Have you ever noticed your shoulders creeping up toward your ears before you even realize you’re holding your breath? It’s not just tension; it’s a message you’ve been ignoring for years.

I want you to take a moment, right now, and scan your body. Not in a judgmental way, but with curiosity. Where do you feel the weight of today? Is it a knot in your stomach? A tightness behind your eyes? Or maybe that strange, hollow ache in your lower back that seems to appear only when you’re trying to be strong for everyone else? We spend so much time talking about what we think, what we say, and how we manage our schedules. But we rarely talk about what our bodies are doing while we’re busy pretending everything is fine. For a long time, I thought stress was something that happened in my head. I thought if I could just organize my calendar better or drink more water, the anxiety would dissipate. But my body had other plans. My body didn’t care about my to-do list. It cared about survival. And when you live in a state of chronic, low-grade alertness, your body starts to keep score. It stores every unspoken argument, every swallowed tear, every time you said yes when you meant no. These aren’t just memories. They are physical sensations. They are somatic symptoms. And they are trying to tell you something important.

Let’s sit with that word for a second. Somatic. It sounds clinical, doesn’t it? Like something you’d hear in a doctor’s office when they’re trying to explain why your blood pressure is high. But at its core, somatic simply means relating to the body. So, somatic symptoms are the ways your physical self communicates distress when your verbal self has run out of words. Think about it. When was the last time you truly let yourself speak your truth? If you’re like most people I work with, you’ve learned early on that speaking your needs might make you difficult, or burdensome, or unwanted. So you stop. You swallow the complaint. You bite your tongue until it tastes like metal. But the energy of that suppressed emotion doesn’t just vanish. It has nowhere to go. So it travels. It settles in the jaw, which clenches when you’re angry but can’t show it. It migrates to the throat, creating that lump you feel when you’re grieving but can’t cry. It tightens the gut, because that’s where our instincts live, screaming danger when there is none. This isn’t metaphorical. This is biology. Your nervous system is constantly assessing threat, and when you suppress your authentic response to protect others or maintain peace, your body stays in fight-or-flight mode. It’s exhausted. And it’s showing you the bill.

I hear this phrase so often it makes my teeth ache. 'Just relax.' As if relaxation were a switch you could flip, as if your body were a machine that could be manually reset by sheer willpower. Let me be very clear with you: you cannot think your way out of a body-based problem. If you have somatic symptoms of long-term stress, telling yourself to calm down is like trying to put out a house fire with a squirt gun. It’s well-intentioned, but it misses the scale of the issue. Long-term stress rewires your nervous system. It changes your baseline. Your body learns to expect chaos, so when things are quiet, it panics. It sends pain signals to remind you that you need to be on guard. This is why you might wake up at 3 a.m. with your heart racing, even though nothing bad is happening. This is why you get migraines after a perfectly nice weekend. Your body is confused by safety. It thinks safety is suspicious. It thinks, 'Wait, why is it quiet? Did I miss a threat?' So it creates one. The myth that we should just be able to manage this through positive thinking ignores the reality of trauma and chronic load. It places the burden on you to fix a physiological state that requires patience, not perfection. And I know, because I’ve been there. I used to try to meditate away my ulcers. It didn’t work. It took years to understand that my body wasn’t broken; it was just overloaded.

So, how do we respond to these messages? We start by listening. Not fixing. Not judging. Just listening. When your shoulder hurts, don’t immediately reach for the ibuprofen and ask what exercise you forgot to do. Ask yourself: What am I carrying right now that feels too heavy? When your stomach churns, pause. Is there a conversation you’re avoiding? Is there a boundary you’re afraid to set? Your feelings are data, not directives. The pain is not the enemy. The pain is the messenger. It’s knocking on the door of your consciousness, asking for attention. In therapy, we often talk about 'bottom-up' processing. Instead of starting with your thoughts—'I’m anxious because I have a presentation'—you start with your body. 'My hands are shaking. My chest is tight.' From there, you can trace it back to the emotion. 'I feel small. I feel afraid of being seen.' This connection is healing. It validates your experience. It tells your nervous system, 'I see you. I hear you. You don’t have to scream anymore because I’m finally listening.' This is radical self-respect. It is choosing to trust your own internal wisdom over the external noise. It is saying, 'My body knows what it’s going through, and I am willing to learn from it.' This takes time. It takes practice. And it requires a gentle hand. You wouldn’t yell at a child who is scared. Why do you yell at yourself when you are hurting?

Healing isn’t about eliminating all stress. That’s impossible. Life is stressful. Work is hard. Relationships are messy. Healing is about building capacity. It’s about expanding your window of tolerance so that when stress hits, your body doesn’t collapse into shutdown or explosion. How do we build that capacity? Through small, consistent acts of regulation. This doesn’t mean hour-long yoga sessions or expensive retreats. It means noticing. Noticing when you clench your jaw and gently opening it. Noticing when you hold your breath and letting it out with a sigh. Noticing when you walk into a room and consciously dropping your shoulders. These micro-moments send safety signals to your brain. They say, 'We are here. We are alive. We are okay.' Over time, these signals accumulate. They create a new baseline. A new normal. And slowly, the somatic symptoms begin to fade. Not because you forced them away, but because they were no longer needed. The alarm system turns off because it realizes the war is over. You are safe now. You are whole now. You are enough now. This is the power of presence. It is the quiet rebellion of choosing yourself, again and again, in the smallest moments. It is the daily, messy practice of returning to your body, even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts. Because that’s where the life is. That’s where the truth lives. And it’s waiting for you to come home.

I invite you to carry this awareness with you today. Not as a task, but as a companion. When you feel that familiar tightness, don’t fight it. Don’t curse it. Thank it. Say, 'Thank you for trying to protect me. But I’ve got this now.' Then, breathe. Just one deep breath. Feel your feet on the floor. Feel the air in your lungs. Remind yourself that you are here. You are real. You are supported. You are not alone in this. There are millions of women walking around with heavy shoulders, carrying worlds on their backs, wondering if they’re broken. You are not broken. You are becoming. And this process, however slow, is beautiful. It is holy. It is yours. So, be gentle with yourself. Be patient with your body. Trust the timing of your healing. It’s unfolding exactly as it should. And remember, you don’t have to do this perfectly. You just have to do it honestly. One breath at a time. One moment at a time. One day at a time. That is enough. That has always been enough.

Thank you for sitting with me today. Thank you for showing up for yourself, even in the small ways. I’ll be right here next week, ready to listen. Until then, take care of that beautiful, resilient body of yours. A gentle reminder: this show is for reflection and support, not a substitute for professional care. If you're struggling, please reach out to a qualified mental-health professional.