Building Circles of support

When I was about nine years old, the grandchildren of some elderly neighbours died.  My neighbours who were probably in their 60s at the time, although they looked really old to my nine year old self, were devastated.  What was more devastating was that during an acute experience of severe post-partum depression or psychosis, their daughter in law took the lives of the two young children.  The children were very young, I can remember the eldest being about three years old and the other child a baby.  I can still see the little boy running around on his grandparents front lawn.  The front lawn was the best lawn in our street; it was like a bowling green, so smooth and even, we all loved to walk over it in our bare feet.   The case went to court and she was found not guilty, thank goodness, it was clear that this lady had been suffering terribly.  Devastating for everyone.  This was 45 years ago, did we even know that post-partum psychosis was a thing back then? I don’t know the answer to that. So lately the case involving Lindsay Clancy in the USA, which is currently underway, has brought this memory back for me.  We also had another case happen only a month ago close to where I live in Australia.

This is troubling to me because what is very clear is that we are failing mothers.  I feel terrible for these mothers who have not received adequate care and support from the health system that is supporting them.  I know post-partum psychosis is rare but what I also know is that many women have a pretty tricky time during this life transition. Becoming a mother is called Matrescence; did you know of this word? Many people don’t and I think that in itself is cause for us to think more compassionately about our rites of passage and becoming a parent in particular.   Many of us who have had children find there is a big hole in the mental health care and adjacent services that new mums receive.  I also see this mirrored in the midlife time when women go through menopause.  

I also think to myself, what is going on with us as a community, as employers, who have people who are very vulnerable working for them during these transitions?  I question whether we are looking out for people enough and where and with whom is the line for responsibility and care?  These are tricky questions and issues of change often fall apart in the space between.

This is one of the big reasons why I choose to work with Life Transitions because I have seen over the years both in my corporate life, and now private practice, that people are grossly under-supported in these huge changes.  But more than that, they are expected to come back to work and be the same old person they have always been.  Not only is it delusional and dismissive, it is extremely toxic for families.  This socially constructed myth of life being a solitary journey and having to manage, medicate or white knuckle major life transitions of parenthood, midlife, menopause and ageing is toxic. The felt sense of navigating a massive life transition in isolation sees the body automatically go into hyper-vigilance, bracing, and feelings of overwhelm, before we even start.  I have been at times furious with the fear mongering I have seen propagated by medical doctors on social media regarding menopause, who are telling women if they don’t take HRT they will get very sick.  

Our human bodies are wired for connection; we are not meant to do life on our own.  There is a reason people used to live in tribes.  The female nervous system in particular is predisposed to a fawning response, or a tend and befriend response, over fight or flight because oxytocin is a neuromodulator of the female nervous system.  This was brought by Shelly Taylor's research in 2000 that showed that female nervous systems heavily utilise oestrogen and oxytocin pathways under stress to ‘tend and befriend’ the threat in order to protect themselves and their children.  Her work brought this tend and befriend response to our attention.  There is a little nuance to this though. Her research found that oxytocin requires a safe and supportive container to be produced and absorbed. When the female nervous system faces these big life transitions without that safe and supportive circle, the oxytocin pathways get blocked and what is left is a body stuck in a high cortisol state.

These big rites of passage are when our body needs a circle of support the most.  Historically our ancestors held these rites of passage as collective experiences and we were held in the transition space by our community.  I will say in Australia we have this thing called the Mothers Group, where new mothers are randomly assigned to a group of new mothers soon after birth.  They are gatherings initially facilitated by the community health nurse organiser and then we branch off on our own to self-organise.  Some people have very strong life long friendships that come out of these groups.  We need these groups because the raw un-armoured nervous system of a new mother needs community support for co-regulation so her body can drop out of threat detection when it needs to.  Women navigating Menopause need support because it is not just a hormonal shift; their brain is re-wiring as is their nervous system. Hello Brain Fog.   The reduction in estrogen that happens in menopause tends to drop away any fawning, people pleasing tendencies we have, creating a fierce need for a supportive, authentic, non-judgemental community.  We have all heard midlife women say one of their greatest joys is they don’t care anymore!! In our elderhood transition, stepping into wisdom means we need to be held by a community that can receive, hold and honour that wisdom; otherwise ageing feels like we are disappearing.

Why is it so hard to build these supportive circles?  Well the individualist culture is one reason, but I also believe sisterhood wounding is a very big issue for many women.  Women can be very mean to other women when they are competing for limited resources, approval or safety.  Then there is the whole mean-girl dynamics many experience in early teen years, which is both developmental and somatic.  These wounds often happen in early teens and they can leave big imprints on our nervous system.  They make us compete with each other and frankly it's not very nice and it causes relational trauma that makes women shy away from female only spaces.  When women experience betrayal, micro-aggressions, exclusion and conditional warmth in these spaces, their nervous systems maps other women as a threat rather than a resource.  The irony is most women crave a circle of support during these life transitions but their nervous system and adaptive armour fears it.  That creates self-dialogue of an inner critic whispering, Do I belong here?  Am I enough?  Are they judging me?

What is the answer?  Micro-dosing relational safety.

You don’t have to jump into a twenty person retreat.  Start with health practitioners like a coach or therapist, or body workers who you can work on your transition with.  Put yourself in the centre of your own circle.  If you can work with practitioners who you feel safe with, who can hold space for you without judgement, help you complete adaptive stress responses that are still operating underneath, and learn to feel safe being held and witnessed by others (other women in particular), you will slowly start to build the capacity to sit in these held spaces.  You want someone who can work slowly with you, pace yourself.  The nervous system likes slow.

If you are forming a circle container I want to caution you that it is not just a social event.  There is anatomy to a circle space, it needs supportive connection.  I am not talking about having lots of people who agree with you; I am talking about creating an ecosystem of people with different relational capacities.  Often these groups need people who can naturally take up “implicit roles” like the person who is a grounding presence, whose steady nervous system can help you settle when you are activated.  Or the mirror/truth teller, the person who can gently call you out when you are using your adaptive strategies without shaming you.  Or maybe you need a strong co-regulator who can witness your grief, rage and joy without having to fix, dismiss or intellectualise what is going on.  We need people with these skills and capacities in our lives.

Circles of support are not just a social calendar event when they are well held.  When they are well held by skilled facilitators they become a nervous system container, a co-regulation resource and an antidote to isolation and self abandonment.

And for the men reading this, yes, you need circles of support during your life transitions. Men also move through profound rites of passage too and we were never meant to navigate life on our own.

Permission to be slow

There is a rhythm in the body that most of us have never been taught to feel.  It is actually really hard to feel or listen to.

It is not the rhythm of the heart, though that too. Nor is it the rhythm of the breath, though that is closer. It is actually deeper than both of those and also slower than both.  It is a deep rhythm that feels a bit like it is a tidal movement in the body that pulses beneath everything else. It is two deep rhythms, like a deep tide and a middle tide. Or as my teacher described it is like the ocean, which holds both a surface current and a deep undercurrent. The body carries its own layered rhythms. Both are real. Both carry information.They are deep and they require something most of us have forgotten how to do.

It requires us to slow down enough to feel it.

This year I have been completing training in biodynamic craniosacral therapy, a modality that works with exactly this. What struck me most, is how radically unhurried it is. The touch is extraordinarily light, almost weightless actually. The practitioner's hands don't press or manipulate or fix. They listen. They receive. They create enough stillness that the body's own intelligence can begin to express itself.

Art, Vanessa Palmer, Beneath the Lillies 2019

This is a different kind of healing to the one most of us have been taught to expect.

We come to healing whether it be to therapy, to coaching, to body work, often looking for something to happen. We want the insight, the release, the shift we can point to. We have been trained, particularly those of us who live from our minds, to measure progress by what we can articulate and what we can feel ourselves changing. We are used to effort. We are used to working hard, even at our healing.  I would say that many of my clients work incredibly hard.  They show up, they invest in themselves.  I do this too.  I always have, even with my own healing work.

Craniosacral therapy quietly dismantles all of that. Before the body can heal, it needs to feel safe enough to be itself.

This is not a metaphor. It is a biological reality. The nervous system, particularly one shaped by years of high-functioning stress or early relational difficulty, is not simply waiting to be fixed. It is waiting to be met. It is scanning, constantly, for whether the environment, including the practitioner, is trustworthy enough to soften into.  I talked about this last week in my blog when I was discussing how the nervous system is always scanning for safety in belonging and trying to work out what role it can take up in the social system.  It's the same theme.

Attunement is what creates that safety. Not technique. Not expertise, though expertise matters. But the quality of presence that says, “I am not here to rush you. I am not here to interpret or analyse or pull anything from you. I am here to be with what is”.

There are things the body carries that have no words.

Not because they are mysterious or unknowable but because they arrived before language did, or at a moment when language shut down. Shock held in the diaphragm. Grief folded into the chest. A startle response stuck in the body. The memory of a moment when the body braced and never quite let go.

Talk therapy doesn’t reach this because it deals with what is in the rational and logical part of the brain, not the limbic system and primal brain, where the nervous system lives, that holds all the patterns of bracing, tension or stress we may not be fully aware of. The body stores experience in tissue, in posture, in the patterned way the breath moves or doesn't move. Sometimes what a body most needs is not to be spoken to, but to be touched, with such fine attunement, such precision of presence, that the tissue begins to trust it is safe to release what it has been holding.

This is what the lightness of biodynamic craniosacral touch makes possible. It is not passive. It is listening at a cellular level. It is a hand that says, ‘I can feel you. I am not frightened of what I find. You don't have to do anything’.

That kind of touch is a language. One the body recognises before the mind has time to evaluate it. The body is the most incredible self healer.

What continues to move me, both as a practitioner and as a person who has spent years working with what the body holds. It is not the practitioner doing the healing, it is the person on the table receiving the gentle touch.

The body already knows. It has always known. The intelligence that knows how to close a wound, regulate temperature, move food through the gut without a single conscious instruction from us; that same intelligence knows how to process and integrate experience, when it is given enough safety and enough time.

My job as a somatic practitioner is not to fix. It is to create conditions. To hold space that is regulated, attuned, and unhurried enough that the body's own healing capacity can come online.

Slow is not passive. Slow is the speed at which the nervous system's deepest layers operate. Slow is the speed at which the tidal rhythms of the body move, carrying their information. Slow, it turns out, is where the most profound healing lives.  I have constantly been surprised by how much depth and nuance can be achieved when we slow things down. It allows stress cycles that have been stuck for years to be completed.  It creates a level of unwinding in the body that can only happen when the body is not rushed.  Slow is more. 

If you are someone who has worked hard at your healing; and I suspect many of you reading this are, I want to offer you this.

You are allowed to receive.

Not just information. Not just insight. Not just techniques to practise between sessions. But the quiet, almost-nothing of being held in a regulated, attuned presence and allowed to simply be. The body does not need to be pushed into healing. It needs to be trusted to know the way.

Permission to be slow is not a luxury. For a nervous system that has been organised around effort and vigilance and productivity, it may be the most therapeutic thing on offer.

The tide is always moving. We simply need to learn to feel it.

Seen and not abandoned

On belonging, the body and the distance we live from ourselves.

Something happens in midlife that our culture has not given us adequate language for.

It arrives differently for different people. For some it is hormonal, the perimenopause that strips away the neurological buffer that kept everything manageable, leaving a rawness, a volatility, a sense of not recognising yourself in your own reactions. For others it is quieter, a successful career that has somehow stopped meaning anything, or a relationship that functions but doesn't nourish, maybe it is a persistent flatness underneath a life that looks, from the outside, entirely fine. For others still it arrives as pure disorientation, Who am I? What do I want? How did I get here? These are questions that feel shameful to be asking at 45 or 52 or 58, as though becoming older adults we should have settled them long ago.

We tend to pathologise this experience. We call it crisis. We treat it as something to be managed, medicated, pushed through. But I have come to see it differently.

What breaks open in midlife is not a malfunction. It is the psyche's insistence on something more true. For decades, most of us have been running on scaffolding; the structures of achievement, role, performance, obligation, that allowed us to function at a distance from ourselves. For a long time, that distance was survivable. Even productive. But the scaffolding has a lifespan. When it begins to dissolve, through hormonal shift, through loss, through the particular exhaustion of having been someone else's version of yourself for too long, what surfaces is not breakdown. It is reorientation. The system trying to find truer ground.

The question midlife is really asking underneath the career confusion, the relationship restlessness, the body you no longer recognise is a much older one. It is the question your nervous system has been asking your entire life, quietly, continuously, beneath everything else you were doing.

Do I belong here? Am I seen? Is there room for me, the real me, in this space?

There is something happening in your body right now that you are probably not aware of.

A scan. Quiet, continuous, it is running beneath the surface of whatever you are thinking about. Your nervous system is checking, as it has been checking your entire life, whether you belong here. Whether you are seen. Whether it is safe to be fully, actually, you in this moment. You didn't decide to do this. You don't need to. The scan is older than language, older than thought. It was written into you long before you had words for what you were looking for. It is called neuroception and it is the role of your autonomic nervous system to keep your safe, it is your body’s surveillance system.

One of my teachers, Anna Skolarikis, speaks of this as relational proprioception, the body's continuous felt sense of where it fits in the space it inhabits. Just as physical proprioception tells you where your hand is without looking, relational proprioception is the body's ongoing orientation to the relational field. The body is always asking, Who can I be here? What is safe here? What is expected of me here? Can I stay connected and still remain myself?

We are always tending this field, always adjusting within it not as a conscious choice but as a biological given. A function as automatic and essential as breath.

Richard Strozzi-Heckler, one of the founders of somatic coaching, describes what we are scanning for: acknowledgement, legitimisation, connection, worth, dignity, love. As we mature, he writes, our sensitivity to these cues becomes more subtle and complex, moving into the background. We may not seem, as functioning adults, to still be seeking acknowledgement but our nervous system and our emotions tell a different story.

Some nervous systems become exquisitely attuned to the relational field. In sensing the emotional weather in the room, they notice tone, tension, facial expression, hierarchy, mood shifts, approval and disapproval. Not because they are “too sensitive,” but because belonging once depended on accurately reading the field. In adulthood, this becomes complicated because people can continue orienting toward external relational safety long after the original conditions have passed.

I would take it further. Not only do we never stop scanning, it is a primal instinct, the scan shapes almost everything. The career chosen to earn legitimacy rather than from genuine desire. The relationship stayed in too long because leaving felt like confirming an old verdict. The hyper-independence worn like armour, the productivity that never quite lets you rest, the way you read a room before you've taken your coat off. These are not character flaws. They are belonging systems. Nervous systems doing exactly what they learned to do.

There is a paradox in the heart of all of this.

What Strozzi names so precisely is that even our defences against belonging are organised around the longing for it. We don't reject intimacy because we don't need connection. We reject it because we need it so much, that the risk of losing it feels unsurvivable. In the rejection of love, he writes, is the determination of our longing for connection.

The person who isolates is not someone who has moved beyond the need for connection. They are someone for whom the need became too dangerous to show. Their nervous system found a solution, distance, self-sufficiency, the clean safety of needing nothing from anyone and it worked. In the sense that it kept them from the specific pain of reaching out and being left. But it didn't resolve the hunger and deep need to be around others, to belong to something. It just drove it underground.

This is worth sitting with, because our culture has built entire value systems around the disguised forms of this wound. We celebrate the person who needs no one. We call hyper-independence resilience. We pathologised vulnerability and we reward performance. So the scanning continues, quietly, loyally, beneath the surface of very accomplished lives, looking for what it has learned not to ask for directly.

Midlife is often when this stops being sustainable. When the performance becomes too energetically costly. When the body, wiser than the strategy, begins to refuse.

You see belonging is not a static state, that we achieve once and for all. As we move between social systems we are having a constant embodied negotiation of the relational field. So we may find that when we live at a distance from our essential self, our real authentic voice becomes lost. Strozzi writes, “The distance we live from our body is the distance we live from our self and from our emotional reality”.

I return to this line often. It seems to me one of the most important things you can say about the particular suffering of our time.

Most of us were not taught to live in our bodies. We were taught to manage them, push them, override them, present them. I look at all the older women who have facial surgery or enhancements to present themselves in a way that seems acceptable to others. I think about the enormous pressure older women face to remain acceptable within a culture that relentlessly comments on ageing women’s bodies, that they are a problem to be fixed. All these enhancements are in the quest for belonging; but to whom do we belong to when we do this? What happens when a woman’s relationship with herself is predicated almost entirely on how she is perceived?

We learned early that thinking was safer than feeling, that the head was more reliable than the gut, that composure was more valued than truth. So we moved up and away, into analysis, into performance, into the very sophisticated cognitive architectures that kept us functional on the surface while something essential went quiet underneath.

The cost of this is staggering. Living at a distance from the body means living at a distance from our emotional reality; which means navigating life, choosing partners, building careers, raising children, from a position of displacement. Not from where we actually are. From somewhere beside it, or above it, or years behind it.

It extends further than the personal. When we live at a distance from the body we lose the capacity to feel others, their joy, their pain, their hopes and fears. We lose our ability to relate to animals, to plants, to water and trees. The empathy that is not a cognitive skill but a felt sense; the capacity to be genuinely moved by another's reality requires that we are present enough in our own bodies to let that reality land. When we are not, life becomes a little one-dimensional. It lacks vibrancy and meaning. Some of us go searching for that outside of ourselves, we seek a high to lift us up. Think of all the ways that shows up.

This is not a small thing. This is describing a kind of exile from self, from others, from the living world. It is, I think, the largely unnamed source of the flatness so many people bring to me. Not depression exactly. Not burnout exactly. Something more like distance. A sense of moving through life without quite touching it. A longing for something more, a confusion about who they are right now.

Which is also, I would suggest, what is breaking open in midlife. Not a crisis of meaning but a return to the body's older knowing. The psyche refusing, finally, to keep living at that distance.

I imagine you are reading at this point and thinking, what is the answer, where do I start?

In my work, which sits at the intersection of somatic experiencing, nervous system regulation, and relational living, I see this displacement constantly. Intelligent, accomplished, genuinely self-aware people who have done years of therapy, read widely, understand their patterns with real sophistication, and still feel stuck. Still feel, underneath the insight, a kind of unreachable ache.

The insight isn't wrong. It's just not landing in the right place.

Because the belonging scan is subcortical. It is not running in the part of the brain that does the talk therapy. It is running in the part of the brain shaped before language, in the earliest relational experiences of being held or not held, seen or not seen, welcomed or found to be too much. Cognitive approaches, however beautifully constructed, cannot reach it directly, they use another part of the brain. You cannot think your way into a body that has learned to brace.

What can reach it is something that happens between nervous systems. Right brain to right brain. The resonance that occurs when one person is regulated and present enough that another person's system begins, slowly, to consider that safety might be possible here. This is not a technique. It is a quality of presence and deep attunement. It is what happens in the space between, in the attuned tracking, the staying with, the not-flinching.

In working with complex trauma and the deep shame that lives at its centre, this is where healing actually occurs. Not in the interpretation of the wound but in the experience of being known and not abandoned. Shame's central conviction is this: if they really saw you, all of you, they would leave. The right brain to right brain work offers the nervous system something the mind cannot manufacture: the actual felt experience of being fully seen and remaining safe. Over time, with enough of these moments, the old template begins to loosen.

The body finds out it was wrong about what belonging requires. This brings up a memory for me of a Game of Thrones episode, where Arya Stark, after her years long quest, which was I think a journey of survival, revenge and reclaiming her identity, finally understands the business of belonging. She grows from an innocent noble daughter to become a skilled, ruthless assassin who seeks justice for her slain family. She tells Kit that she has realised, she belongs, everywhere, nowhere, but ultimately, to herself.

She dismantles the idea that belonging is something fixed or permanent. She sees the vastness of life. The history, movement, death and change and she realises that identity is much less solid. There is grief in this understanding and there is also great freedom. There is something profoundly healing in this realisation when it comes for most people because they realise that no role can permanently secure belonging, no group can remove existential loneliness, no relationship can entirely answer the question of who we are.

The nervous system longs for home. What I have found through somatic experiencing practice, and learning to deeply attune to ourselves, is that we find this when we cultivate that internal sense of home. We learn we belong to ourselves.

I have come to believe that the deepest work of belonging is not solely relational. In the first instance it is internal.

Meaning, real meaning, the kind that doesn't depend on external conditions, arrives when we learn how to belong to ourselves. To close the distance Strozzi describes. To return to the body not as a problem to be managed but as the place where we actually live.

This is deep somatic healing. It happens in the body, through the body, over time, in relationship. It is not dramatic. It is often very slow. It looks like learning to feel the ground under your feet and not immediately leave. Like noticing the tightening in your chest in a meeting and staying curious rather than overriding it. Like letting yourself be moved, by beauty, by grief, by the particular quality of late afternoon light, by the intelligence of a forest that has been communicating underground for centuries without needing to be acknowledged for it.

When we close that distance, even partially or provisionally, something shifts in how we meet the world. We become more available. Some of us become more porous and some of us get better with our boundaries. We become genuinely present to other people, to animals, to the living systems we are part of. We start to notice that we are noticing more. Not because we have healed everything, but because we have come close enough to ourselves that contact becomes possible again.

The relational proprioception recalibrates. The scan, which was always running on old data, consulting old internal maps drawn in early rooms with early people, begins to update. The body begins to find, more often, that the present is not the past. That the ground here in the present moment is different. That it is, perhaps, safe enough to land.

Midlife asked a question. The body, brought home to itself, begins to answer it. All those questions you had, slowly you start to see the answers.