The Silence Within the Body: On Pain, Interoception, and Returning to Oneself

"Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer." — Rainer Maria Rilke

Our physicality is more than just a vessel; it is an instrument for experiencing the world, a deeply ingrained language of being. Every second, thousands of processes pulse within us, of which we are barely aware. We breathe without thought. Our heart beats without command. The liver filters. Muscles react. The psyche – this ancient overseer – monitors everything to ensure our survival. But when life wounds us, it switches to another language: the language of silence.

Even in the womb, we gather our first experiences. We feel the weight of the waters, the rhythm of our mother's steps, the music of her internal organs, her fears. The world begins as a whisper on the skin. After birth, we enter a symphony of light, sounds, and touches. And it is sensory input that forms the first map a child uses to learn to be themselves. Not words or images, but the dampness under a diaper, the feeling of warmth or cold, hunger and satisfaction – these are the initial windows to the "self."

The body remembers even what the soul cannot grasp. Neuroscientist Antonio Damasio wrote that emotions are complex orchestrations of primary bodily sensations. Pain, pleasure, desire, fear – all are flashes that arise in the brainstem, even before thought names them.

When everything runs smoothly, we simply live: we put on a sweater because it's cold; we eat because we're hungry; we embrace because we seek closeness. But sometimes, something happens that cannot be processed in the usual way. The psyche freezes. It cannot cope. And then a part of us becomes blocked. Encapsulated. Disconnected from time.

Trauma is not just an event. It is the inability to freely react to that event, to allow it to flow through the body. As Bessel van der Kolk wrote in his book, The Body Keeps the Score, when the brain encounters a threat of annihilation, a primitive response system activates: fight, flight, or freeze. At this moment, the body's map changes. It becomes hostile. And to avoid constant fear, the psyche shuts down... everything.

Bessel van der Kolk wrote in his book, The Body Keeps the Score

This is how life in exile from oneself begins.

People who have experienced trauma become phantoms in their own bodies. They are like the cursed pirates from "Pirates of the Caribbean": outwardly alive, but in the moonlight, their lifelessness is revealed. Nothing brings joy. Food is tasteless. Touch is dangerous. Sexuality is a threat. They long for love, but fear it. They desire happiness, but it seems like a trick.

Many managed to survive trauma by relying on superhuman resilience and courage. But over time, as if enchanted, they repeatedly fell into the same traps of pain. Trauma shattered their inner compass – that delicate instrument that helps one sense direction and choose a different path. It deprived them of imagination – the vital force that allows one to dream of better things and invent new ways to live.

These individuals cannot trust their feelings because their feelings have become traps. The body signals danger where there is none. It is lost in time. Instead of "now," it is still "then." Then, when it hurt. And so, even the voice of a loved one can trigger anxiety. And a gentle touch – freezing.

They live cut off. But the desire to live does not disappear. It fades but does not die. And one day, it may ignite. Often through falling in love, creativity, or something that feels like a miracle. Because there is something anti-traumatic in this: love and inspiration unfold a potential that was once condensed to a drop.

Interoception – the ability to notice subtle bodily signals – is the first step towards returning. The feeling that "I am here again." Breathing again. Able to decide again. Able to cry again – and it's not death, it's purification.

The body is our instrument of knowing. Our home, even if temporarily ruined. Its signals can frighten us. But without them, we become helpless – dependent on pills, alcohol, external validation, others' opinions. Reconnecting with the body is not just about regaining sensations. It is about restoring autonomy, strength, and self-worth.

Sometimes, to start living again, you need to sit down and ask: "What am I feeling right now?" And answer yourself not with your mind, but with your skin, your gut, your heart.

In psychotherapy, the metaphor of the rider and the horse is often used. When all is well, the rider controls. But if the horse senses danger, it bolts, dragging the rider into chaos. It's the same with us. The brain may understand that we are safe, but the body does not. And at that moment, it's not worth saying, "Calm down." You must listen. Learn to hear the body, even when it screams.

We do not heal through knowledge. We heal through the experience of safety. And the very first experience of safety is the experience of being heard by oneself.

"If the impossible is not lived, the impossible will never become the past."

Only in a safe space are the following possible:Awareness → Disconnection → Transformation → New Solution → New Experience.

Personal emotional boundaries are, first and foremost, about safety. Without them, it is impossible to create a space where change can sprout. Self-reflection and awareness are like a lantern in the dark: they help to draw a problem from the depths of the subconscious, see its face, and recognize the destructive patterns that govern our actions.

Structuring thoughts and seeking new behavioral models is easier in cooperation with a psychotherapist, but a journal can also be a faithful companion on this path. And then – the most important thing: to go through the path of transformation, acceptance, and modeling new reactions – and move forward. Step by step, with gratitude, with an understanding of a greater meaning, into a new experience, into a new action. And then healing becomes not a goal, but a natural consequence.

Taking responsibility for oneself is one of the most challenging tasks. And this is where a journal can become the first support: helping to organize the chaos of thoughts, notice destructive scenarios, and gradually forge new neural pathways to change.

Journals, silence, mindfulness, touch, therapy – all are steps back to oneself. To the body, to wholeness, to a life that is once again yours.