a few beautiful souls, members of my village. As I sank into that space, I noticed a shift in my body. A nourishment of my soul that dissolved the pain of the physical body. A remembering beyond this time and place. A wholeness.

This morning, back in my house, surrounded by concrete and wifi, the symptoms have returned.

And I’m asking: what is this teaching me?

Perhaps it’s to change my environment. To listen more fully to my heart’s yearning for wide, expansive spaces of nature, clear water, and open sky. I know these things will help. There’s no doubt.

But there’s something deeper. Many layers of past injury and pain continue to surface, exposed to the air for healing. Adaptations of the human mind that once kept me safe now hinder more than they help.

It speaks to vulnerability, to a young child’s need for safety. To all the ways the youngest parts of myself learned to behave for survival. The ways I adapted to find connection and belonging. The times I felt unseen, unvalued, unappreciated. The moments I repressed my own feelings in order to keep the peace, to keep others happy - To keep them loving me.

It speaks to the fierce control and independence I’ve clung to. The roles of “facilitator” and “teacher” have, in truth, been ways of protecting myself from hurt. Creating for others what I’ve so desperately longed for myself became a way of controlling relationships - a wall disguised as connection. Avoidant attachment as a form of self-preservation. A ‘safe’ way to be seen and loved by the world without getting too close, because letting others in always seemed to end in pain.

Now the veil is lifting. The illusions and stories I’ve told myself are being exposed. And the truth is, I’m no longer willing to be held captive by them.

It’s time to release my desperate need to “see” where I’m going. To loosen my grip on the outcomes. To begin to receive, rather than constantly give. To lean into reciprocity and collaboration. To speak my truth, even if it shakes. To voice my needs. To love myself - however I show up - and trust that others will continue to love me too.

Life is asking me to soften my gaze, relax my focus and control, expand my awareness beyond sight. To step into life with wide-angle vision. To trust the process, to trust myself to find the way even in the dark, and to trust that there are allies nearby keeping me safe.

As I recognise this, ease settles in. Confidence returns.

Several times, literally and metaphorically, I’ve walked blindfolded, my body bare, through unfamiliar territory in the darkness of night with only the sound of a drum to guide me home to the hearth fire. I know I can do this.

It feels uncertain and confronting, but also exhilarating and life-affirming. I never really know how I made it back to the fire, unable to retrace the path even in the light of day.

But I have always found the fire. Always made my way home.

So once again, I surrender to this moment, gently feel my way forward, and take the next step toward the sound of the drum. And my body relaxes. The symptoms ease.

I've always found my way back to the fire.