There is a certain kind of silence that comes after grief. Not the peaceful kind, but the heavy, invisible fog that hangs between your ribs and presses down behind your eyes. It’s the silence of numbness, a body that no longer knows how to speak because it hasn’t been listened to in so long.

For a long time, I lived in that silence. I kept moving through life, but the joy was gone. My nervous system was so overstimulated that it began to shut down. The loudness of the world—sudden noises, disruptions, even high wind, made my body retreat inward, bracing against threats that weren’t there. I wasn’t present, not really. I could go through the motions, smile at the right moments, even teach a great class, but I felt blank. Empty. Numb.

This numbness didn’t mean I wasn’t feeling anything, it meant I was feeling everything all at once, with nowhere for it to go. Trauma does that. It loops in the background, replaying every emotion, every sensation, until the present is contaminated by the past. The weight of the unprocessed becomes chronic. Tight chest. Fatigue. Brain fog. I didn’t know then that what I was experiencing had a name: dissociation.

Dissociation stole color from my world. I didn’t feel fully alive. I felt like a visitor inside my own body, like I could see myself moving through life, but couldn’t quite feel it. I couldn’t quite touch joy. I couldn’t quite grieve either. I was stuck somewhere in between.

Movement became my way back. But not the kind of movement that pushes or performs. Not the striving kind. Instead, it was slow, inquisitive, and breath-led. I began to sit in stillness, not to escape the discomfort, but to greet it. I asked the pressure in my chest, "What are you trying to tell me?" I placed a hand on my heart and said, "Thank you. I see you. You don’t have to protect me anymore."

This practice of staying present with the tension was a breakthrough. It showed me that even my panic had a purpose. It was a warning system, a loyal one. And like any loyal protector, it simply wanted acknowledgment. Not shame. Not silence.

Each movement became a conversation with my inner world. Some days, I needed to stretch and spiral and cry. Other days, I needed to lie on the mat with one hand on my belly and one on my heart, whispering, "You’re safe." Slowly, I began to recognize the voice of my inner child, the one who never felt heard in moments of fear. I asked her what she needed. I began to give her what no one else could: my presence.

Grief lives in the body. So does healing. And the only way out is through—not over, not around. The body doesn’t need fixing. It needs witnessing. Movement, when done with intention, becomes a ritual of reclaiming the self. It’s how I learned to feel again. To rest. To enjoy. To stop numbing and start listening.

This is the work I now share, a somatic path through grief and trauma. A place to move slowly, to breathe deeply, to write honestly, and to be with what is. Because all experience is transitory. And when we learn to befriend our sensations rather than fear them, we create the conditions for something extraordinary: healing that is embodied, sustainable, and true.