Hi, my lovely subscribers.

As you know, I am off for the whole month of June and right in the middle of it, this repost is landing in your inbox. I set it up before I left because I wanted to remind us all of this one.

I wrote it last summer after traveling to Paris with my daughter. A hot city, crowds everywhere, a highly sensitive nervous system, and a toddler in tow. Sound familiar?

This summer I find myself in a similar situation a new city, the same nervous system, the same need to find shade and peace and try to see everything with minimum effort. We will see how that goes this time.

If you are traveling this summer, or about to, I hope this finds you at the right moment. And if you are staying home, it might still remind you that rest is always allowed.

This one is a travel kit.

Do you know how exhausting traveling can be?

Does it take you a while to settle into a new place?

What about traveling with toddlers?

And navigating millions of tourists in a hot city?

Now double all the overwhelm a city vacation brings to highly sensitive nervous systems.

And what if you’re an HSP woman experiencing this kind of vacation during your luteal or menstrual phase?

Starting to feel anxious?

Would you rather stay at home?

I know, me too.

But sometimes (more often than I’d like), we travel for vacation anyway, for various reasons.

Let’s discuss some tips that may help. Let me share what works for me. I’m not going to focus on other family members or our specific activities. I’m going to center this on the HSP mother’s well-being.

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Packing with purpose. My daughter and I packed outfits for each day. That way, we had fewer clothes and didn’t waste time trying to create the best outfit every morning in the hotel room.

Planning with your cycle in mind. The luteal phase can bring many PMS challenges, so I deliberately narrowed down the plans for the first few days. My goal was to avoid any touristy activities or crowded places at the beginning. I wanted to keep the overwhelm to a minimum. I know the pressure to see everything in just a few days, but I made peace with the options that actually suited my current state. I have to be there for myself first, to function, and ideally, enjoy the travel days. That’s why my own feeling and overall mental state is the baseline.

Finding safety in new surroundings. Sure, we could have chosen an Airbnb, but I preferred a hotel because I knew I would spend a few days alone with my child. I wanted access to a lobby, a common room, breakfast, and a 24/7 receptionist, just in case. Our room was a home I could always return to.

Day one: just get to know the surroundings of our hotel. Find the nearest grocery store, restaurant, and park. This helped me settle into the place and feel grounded, knowing where everything I needed was. That’s the external safety I require to function well.

A cycle as a guide, not a burden. I treated my cycle phase as something to plan around, not a burden to resent. I knew to expect mood shifts, increased sensitivity, and discomfort. So when my period arrived, I thanked my body for it. I welcomed it as a guide, not a saboteur. It wasn’t there to ruin my vacation, but to show me how to actually enjoy it.

When plans change. We had a rough daily plan, and I’m used to preparing my daughter for what to expect. Of course, the day my period came, the planned activities were no longer suitable for me. I told her honestly, expecting a less-than-happy reaction. Instead, I offered a new plan: “Let’s explore the nearest playground we can walk to, and I’ve found a restaurant we’ll both enjoy.”

We spent half the day outside, soaking up the city atmosphere where real life goes on (hello 9–5 jobs and mandatory school attendance), with bathrooms, food, and water always nearby. For the rest of the day, we stayed in the hotel room. It was too hot anyway, and I rested while we played games.

If this all sounds ideal but hard to imagine for you, that’s okay. I’ve been there. The shift toward gentle, needs-based travel starts small. One less plan. One extra deep breath. One skipped museum.

Rest is the destination. It’s perfectly fine to have time for doing nothing, whether outside or indoors. We’re not missing out. We’re still living, just in a different city. I know the expectation is to see as much as possible in a vibrant place full of attractions and history, but it’s just as important to set boundaries and say enough when we’re tired or not up for it. Our own sense of ease as mothers creates ease for others and leads to more energy in the following days.

Let play lead the way. I recommend planning any vacation with kids around their favorite activities as the core, not as an add-on. If they’re enjoying something—even if you had other plans—try listening to their needs. You’ll save yourself stress and endless negotiations. For us, that often means a playground tour, discovering other interesting spots along the way. It’s also a new way to get to know a city.

Use every moment to wind down. Gaze at trees and the sky, savor the flavor of a dessert, and avoid extra distractions like checking your phone. You don’t need a million Eiffel Tower photos. One is enough. Don’t watch Netflix before sleep. Sleep is your chance to recharge. Don’t waste it.

Nature is the medicine. My vacation highlight: trees. I gazed at almost every tree, admired the colors and shapes of their leaves, touched the trunks, sat in their shade, and listened to the wind blowing through the canopies. It kept me present, grounded, and content.

The sunshine helped. It energized me every step of the way.

Routines can wait. I often feel the urge to replicate my home life in a new place: same routines, healthy meals, meditation, and time to work if inspiration strikes. While bringing a few routines can be grounding, don’t cling to them. It’s just a few days. Even if we know sugar isn’t ideal, nothing bad will happen if we eat a treat when hungry mid-walk. The whole world can wait until we’re back.

Coming home gently. Once you’re home, expect the recovery period to last longer than you’d like even with home-cooked meals, no plans, and lots of time in nature. Be gentle with yourself. You did something meaningful for yourself and your family, and new experiences from a foreign place helped you grow. You’ll carry them with you always.

And don’t get me wrong, we still visited the classic tourist attractions, stood sweating in long queues, and walked until our legs hurt. But it wasn’t all day, every day, and everything. And the surprising part? I actually enjoyed what we did more than usual.

I hope these personal, HSP-mother-tailored tips inspire you to find your peace in a new place and help you not just survive, but actually enjoy your family vacation.

Have a lovely summer.

The series follows a highly sensitive woman through the most vulnerable and most feminine chapters of a life. If you are reading this one first, the previous two are here:

This post is about what happened next. I have been working with this trauma for a long time. I will write it as practically as I can.

The Hours After

The horror that came after was thankfully not concerning my newborn daughter. Only me.

During those first two hours with my daughter my womb was not getting smaller as fast as they expected, so the assistant began trying to push it, which caused heavier bleeding. Then a young woman doctor came to check me. She was not satisfied and consulted with an older colleague. Even though I had only minor external injuries that she had already sewn right after the birth, with me surviving that only thanks to the gas and air, she decided that now, two hours after the birth, when all the hormones protecting me from pain were gone, without asking, without local anesthesia, she would resew my stitches.

It was extremely painful. I was yelling at her, asking for anesthesia. It did not help.

I physically survived. My body even healed completely afterwards. But it was the biggest traumatic experience of my adult life. From that moment I had terrible coccyx pain and could practically not sit for the next nine months. I felt it as if that traumatic event had been saved and stored in my coccyx. As if my body had nowhere else to put it.

One Month Later

And this was not the end of what that doctor left behind. A month after giving birth, when my bleeding got worse instead of better, I had to leave my newborn daughter with family and go to the emergency room. I asked for sensitive treatment because of what I had already survived. My body was still very much in a healing process. The verdict was clear: a large piece of placenta had been left inside my womb. Surgery was needed to remove it.

I cried in the doctor’s office, completely broken. She told me not to cry, that it was not a big surgery, that they would have me first in the morning because I was breastfeeding, and that I could go home the same day.

I had a weekend to prepare my milk for my baby, who I had no idea would even drink from a bottle for the first time, and I was living in an unimaginable nightmare after everything I had already been through.

It was hell. Hell for a highly sensitive woman who had just become a mother and had a newborn baby at home. It was the opposite of a safe and peaceful postpartum. I was living through my worst nightmares without a single moment of psychological support.

The surgery itself went okay. While I was in the hospital my baby, in her quiet wisdom, drank from a bottle for the only time in her life until she was a toddler. Before the surgery I was pumping milk, because full anesthesia was required. I walked to wait for the surgery myself. On my feet. While bleeding. It was somewhere in the basement of an old hospital, the most nightmarish place you can imagine, and I was facing the most intense fear I have ever known: that I would not wake up and would never see my baby again.

I did wake up. I was bleeding heavily. They said it was normal. I could not sit because of the coccyx pain. But I walked out of that hospital. My partner picked me up and his family took care of us, and I was immediately holding my baby.

And Then They Found More

And if you think the nightmare ends there, it does not. At a follow-up appointment a few weeks later, my gynecologist told me there were still placenta residuals inside. She saw no other option than another surgery.

From the lowest place I have ever been, I had to find the will to heal myself another way. And I did. That force I found, and the path I took to avoid that second surgery, is described in full in this article.

I used Chinese herbal therapy, craniosacral biodynamics, special excercise, and I spoke to my body every single day, thanking it, reassuring it, asking it to heal. A month later the ultrasound showed my uterus was completely clean. Without any more bleeding. My gynecologist never asked how.

This was a healthy pregnancy without any complications. And it ended with a woman who almost sank into despair.

And why? Why the fuck did I have to go through all of this?

I have decided to keep all of this free because it is important that it exists in the world. Below you will find something I needed far more than any second opinion or surgical referral. A letter from the woman I deserved to have beside me. Not a doctor, not a therapist, but a patient rights advocate. Someone who had seen cases like mine many times before. Someone with cold precision, deep knowledge, and the particular kind of anger that comes from years of watching this happen to women who had no one in their corner.

She is writing to me. But if any of this is yours too, she is writing to you.

A Letter From The Woman Who Knew Your Rights

Dear Selene,

I have read your case. I have seen cases like yours more times than I want to count. And I am going to tell you some things that no one told you then, clearly and without softening them, because you deserved clarity and you received none.

What was done to you two hours after giving birth was not a standard medical procedure. It was performed without your informed consent, without anesthesia, on a body that was postpartum, hormonally depleted, and in its most vulnerable possible state. You asked for anesthesia. You were ignored. You were conscious and in pain throughout. That is not a complication of birth. That is a violation of your rights as a patient.

You had the right to refuse. You had the right to demand pain relief before any procedure. You had the right to ask for a second opinion, to ask for time, to ask for an explanation. Nobody told you any of this. You were alone, exhausted, postpartum, and in shock from the birth, and a doctor made a unilateral decision about your body without your agreement. The fact that your body healed does not make what happened acceptable. Healing is not the measure of whether consent was given.

One month later you went to the emergency room because your bleeding was getting worse instead of better. You asked for sensitive treatment because of what you had already survived. That request was reasonable, appropriate, and entirely within your rights. It should have been documented and honored throughout your care. A large piece of retained placenta is not a minor oversight. It required surgery to address, and you faced that surgery alone, with a newborn at home, still bleeding, walking on your own feet to a basement waiting room, carrying a fear that you would not wake up.

And then, at a follow-up appointment weeks later, you were told there were still residuals remaining. You were offered nothing but waiting and another surgery. You were a breastfeeding mother with a newborn at home, weeks postpartum, still in physical pain, without psychological support of any kind. The appropriate response to your situation was not “come back in a few weeks.” It was a referral, an acknowledgment, a plan, a human being in that room who understood what you were carrying. And the knowledge that what was done to you had consequences worth pursuing.

What I do know is this: you were not treated as a whole person at any point in this process. You were treated as a body producing outcomes that needed to be managed. Your history was irrelevant to them. Your sensitivity was invisible to them. Your fear was an inconvenience to them. And you absorbed all of that, because you had no one telling you that you did not have to.

You should have recorded everything. Not because you are litigious, not because anger is the point, but because documentation is the only language that system understands. Your pain was real. Your experience was real. And you deserved to have it taken seriously in the one language available.

Now I want to tell you something else.

Your body healed. Not because the system supported it, but despite the fact that it did not. You found the people who could help you, you learned to speak to your own body, you chose a path that the doctor who dismissed you could not even conceive of. You avoided a second surgery through knowledge, trust, and a refusal to accept that one way was the only way. That is not luck. That is what happens when a woman who has been written off decides to take her healing into her own hands.

The coccyx pain that stayed with you for nine months was your body holding what it had no other place for. That is a body doing its job under impossible circumstances. And you worked with that too. You always work with it.

You did not fail in that hospital. The system failed you. Those are not the same thing, and I need you to know the difference.

What happened to you was wrong. You are allowed to be angry and seek consequences. You are allowed to grieve it. You are allowed to wish it had been different without it diminishing what you survived.

And you survived it all.

With precision, with respect, and with more anger on your behalf than I will put in this letter,

The woman who knew your rights

Inside Sensitive Enough Movement, I write for highly sensitive women who are looking for better understanding of their body and mind patterns, more fitting healing approaches, and a space where sensitivity is taken seriously instead of dismissed.

Among the pieces that resonated most with readers are: my story of healing an “incurable” skin condition through lifestyle change, working with deeply attuned holistic specialists to avoid surgery, the importance of psychosomatics, and a very personal sneak peek into what happens in the psychotherapy room.

All written through a highly sensitive lens.

Enter Sensitive Enough Movement

After those unhappy and unsuccessful times, I was waiting for my body to come back to normal after surgery. It took a while for my period to return, and then I had half the chances of getting pregnant as before. After all that time already waiting, it was awful. The previous experience had been so traumatizing that I felt broken about my chances. And then it took around half a year more.

One weekend after the new year, I had a terrible headache. The kind where my vision was affected and I had to lie down in the dark to survive. At that time there was no clinic or specialist I was seeing for holistic methods, but I remembered shiatsu.

Shiatsu

I had enjoyed shiatsu in the past and it had always made my life more pleasant. This was the method I was looking for to help me with my migraine. I searched locally and was lucky enough to find a practitioner with a free spot the very next day. At our first visit I also told her about my difficulties getting pregnant. Not only did my headache subside, but I felt so energetically wonderful that I got pregnant in the hours that followed.

That evening I had dinner with my girlfriends. It was a nice atmosphere, we talked and laughed a lot and it helped me to forget about my problems at least for the evening. I was in such a good mood when I came home to my partner that that evening I got pregnant.

So after all the difficult times, it finally happened and it happened naturally.

When my period was late and I took the test, you can imagine how scared I was that the ectopic pregnancy would happen again on my right side, which would have left my natural conception chances at zero. Very soon I visited my gynecologist asking for confirmation that the pregnancy was where it should be. She confirmed it but said it was still very early.

When I was walking that day, I felt the child inside telling me everything was alright, and that gave me a sense that it actually was going to be. At that time I was sure it was going to be a boy.

Fear Over Fear

The first weeks of my pregnancy were okay, even though full of fear, and the more pregnant I became, the more sick I felt. Around the same time I was no longer able to go to work daily, covid came and I was afraid to be around people. It was fear over fear, with all day sickness and no food that I actually enjoyed. Even brushing my teeth made me sick. Frightening information was coming from all around the world, everything was suddenly closing, everything was dangerous, and for a finally pregnant woman this was a deeply unstable situation. I remember crying on the phone to my parents that I had never imagined I would finally be pregnant during a plague.

During this time full of fear and sickness we had to figure out how to safely attend doctor’s visits. Every time I was so scared she would tell me something was wrong that I almost could not make myself go. And every time I was scared I would catch covid there, when no one had any idea how it could affect my baby. Working from home became so physically difficult for me that my employer slowly distributed my responsibilities within the team and I went on maternity leave as soon as it was possible. My partner and I were mostly alone, with no visits from family or friends, and a real fear about food when the shops were suddenly not stocked well enough. All this while constantly feeling sick. I spent a lot of time on the balcony just to be outside, and to this day a specific bird singing reminds me of those months.

Finally, A Good Time

After five months the sickness slowly disappeared, summer was coming, covid restrictions were loosening, and I actually started to have a really nice time. My belly was growing slowly but even when it was very big it was never an obstacle for me. I did not experience any heaviness, bloating, difficulty moving or anything that women in higher stages of pregnancy usually describe. Even though I gained a lot of weight, I did not see it or feel it. I just had a belly. I was doing pilates for pregnant women, I was often in nature, walking daily, and it was actually a great time of my life, finally. I was planning and preparing my home, resting a lot, and even though I was alone a great deal of the time, it felt good.

The Fear That Came Back

While my best friend back in my hometown was a great inspiration for me with her homebirth, at that time I was not yet sure enough about my body and my daughter’s, so I planned a standard hospital labor. Near the end of my pregnancy the fear came back strongly, when I developed a panic fear of having a stillborn baby. Those of you who read my fertility article will know what inspired that. One day I had an actual sense of no movement from my baby. I was so overwhelmed with fear that we went to the emergency room, where they confirmed everything was alright.

Doctors made everything more difficult with their calculations about my due date. Even though I knew exactly the day I got pregnant, they decided I should deliver two weeks earlier than my own sense of timing.

That was the reason my baby suddenly seemed too small during a regular check up, leading to another ultrasound and more anxious waiting.

That was also the reason I had not told them my belly had been getting hard from time to time for some weeks already. I did not want them to make another fuss about it.

And that was the reason they were unhappy I was still not delivering and told me I had to come in for induced labor at a certain date. Because that would be already 2 weeks past their calculated due date. I did not want that.

My labor started exactly when it was supposed to, naturally, but not in the way I had been told to expect.

The Birth

My contractions started on Sunday night into Monday during the fall. According to everything I had read and everyone I had spoken to, they were not contractions — very irregular, stopping completely for a few hours at a time. I was even able to bring them on myself with certain movements. But in the morning we went to the clinic just to be safe because I was lightly bleeding. They said I was not yet in labor and that if I did not deliver sooner I should come in for induction. That was a terrible scenario for me. Nobody took my own feelings into consideration and it only sent me deeper into fear about what was actually happening.

The next night looked more promising, pain every half hour or so, but still irregular, passing again for hours at a time. It drove me completely crazy. I preferred having the pain to no changes at all. I even felt like I was faking it. I cried hysterically at home several times asking why nothing was happening.

The following night it was hurting more and I had to find positions to breathe through it. Around 1 in the morning I gave up and we went to the hospital, because it was simply hurting a lot by then and I did not want to go in for that induction. They said it was only the beginning but that they would keep me. We waited a long time for a doctor because they had an urgent cesarean. In that phase I could only manage each contraction standing, breathing, tucking my pelvis under with each exhale and leaning against the wall. My partner was sent home.

From about 4 in the morning I was there with one other woman, and I could do nothing but stand and wait. The contractions were still around every 6 minutes. Nobody came to check on us the whole time. Gradually the pain was turning into something more like pressure. I thought I would be there like this for another day, maybe two. It was terrible. Oh and did I mention that it was my third sleepless night in a row? The pains were so enormous that I silently agreed to any kind of help, even what I had originally not wanted.

Then I rang for the nurse and told her about the pressure. And at that moment a new midwife appeared. A complete angel. Simply one positive, extremely kind, encouraging woman, who examined me and announced that I was beautifully in labor, already 7 centimeters dilated, that I should pack up and call my partner and I was going to the delivery room. I was barely able to get there in those pains even though it was only a few meters. I told her I had not wanted an epidural but that now I wanted anything. And she told me it seemed so beautiful how I was laboring already, that we could try just the gas and air first. I agreed.

My partner arrived. I started breathing the gas and air and I was smiling at him, already in that animal mode where I barely knew myself. Then suddenly I was asked to try not to push, to wait for the doctor to arrive. Like I could influence that!

When the time came I pushed once or twice, yelling, but I could still hear them telling me to focus the effort into pushing, which I had studied in advance. I have no idea where or how I pushed and the doctor just lifted out my daughter. She was perfectly healthy.

We were completely overwhelmed. Our daughter was on my chest where she belonged. We were greeting her, looking at this little big miracle. They left us for almost two hours in the dim light, alone as a family. It was raining outside and I still wanted to cry happy tears.

I am forever grateful that my daughter was born when she was actually ready, in the most natural way that was possible in that hospital, and we were both immediately with her from the very beginning.

What Came Next

What followed after those two hours was the hardest experience of my adult life. It did not concern my daughter. Only me. I will tell that story in full in the next post, including what happened one month after the birth, what I had to survive, and how it ultimately became the reason I found my own path to healing.

A Letter From The Woman I Needed

Below you will find what I was missing during my entire pregnancy and birth. Not medical advice. Not a protocol. A voice. The voice of an older, wiser woman who had walked this path before me, who knew my sensitivity, who believed in my body completely, and who would have told me the truth with love. I did not have her then. I am writing her now, for myself and for anyone who may need her too.

My darling,

I have been watching you carry this pregnancy and I want you to know something first, before anything else: you have done nothing wrong. Not one thing.

You came into this already carrying so much. A body that had been through surgery, a heart that had already grieved, a nervous system that had been on high alert for longer than anyone around you understood. And then the world fell apart around you at the exact moment you finally, finally got what you had been waiting for. You were not being dramatic. You were not overreacting. You were a highly sensitive woman, already tender from everything that came before, suddenly asked to grow a life in the middle of a plague. Of course it was terrifying. Of course the fear lived in your body every single day.

I want to talk to you about your body, because I do not think anyone ever truly has.

Your body is not like other bodies. Not because something is wrong with it. Because it is extraordinary. You feel more, you process more, you carry more. Your nervous system takes in the world at a depth that most people will never know. This means that when your body speaks, it speaks in a language more precise and more honest than any chart or calculation a doctor can produce.

When you felt your baby telling you everything was alright on that walk, that was real. When you knew the exact day you got pregnant, that was real. When you knew your body was in labor before anyone in that clinic would believe you, that was real. You were not confused. You were not wrong. You were simply operating from a knowing that the medical system had no tools to measure.

And about those contractions, those three days of irregular, stopping, starting, maddening waves that no one would acknowledge as labor: your body was doing exactly what it needed to do. Slowly, carefully, at its own pace. You are highly sensitive. Of course your labor felt different from the descriptions in the books. Of course it moved differently from anyone else’s. That was not a malfunction. That was your body’s wisdom, taking its time, doing things right. The fact that you cried hysterically, that you felt like you were faking it, that you doubted yourself completely: none of that meant anything was wrong. It meant you were a sensitive woman in pain with no one around her saying the right things. That is not your failure. That is theirs.

The mathematics of due dates have nothing to do with you. You always do everything exactly when you are meant to. You knew when you conceived. You knew when she was ready. Your body has never been late for anything that truly mattered. No one else on this earth has any right to make you doubt that.

And when the labor finally moved fast, when the staff were surprised, I want you to understand something. They were seeing only a few hours. You had been in labor for three days. Three nights without sleep, you who struggle for several days if you sleep even few hours less than you need. Three days of your extraordinary sensitive body working, preparing, opening, doing everything right while everyone around you dismissed it. They never came back and acknowledged that. But I am acknowledging it now.

You delivered a healthy, beautiful baby on three days of labor and three nights without sleep, in the middle of a global pandemic, carrying unresolved trauma in your body, with no professional psychological support. That is not ordinary. That is not something most bodies could do. That is the strength of the most sensitive woman in the room, the one everyone underestimates, the one who feels everything and keeps going anyway.

Your baby is going to be small. She will be small throughout her whole childhood. And she will be perfectly healthy. Trust that. Your body knew exactly what size she needed to be.

I am sorry that no one was talking to you about you. About your history, your sensitivity, your mental state, your fears. That it was all left on you to carry alone. You deserved so much more than that. Your safe partner couldn’t do it all. You deserved a room full of women who knew what you had already survived, who would have held your history with care and built your confidence instead of adding to your fear.

I am sorry that your body and your daughter did not always receive what they deserved from you either, because you did not yet have the knowledge or the support to give it. That is not something to carry as guilt. It is something to carry as understanding. You did not know then what you know now. And that is exactly why you are writing this.

You are the strongest sensitive woman. You carry deep wisdom in a body that the world has consistently underestimated. And one day your daughter will know that her mother felt everything, survived everything, and chose to understand herself rather than harden.

That is the greatest thing you will ever give her.

With all my love and all my knowing,

The woman you needed then

Inside Sensitive Enough Movement, I write for highly sensitive women who are looking for better understanding of their body and mind patterns, more fitting healing approaches, and a space where sensitivity is taken seriously instead of dismissed.

Among the pieces that resonated most with readers are: my story of healing an “incurable” skin condition through lifestyle change, working with deeply attuned holistic specialists to avoid surgery, the importance of psychosomatics, and a very personal sneak peek into what happens in the psychotherapy room.

All written through a highly sensitive lens.

Enter Sensitive Enough Movement

When I finally came to a phase of wanting to have children, it was a few years into my healing journey, when some issues in my life were starting to get crystallized and resolved. It came to me almost as a surprise, and it was connected to going to craniosacral biodynamics.

Through the holistic perspective of the craniosacral therapist, further questions about my health and experience of life were opening up. You can read more about my experience with this healing technique here.

One of the themes was the gradual emergence of my feeling that I would like to have a baby. Somehow I felt that something got resolved and that I could finally allow myself to have children in a safe environment. Before, when I had similar feelings, my partners were actually not safe for this kind of adventure, and they did clearly let me know. My current husband, despite being younger than me, was supportive and happy about my decision to have a child. It was almost like my whole life was leading me towards this moment. All the bad, all the waiting, and now it finally clicked and made so much sense!

That is why I was surprised when it did not work. We were trying, we were not successful. I was still not pregnant. And I am definitely not the patient one. I was getting crazy every time my period started. So I did what I knew best at the time: I got into various practices and teachings.

What I Tried

My gynecologist told me that everything was fine and that it just takes time. In my experience, the reasons for difficulty getting pregnant are not always purely physical in ways a gynecologist can detect.

Simply having a conversation with a specialist about a deep unfulfilled desire to become a mother was a great relief for me. The clinic that also works with craniosacral biodynamics offered me this kind of support.

I was going to acupuncture and getting acquainted with traditional Chinese medicine. My overall feeling about acupuncture was fine, but I have to admit that with my high sensitivity some of the needle insertions were quite painful and lying still was not comfortable for me. What was pleasant above all was the acupuncturist herself, with whom it was easy to talk and I felt understanding and hope. So in my case this was an experience of a good therapist and not so effective method. I could hardly confirm any effect on my condition. Nothing breakthrough happened that I could write to you about. Which does not mean that nothing happened in my body and energetically. Perhaps it did.

I also read one incredibly supportive book that changed my perspective on how things come to us in life and what we can do, or rather stop doing, so they can truly find their way to us. It was Superattractor by Gabby Bernstein. Her central idea is that when we chase what we deeply want from a place of fear and lack, we close ourselves off to receiving it. She writes about shifting from desperate wanting into genuine faith, not passive waiting, but an active practice of staying open, trusting, and allowing. One of her practical invitations is to look for signs of faith in the world around you, small daily confirmations that what you long for exists and is possible. Thanks to her I started to perceive all the passing mothers with prams as a sign of faith that I too would get there one day. I started to be more open and to believe that this was waiting for me somewhere in my future. I was making peace with the fact that it might take longer than I expected, but that does not mean it will not come.

During this period I was also going to Pilates, believing that stronger and better equipped muscles can lead me the right way. My overall experience with Pilates is described here.

The Waiting

My emotions were exactly what you might expect from a highly sensitive woman who is struggling to get pregnant. It was terrifyingly difficult. It was a situation I was aware I could try to prepare conditions for, but could not truly resolve on my own. We could not do it as a couple either, and perhaps nobody in the world could.

I simply had to surrender and wait, and at that time that was unimaginably demanding for me.

I had a few people around me with whom I was able to talk about it, including a few girlfriends experiencing similar difficulties. But we were more or less in a similar unknowing, each of us dealing with it the best way we could. And of course all of them got pregnant before me.

The greatest pressure was naturally at home, on my partner. I admire him for enduring it with me, and nothing hard had even happened yet. Everything difficult was still ahead of us. Sometimes I completely lost hope and sank into depressive states. And everywhere around me everyone was pregnant and having children effortlessly.

Pregnancy but… Ectopic

Our effort to get pregnant lasted about a year.

Until it finally worked.

A positive pregnancy test!

At the same time I was also bleeding…

It was enormous fear and uncertainty. I did not know what was happening. While I was still figuring out what was going on, feeling unclear and uncertain, I visited the therapists from the clinic I mentioned. They helped as best they could, and it was they who referred me to the gynecologist for a check. They knew it would not be alright. And it was not.

At the hospital they monitored me for longer. It was not clear-cut after the first examination. I was going there almost every day for about a week for blood tests and ultrasounds, and I was constantly calling for results. They confirmed that it would not be a standard pregnancy and based on the values eventually concluded that it was an ectopic pregnancy.

I have to say that my body held me absolutely amazingly. I felt almost no pain, only standard bleeding and enormous fear. It felt far removed from the reality of actually losing part of my body.

In the end I got to see an older doctor who told me that if I were his family he would advise me to wait and see whether it resolves on its own. But then he acknowledged that I was very frightened and that it would be better if I had the surgery. So I was hospitalized. The surgery followed and the removal of the left fallopian tube.

My chances of natural conception were therefore further reduced, plus I was operated on for the first time in my life, laparoscopically. Specialists who work with scars later explained to me what unpleasant consequences such an incision has on the tissues. The worst part for me was of course emotional.

The Ward

My stay in the hospital fortunately passed without complications and I was discharged after three days. But the experience of being hospitalized on a gynecological ward still haunts me to this day.

I was in a room with a woman on my right who had decided to have an abortion and was in enormous pain, screaming, and had to be taken back into surgery. On the left side was a woman who had just given birth to a stillborn baby. She talked to me about the whole process. Her daughter was waiting for her at home. It was their first separation.

Those situations were heartbreaking. In a strange way, witnessing them made my own situation feel slightly more bearable, and gave me a strong will to leave as soon as possible. (Don’t even get me started on the food.)

Coming Home

Fortunately I had about two weeks after returning home as recovery. It was a very sad time. Because I had got through the hospital, it was only now that what had actually happened really sank in. And how negatively it had affected my further chances of getting pregnant. On one hand I had to wait for my cycle to return, and on the other hand with one fallopian tube I supposedly had a chance only approximately every second ovulation.

In this experience of the ectopic pregnancy I never found, neither at the time nor unfortunately ever since, any deeper meaning.

Those who know my writing know that the longed-for motherhood eventually came. The next post is the part I have been waiting to write: how it finally happened, what pregnancy felt like for a highly sensitive woman during Covid, and the birth story that was the most beautiful and also the most traumatizing at the same time.

What I Needed Most

Below you will find what no doctor, therapist, or specialist offered me during this time. Because this kind of help rarely exists in any formal space. Help tied to a highly sensitive woman in deep emotional pain. It is a letter I wrote to my past self, written for my own specific experience, not a guide and not advice.

But if you are carrying something similar, it may offer you what I so badly needed then: to feel deeply understood and supported exactly where you are.

My dearest self,

I am with you during this difficult time. I understand exactly what you are going through as I went through the same situation. It is a horrible, negative experience.

First of all, you have every right to feel all the emotions that emerge and to be sad for as long as you need to. You don’t know the term yet, but you are something called highly sensitive, so it only makes sense to experience all emotions deeply, even though no one else around you understands that. It is your gift. Live through it all, because that is healing.

Not being able to get pregnant and having no power over it is maddening, I know. But you have your gorgeous, strong and wise body with you. Turn inward, speak to it, caress it. Every day talk to your womb, your ovaries, your miraculous female body. Just lie with it and listen. Your body knows the way. I know it is so natural to you to stay in your head and overanalyze everything. This is the situation where all the logic was already used and more cannot help. Trust me and trust yourself. No one is stronger and more fragile at the same time than you.

You are already in a safe environment with your partner. Now let’s focus on creating safety inside as well. You are the safest place for yourself. You are more than enough just as you are at this exact moment. You don’t need a child to be whole. You need to finally find yourself.

And regarding your medical situation: try to listen to that wise doctor who offered your wise body more time. Just consider it and maybe find the answer in your body first. You are and will be alright, whatever you do.

Now you are in a hospital, your most feared place, and your body is doing great. No complications, what a recovery, no pain. Wow. Let’s support it. Find a meditation and yoga nidra on your phone, put your headphones on and just listen, and nothing else around you. Cry when you need to. You are in your own worst situation and comparison to no one is relevant. Now try to help your body heal, and then at home, express all that stayed inside you: scream, hit, cry, ask why, why, why. Because there is no logical answer to what happened to you. Feel whatever and all of it. It is normal for you and it will make you feel better. But maybe just one day, it will make a little sense. You will be writing about it for others. 😉

Remember, you are safe and you are safety for yourself. You have the wisest body and you feel deeply for a reason. Let’s go through it all together, my love.

Yours always,

You

Inside Sensitive Enough Movement, I write for highly sensitive women who are looking for better understanding of their body and mind patterns, more fitting healing approaches, and a space where sensitivity is taken seriously instead of dismissed.

Among the pieces that resonated most with readers are: my story of healing an “incurable” skin condition through lifestyle change, working with deeply attuned holistic specialists to avoid surgery, the importance of psychosomatics, and a very personal sneak peek into what happens in the psychotherapy room.

All written through a highly sensitive lens.

Enter Sensitive Enough Movement

Oh, how heavy it can feel to be highly sensitive, especially in close relationships. We can feel genuine joy and enthusiasm in a good encounter with another person. We notice what is good. We bond quickly when it feels safe. Over time we can become loyal friends, devoted listeners, the ones who remember details, who hold tenderness, who stay.

And that is also where it gets complicated.

Being highly sensitive can make relationships feel like home. You notice the warmth, the nuance, the safety, the resonance. And then sometimes something shifts. You learn one fact, hear one opinion, witness one moment, and suddenly you are holding two realities at once. A bond that still exists, and a truth that disturbs you so deeply you cannot unsee it.

This post is about those relationships in particular. Not family relationships, because that topic deserves its own space. I mean friendships, yes, but also other trusted relationships that carry real emotional weight: mentorships, professional support, colleagues you respect, communities you belong to, people you admire and learn from. The relationships that shape you and help you live a fulfilled life.

When Depth Brings Dissonance

Many HSPs form deep connections once we open up. From my personal experience, I prefer a few deep relationships, and I am a devoted friend. I do not do shallow well. And because the bond runs deep, the moment you see something difficult in the other person can feel like a shock to your entire inner world.

On the path toward deeper self-understanding, we often meet people who are knowledgeable and supportive, and those connections can be profoundly healing. I have written before about how important it is for an HSP to feel safe in a trusting relationship with a doctor, therapist, or healer in order to begin healing. Safety in a relationship like that can truly change everything.

And yet there is another side to this sensitivity. We also notice the nuances. The tiny signals. The moments that reveal something we may not want to know.

The Things You Can’t Unknow

No one is ideal. No person on this planet fits us perfectly (they say, but one can still hope, right?). Even when someone feels deeply in resonance with you, things can change over time. Your perspective changes. Their personal journey changes. And sometimes what you discover is not a “small difference.” Sometimes it becomes a serious block.

Sometimes it also hits a tender place in us. You realize that people can mirror something you cannot understand or cannot stand, and because many sensitive empaths turn inward, we often start by searching for our own mistakes. We are quick to understand the other person’s obstacles and conditions, so we give them a lot of credit. And still, the thing we see can be deeply disturbing, not in a minor way, but in a way that changes how safe we feel with them.

It can show up like this:

A dear friend who holds a totally different opinion on nursing, religion, vaccination, or any other topic that touches your values.

A girlfriend who is openly homophobic.

A very knowledgeable healer who is highly unprofessional toward colleagues.

An older person in your neighborhood, now fragile and gentle, and you find out they used to be abusive.

A specialist you trust and admire, someone you feel connected with, who turns out to be racist.

A mentor who helped you grow, but speaks about other clients with contempt or breaks confidentiality.

A colleague you respect, who is casually sexist when they think it is “just a joke.”

An author you admire whose work shaped you, and then you learn they harassed someone, exploited power, or built their platform on harm.

A parent in your group who seems warm and conscious, and then you hear how they talk about “those people” when they feel safe in their circle.

These are not minor character quirks. These are the kinds of discoveries that can become true no-go zones. For an HSP, they can feel so disturbing that they threaten the relationship itself. And usually there is no clean way out. You do not have one honest conversation and suddenly your opposite values blend into harmony.

So you end up facing something quieter and harder. You can take people as they are, but you may also have to loosen a very strong bond or connection you created with them, because it is hard to lie to yourself. And you do not want to live in constant conflict, inside yourself or between you.

So what do you do with the bond, when the bond still exists?

Living With the Split

With lifelong friendships, there is grief in realizing you grew in different directions, and that love does not always mean compatibility. With colleagues or professional circles, the struggle can stretch for years, because you cannot simply walk away, and the nervous system pays the cost quietly. And then there are those “islands of hope,” the relationships that feel like answered prayers, especially after you become a parent or move through a big life shift. You finally find people who feel close, safe, and understanding, and then one day you discover a value clash that stops you in your tracks. None of these discoveries automatically erase the good.

That is what makes it so hard to live with.

These relationships are not your family, and you do not depend on them existentially. Yet it can shatter the image of that person, and your world at the same time. You know, intellectually, that people are not ideal. You have always known it. And still, the reality of ambiguity feels impossible to hold.

It would be much easier if the person were fully “bad” in your eyes. It would be much easier if there were no love, no admiration, no trust. But when there is real closeness, and something deeply disturbing appears, you are left with a bond that still pulls on you, while your values pull you in the opposite direction.

And for a highly sensitive nervous system, living in that split can feel unbearable.

When Trust Gets Smaller

This is how trust in others can slowly shrink, and loneliness grows. Not because you want to isolate. Not because you are “too picky.” Because you cannot lie to yourself. Because you do not want to stay in constant inner conflict. Because your system registers the dissonance as noise, and you do not know how to unhear it.

And sometimes, alongside a healing journey and all the insights that come with it, you start to notice something even more painful. That no one, literally no one, understands you completely or shares all your values and opinions. And then the questions start to rise. Who are we even looking for? Is it a lost sense of connection from early childhood? Is it safety in the group? Is it love?

I do not have many answers here. I only know that I understand the experience. I feel it too. I can offer resonance. We can grieve together.

And I think many of us are quietly grieving the same thing: the fact that deep connection can be real, and still become complicated, and sometimes there is no version of it that stays simple and clear again.

Inside Sensitive Enough Movement, I write for highly sensitive women who are looking for better understanding of their body and mind patterns, more fitting healing approaches, and a space where sensitivity is taken seriously instead of dismissed.

Among the pieces that resonated most with readers are: my story of healing an “incurable” skin condition through lifestyle change, working with deeply attuned holistic specialists to avoid surgery, the importance of psychosomatics, and a very personal sneak peek into what happens in the psychotherapy room.

All written through a highly sensitive lens.

Enter Sensitive Enough Movement

I recently did some tidying on my website, on my About page, and also in my own mind around what Sensitive Enough Movement has become.

What began as a dedicated part of this publication has now become its central focus.

Sensitive Enough Movement is the most lived, most needed expression of what I create here right now. It exists for highly sensitive women who deserve to be supported, understood, and healed in ways that hold their sensitivity at the center, not treat it as something to work around.

This focus comes directly from my lived experience. I am not writing from a distance. I am still living these questions daily, still meeting the reality of sensitivity in healing spaces, in movement, in symptoms, in care, and in the relationship with the body.

It only makes sense to keep sharing with you the topics that are very specific and also very much needed for all of us who perceive the world around us and ourselves deeply.

That is why The Movement (as I like to call it) now stands more clearly at the center of my publication.

I help highly sensitive women understand their sensitivity-driven body patterns, so they can feel at peace in their own skin.

I can already feel that The Movement has grown into a much-needed pillar of this publication, making space for conversations and realities that are still too often missing in healing spaces.

Inside it, I am exploring topics such as healing methods that truly respect sensitivity, the role of emotional safety in recovery, movement that does not pressure or override the body, rest that genuinely restores, the limits of healing spaces that do not understand high sensitivity, and the kind of support a sensitive woman may actually need when her body is asking for something deeper.

I will continue sharing my concrete lived experiences, and the ways I care for and work with my mind and body. My next topics will include women’s health, pregnancy-related struggles, and the role of doctors and therapists. I will also keep bringing attention to lesser-known but deeply effective healing approaches, and to the ways we can move, relate to ourselves, and communicate with ourselves and the people supporting us, sensitively enough.

There is a great deal I want to build here.

And it will all continue to be created for you, my reader, through a highly sensitive lens.

More Than Enough, my main publication, remains the anchor.

It is still the wider home for my writing, and I am not leaving behind the freedom to write across more than one area of life. But right now, I am giving the most energy to the part that feels most necessary.

You will still receive 1–2 free posts each month, and if you join us as a paid subscriber, 2 posts per month focused on the topics that belong inside Sensitive Enough Movement. You can expect writing connected to holistic health through the lens of high sensitivity, with a loving mother’s touch.

This is where The Movement is moving now.

And I am glad you are here for it.

And if you want to help build a world in which highly sensitive people receive the attuned care we deserve, we will be very glad to welcome you inside.

Enter Sensitive Enough Movement

The Movement already holds the kind of writing this space was created for.

If you want to step inside, you can continue with these pieces:

If this speaks to you, sharing and restacking it helps The Movement reach the women who may need it too.

Share

If you are wondering whether this space is for you, feel free to message me.

It is crying. It is overworked. It is tired of carrying too much.

Now imagine someone comes close, kneels down, wraps it in warmth, brings it tea, touches it gently, and says: you do not have to fight right now.

Then imagine the other version. It is poked, pressed, corrected, pushed, examined, moved around, told to perform better, and left alone on a cold floor.

What would make you feel more comfortable?

This piece is about one small piece of the puzzle when it comes to chronic back pain. You can often provide it to yourself. But it is also part of a more compassionate approach to yourself. The bigger picture is a mindset shift: your body is here for you, doing its best, and deserving love and kindness.

This is a true path towards healing. And it goes far beyond back pain.

Gentle Connection With The Pain

I had heard the warnings, of course. Cover your neck if it is prone to getting stiff. Do not expose your lower back or hips to the wind. Stay covered. But those were precautions against cold. No one was really talking about warmth itself, as support, as relief, as something that could soften chronic pain right away.

In my life and writing, I speak a lot about the deeper layers behind chronic symptoms. The burdens we carry in our bodies and minds, sometimes inherited from previous generations. The kind of pressure that grows where there was not enough safety, enough attunement, enough healthy attachment. And for us highly sensitive women, there is often another layer too: living in systems with a long history of ignoring our nervous system needs in almost every area of life. So no, I am not saying chronic back pain disappears because you press warmth onto the aching spot. But I am saying this: warmth can ease the pain beautifully, and effectively.

Many of you on a long healing journey already know that pain does not vanish just because you finally understand it more deeply.

It is not only posture. It is not only incorrect movement habits. It is not only the visible mechanics.

Pain has its own waves. Sometimes it rises even when you are healing. Even when you are listening better. Even when you are no longer living in the same patterns that once fed it.

So yes, you may be on the right path, and your back can still hurt. Maybe less often. Maybe less intensely. Maybe you catch it sooner now, before it takes over completely. Maybe you can already hear what it is trying to say. But it is still there in some form. And that is exactly where warmth changed so much for me.

My daughter just told her daddy:

“Mommy is writing about how she sleeps in her socks.”

And honestly, she is not entirely wrong.

I am not writing about befriending sauna as an HSP because I ran out of things to say. I am writing about it because I genuinely feel what even a few minutes in a heated room can do for my back.

For two decades, while searching for relief, I kept hearing versions of the same advice: massage it, pull it, push through it, work the painful spots harder. Across specialties, the language repeated itself.

Yet almost no one told me to love the painful area. To soften around it. To ask what it needs. To cover it with warmth and safety.

What are we supposed to be, machines?

Why are we treated like someone who simply needs to endure more, when our bodies are asking for tenderness?

Even as a twelve-year-old with debilitating knee pain, after brutally training more than thirty hours a week in a cold gym, I was given electromagnetic treatment instead of rest and warmth. That memory stays with me. It says so much about the world many of us were shaped in. A world that keeps teaching hardness. More discipline. More repetition. More pushing through. More rigidity, even when the body is already in distress.

That logic is not made for a sensitive woman in pain. Honestly, I do not think it is made for any body in pain. When your back hurts from bending, the answer is not always to bend it more. Sometimes the answer is to leave it alone and make it comfortable, like a dear guest in your home.

I have tried the opposite direction:

Cold showers. Cold lake plunges. Standing barefoot on cold ground first thing in the morning.

And only because I tried them can I say clearly now that none of it is for me.

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Hello, my dear sensitive reader,

I hope today you arrived with a hunger for information and a desire to be able to help yourself in whatever therapeutic settings you might be.

In the previous piece I described how I found my way to a psychosomatic clinic and what psychotherapy there actually looked like.

Now I want to show you what happened once the therapy really began.

What I brought into it, how I approached it, and what it gradually changed in my relationship with my body and why the way you show up in therapy can make a real difference in what it gives you.

I Knew My Ground

It is important to mention that before starting this therapy I had already gathered some knowledge about trauma and the importance of childhood experiences. Motherhood itself pushed me directly toward these questions. As a parent, I was standing on firm ground built on respect, gentleness, and physical closeness with my child. I was also very aware of high sensitivity.

For the first time in my life, this was not about passively receiving information or treatment from someone else. Instead, it became a safe space where I could begin to learn to listen to my own thoughts, interpret my emotions, feel my body, and try to understand what my pain (physical and emotional) was actually trying to tell me.

Because I am highly sensitive, pushing pain away with pressure (essentially more pain) was too much for my nervous system and definitely did not have a healing effect. My previous article about the positive effect of craniosacral biodynamics:

Instead, I slowly began to distinguish between different kinds of pain, talk about them with my therapist, and respond to them with more understanding and acceptance.

No Time to Lose… Or?

During therapy sessions I tried to use the time as fully as possible and discussed everything that was on my list. At first I arrived prepared and wanted to talk through everything that was happening in my life.

I know many people begin therapy only when their symptoms become so severe that they can no longer continue their normal lives.

That was not my case.

I went to psychotherapy enthusiastic and prepared. I knew what I wanted to talk about, and over time I even adjusted the form of the therapy according to my own needs. Gradually, I calmed down and allowed topics to arise naturally during the session.

But first I had to go through a period where I needed to talk everything out. This sometimes meant that after one hour of therapy I felt exhausted. There was tension left in me after the intensity of my talking. But I was happy that I was able to express myself safely. It all had to come out. My therapist was there listening, and from time to time she asked questions that made me think more deeply about my motives.

After a period of intense talking in therapy, something interesting happened. I began to feel the need for silence. My therapist mentioned that something like silence therapy exists and encouraged me to adapt the sessions to my needs. So we reserved part of the session simply for being quiet. I asked my therapist to time about ten minutes, and during that time I simply sat and looked around the room.

This had an unexpected effect. Not only did I rest, but often new thoughts appeared afterward that were worth exploring together. Sometimes it helped ideas and emotions settle, and I could see things more clearly. It definitely brought me rest.

This small practice later became important for me even outside therapy. It eventually helped me bring silence and solitude into my everyday life. After some initial struggles, it became a healing tool and an important part of my lifestyle.

Learning to Listen to My Body

Another important part of my therapy was learning to describe my pain. I always clearly specified what hurt, where it hurt, and when it appeared. Putting these sensations into words gradually helped me become much more aware of my body and its signals.

Sometimes when you give words to pain, a spark of understanding appears.

For example, I once noticed a kind of pain that seemed to run through my entire back body, from my heels all the way to my forehead. While describing it to my therapist, I realized that this pain was trying to make me smaller, almost curled inward. Understanding that led me to another realization: I was overusing my body. It simply did not have the capacity for the demands my life was placing on it.

At the same time, this process led me toward writing. For me, spoken and written words became incredibly important tools for self-understanding, releasing tension, and searching for the right path.

There was also something else that helped me hold the therapy experience. I connected my visits to the clinic with a small ritual. Right next to the entrance there was a bakery, and after every session I rewarded myself with an incredibly good chocolate–curd cake. I also walked to the clinic and back home. The walk helped me arrive more calmly, and afterward it helped me clear my head after the emotional effort of the session.

My therapist maintained a clear professional distance. I knew almost nothing about her personal life during those two years. Although part of me would naturally have liked to know more, I understand today that this boundary was an important part of the therapeutic setting.

What Was Missing?

What talking therapy gave me through conversation was extremely valuable. It helped me understand an incredible number of things about myself and about the way my body responds to emotional pressure. It also helped me with the physical pains I originally came with, unlike the physiotherapy at the beginning.

It became an inseparable part of my healing journey.

But over time another realization slowly appeared. It did not happen suddenly. It appeared gradually during the sessions themselves. The more I understood my own patterns, my body, and my sensitivity, the more clearly I could also see the limits of what this particular therapeutic setting could offer me.

For readers who are exploring therapy themselves or who are already in therapy but feel that something is still missing, the next part may be particularly useful. I describe what psychotherapy could give me, what it could not give me, and what additional elements I believe many highly sensitive people may eventually need in their healing process.

If reading the paid section would be helpful for you but payment is difficult at the moment, feel free to DM me.

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What happens in a psychotherapy room?

What do people actually talk about there?

And can conversation really change what is happening in the body?

From the outside, therapy can feel like a private territory that we shouldn’t ask about. Especially for highly sensitive and empathetic people, it can feel intrusive to ask someone about their healing process.

But then a question naturally appears: how are we supposed to know what might help us, if nobody ever describes the experience?

In Sensitive Enough Movement I often write about different forms of therapy and healing practices. I do this not only to make these spaces less mysterious, but also to reflect honestly on what works and what does not. I also write about them through the lens of high sensitivity which is something that is still surprisingly absent in many therapeutic settings.

I am aware that readers arrive here with very different levels of familiarity with therapy. Here on Substack it sometimes feels as if everyone is already deeply immersed in somatic work, energetic healing, or many different forms of alternative therapy. In everyday life, however, I rarely meet people who actually attend psychotherapy regularly or openly talk about what the experience looks like.

In this two-part piece I will focus specifically on psychotherapy — the form of therapy based primarily on conversation, often called talk therapy. It was something I experienced at a psychosomatic clinic, and the path that led me there might be useful for some of you as well.

Sensitive Enough Movement is written mainly for highly sensitive women who live with recurring physical or emotional symptoms and who are trying to understand themselves more deeply. Over time I have explored many different approaches to healing, some quite specialized, others more widely known.

One experience that shaped my understanding profoundly was my time at a psychosomatic clinic.

Before describing the psychotherapy itself, I want to start with the clinic experience, because it was something quite unusual and meaningful in its own way.

What Happens at a Psychosomatic Clinic

Psychosomatics is a field of medicine and psychology that studies the relationship between psychological states and physical symptoms. It recognizes that the body and mind are closely interconnected and constantly influencing each other. Instead of treating symptoms in isolation, psychosomatic medicine attempts to look at the person as a whole including emotional, relational, and psychological factors that may contribute to physical difficulties. My first article about psychosomatics can be found here:

I discovered the clinic almost by accident while searching online. It happened to be in the city where I live, not far from my home. At the time it felt like coincidence. Looking back, it feels more like one of those moments when you become ready for something and the right opportunity suddenly appears.

At the clinic I described my life and the symptoms that had been accompanying me for a long time. For readers who may be encountering my writing for the first time, I describe these recurring symptoms in more detail here:

The clinic took my physical complaints seriously. I underwent neurological examinations and an X-ray of my entire spine, and physiotherapy was prescribed as well.

For the first time, a medical authority openly acknowledged something that felt very important to me: that the physical pain I was describing might be closely connected to my mental and emotional state. All my examinations showed no structural physical issues, and I was placed on the waiting list for a psychotherapist.

Most of this care was even covered by my health insurance, which felt like a surprisingly supportive experience compared with some of my earlier medical encounters.

Working With the Body: Physiotherapy

The physiotherapy itself, however, did not bring the relief we had hoped for. The physiotherapist was kind and attentive, and we had many topics in common. Yet professionally she simply did not know how to work with my body. As had happened many times before, I was able to perform all the exercises without difficulty and stretch in every direction required. The problem was not the exercises themselves. The problem was that the pain remained.

By that time I had already learned to recognize the early signals of my neck pain and prevent the worst episodes. Ever since my experience with acupressure, I had been able to sense when the tension in my neck was building and intervene before it reached its most severe stage.

Still, the pain never truly disappeared. Instead it seemed to move through my body, appearing in different places at different times. This “wandering” of pain reminded me of something else I had experienced before — my rare skin condition, ichthyosis, which also seemed to move across different parts of my body over the years.

At that time the most persistent pain lived in my right shoulder and in the lower part of my back and pelvis.

After several physiotherapy sessions that felt completely ineffective for my body, I found myself mostly waiting for one thing: being assigned a psychotherapist.

The Role of a Therapist

In my writing I often return to the role of the therapeutic relationship, especially for highly sensitive people. Healing requires a level of safety that allows the nervous system to soften and become open to change. For that reason I have come to believe that for highly sensitive individuals the relationship with the therapist often matters even more than the specific therapeutic method itself.

Ideally, sensitivity should not be an afterthought in the healing process. It should be one of its central points.

Over the years I have encountered many different combinations: a good therapist with a helpful method, a good therapist with an insufficient method, and situations where neither truly worked.

The physiotherapist I met at the clinic was an example of a warm and supportive relationship paired with an approach that simply did not meet the needs of my highly sensitive body.

Psychotherapy, however, especially psychotherapy within the psychosomatic setting, brought a very different experience.

Working Through Language: Psychotherapy

Psychotherapy in general is a form of treatment that focuses on emotional, psychological, and behavioral patterns. Through structured conversations and various psychological approaches, it helps people better understand their feelings, thoughts, and reactions. The goal is not only to reduce distress but also to improve overall well-being and quality of life.

In my case the psychotherapy offered at the clinic was individual psychodynamically oriented therapy. The sessions were based mainly on open conversation and exploration. Rather than following a strict structure or using specific exercises, the aim was to understand the connections between my physical symptoms, emotional experiences, and the relational patterns in my life.

Each week I came for a one-hour session. We spoke about what was currently unfolding in my life, about relationships, inner tensions, and situations that triggered emotional responses. Because I had originally come to the clinic with physical complaints, I also spoke often about the sensations in my body and the symptoms I was experiencing. Sometimes the therapist would ask where exactly in my body I felt a certain emotion or tension.

The therapy itself did not include specific body-based exercises or techniques for releasing these sensations. Instead the work focused on gradually naming and understanding the connections between emotional life and bodily experience. This approach assumes that physical symptoms, emotions, and life experiences are closely intertwined, and that bringing these connections into awareness can lead to a deeper understanding of oneself.

I attended therapy for about two years — first year and a half weekly, and later every two weeks, by mutual agreement.

This process was not about passively receiving advice. It was about creating a safe space where I could express everything openly and explore what my pain might be trying to communicate. Through this relationship and my own active approach, I was able to better understand my mind, my body, and my symptoms much more deeply than through any medical examination I had experienced before. Psychotherapy became an important part of my healing journey. But over time another realization slowly appeared.

Understanding myself and actually healing were not the same thing.

For my highly sensitive nervous system, talking was powerful but it was not the whole answer.

Psychotherapy can be a powerful place.

But the way you enter it and the way you participate in it can change everything.

In the next piece, I share how I approached my therapy sessions, what they truly helped heal, and what they opened for me in the process. I also reflect on how this kind of therapy can be most supportive for highly sensitive people.

And you may discover something many of us eventually do: talking therapy can open the door to healing, but sometimes the body asks for more.

I do this ritual quite often, and it brings me quiet and peace. Sauna has become my happy place. I can relax for two hours, enjoy myself, and just breathe. Going in the morning to a public sauna gives me a private feeling.

I lie on my back or my side in this happy, almost-dark space. Dim lights. Sometimes gentle meditative music. The warm rumble of the heater. Many times I am alone. I can be with my own thoughts and let my body soften into the heat. And I am even sweating, wow. Even my legs!

Sometimes I get into a state where I really sync with the heat and humidity, and I can stay there for a long time, unless my body starts complaining about the still not-so-comfy wooden slatted sauna bench, the kind most Finnish-style saunas have. At least my head is now supported with a towel.

After I step out and rinse the heat off, I snuggle into my pink bathrobe, hide my legs in a towel, and lie down on a (this time actually) comfortable lounger in the resting room. It is dim again. There is quiet, maybe soft background music. I can be alone with my thoughts and feelings, warm and safe, drinking water with mineral drops.

And once I feel even cozier, I go back to my favorite tropical sauna again. It feels so good to be there. It does not matter how long I am inside, or how long I am outside in the quiet resting room. I do it by feel. It gives me the sense of a safe space.

I can go so deeply into my own experience that I do not mind other people around. With my wired-differently eyesight, I cannot tell a man from a woman in that darkness without my glasses anyway. Sometimes I go with girlfriends and we have a hard time not breaking the silence rule because we always have so much to talk about. That is when my sauna ritual becomes social. Even then, it still gives me warm, relaxing time.

Sauna used to be sensory hell for me. Now it is one of the most regulating places I know, because I stopped following generic rules and started following my body.

Rewind to Last Year

If you rewind my life back until last year, you get a completely different situation.

I would go to the sauna because it was “nice” and it was supposed to mean relaxation. I had to go with someone because I do not see a thing without my glasses on, so I needed someone to make sure I would not sit on someone else’s lap (Friends reference intended). And I needed someone to tell me how many more minutes to stay, based on the little sandglasses on the wall.

No matter what type of sauna I entered, my face immediately burned and I could not breathe properly. Sweating? No way, just overheating and burning. And I never understood the hard, straight surface I had to “rest” my body on. It felt designed for the shortest stay possible. After only a few minutes I would escape dizzy, my head spinning for a long time in the resting room. And the cold pool? I know it should be part of it, but the reality felt impossible.

Both versions are lived experiences of a highly sensitive woman. The difference is not willpower. The difference is customization.

What Made Sauna Finally Click

The last time I was in the sauna, I caught myself thinking about how many positives it brings me now, and how I could write about it in a way that suits highly sensitive people. It can be so soothing and calming in there. It has become genuinely supportive for me.

So I researched it. For my topics there is usually very little research, and sauna for HSPs is no exception. Still, I want to share what I have, plus what my own body has taught me, especially about personalizing sauna based on sensory needs and cycle phases. Because I know how uncomfortable it can feel but also how soothing and relaxing it can actually become.

This is for you who think they don’t like it.

For you who has chronic back pain.

For you who needs quiet rest in the dark place.

For you who wants to passively become healthier, more relaxed, improve your circulation, be with your own thoughts and be fully present with your body.

Sauna for HSPs: A Good Idea or a Sensory Trap?

Here is the honest answer. It depends on the variables.

What can work beautifully for an HSP:

• low sensory load, dim light, quiet, predictable environment

• eyes closed, fewer social demands

• built-in recovery time in the resting room

• warmth when you are cold and braced

• a ritual that gives your nervous system a clear boundary around rest

What can go wrong fast:

• heat that is too intense for your body that day

• too many people, too much proximity

• hard flat surfaces

• steam that feels heavy, or dry heat that feels sharp

• staying too long and leaving too quickly, which can lead to dizziness

• the hot-to-cold contrast, which can be too much for sensitive bodies

I get it. A lot of these things are hard for many people too, and for highly sensitive ones this can turn into a nightmare fast. My view is simple. Once I found my ideal sauna style, I stopped feeling like I had to “tolerate” it.

For me, that ideal is around 50 to 60°C with moderate humidity, around 50 to 60%. I also learned how long I can stay, and that number changes. It depends on my cycle day, my overall state, the weather outside, and how sensitive my nervous system feels that day.

Originally, I could not imagine myself alone in a sauna full of strangers without my glasses. My body refused to sweat, so my face and limbs were just on fire. Cold water was out of the question.

Now I have a rhythm.

The Rhythm That Works

I choose the kind of heat that feels gentler for my body, and I let the environment do some of the regulating for me. When I can, I go in the morning, when it is quieter and the whole space feels less like a performance. I also accept that my sauna experience is sensory, not social. Some days I want quiet. Some days I bring friends and we try very hard to whisper less.

Before I go in, I dry brush. It marks the shift into the ritual and helps my body feel “on board” with what is coming. It helps wake up my skin and my circulation, and I start sweating more easily. Once I am inside, I lie down. It is much better for my head to not get overheated. I keep moving between positions, on my back and on my side, and I check in with myself often. Can I still breathe easily? Does the heat feel nourishing, or does it feel sharp? Am I starting to feel comfortable or the opposite? Am I able to focus on anything else than my physical experience? I have learned that my body gives me a clear answer long before dizziness or overheating shows up.

When I am ready to leave, I sit up first. I give my system a moment to catch up with the change, especially because I used to rush out and wonder why the spinning started. After the heat, I rest. I drink mineral water. The shower temperature is something I decide in the moment. The cold pool is optional. Some days it feels amazing. Some days it is simply too much. And everytime it is just a few seconds for me: in and straight out, my head above the water surface.

This is what changed everything for me. I stopped trying to do sauna “the right way.” I found my own way and a few small rituals that make it genuinely pleasant.

Cycle as a Variable

There is not much solid data on sauna timing across the menstrual cycle, at least not in a way that feels practical for everyday life. So I will share this as my personal pattern, not a prescription.

During my menstrual phase, I skip sauna. In the follicular phase after menstruation, and often around ovulation, I tolerate heat more easily. In the luteal phase, especially with PMS, heat can feel intense and overwhelming, so I shorten the whole ritual or skip it. That is not a failure. Not a contest. That is information.

My cycle is one of my main variables, along with sleep, stress, mood, weather, and how porous my nervous system feels that day. Listening to that has made sauna feel supportive instead of punishing.

What the Research Suggests

Even though there is very little written specifically for highly sensitive people, sauna research in general is surprisingly rich. The big studies tend to come from Finland, where sauna is part of the culture, and many of them link regular sauna bathing with better long-term health outcomes. The language is careful because a lot of this research is observational, but the patterns are still interesting. More frequent sauna use has been associated with lower cardiovascular risk and lower overall mortality in large cohorts, and some research has also linked sauna habits with lower dementia and Alzheimer’s risk in the populations studied. Beyond the long-term associations, there are also studies on passive heat exposure that suggest improvements in blood pressure and vascular function for some groups, which makes sense when you think about what heat does to circulation.

There are also links, in observational research, between sauna habits and lower risk of certain respiratory illnesses over time, which matches the everyday stories many regulars share about getting sick less. On the pain side, heat is a classic ally for things like low back pain. Even menstrual pain has a relationship to heat therapy in clinical research, although those trials often use localized heat rather than a whole sauna session.

Warmth can downshift stress, soften pain, and support sleep for many people. For some bodies, warmth regulates more easily than cold. I hear this a lot from other women.

The One Thing I Still Complain About

One con I still struggle with is the uncomfortable surface of many saunas. My body is highly sensitive when it lies or sits for even a few minutes on almost any surface without movement. Those wooden slats can feel like a sensory test I did not sign up for.

Why can’t saunas have the kind of loungers some spa resting areas have? The ergonomic, wave-shaped heated loungers, often finished in mosaic tile, gently contoured so your neck is supported, your legs are elevated, and your body can truly rest without bracing.

Maybe one day I will find a sauna designed by someone with a sensitive nervous system.

Following Your Body Changes Everything

I know sauna can feel like a sanctuary for one person and a sensory overload for another. Even for the same person, it can change week to week. Type of sauna, temperature, humidity, company, cycle phase, how you slept, how much you have been holding all day. It all matters.

For me, the win was learning the settings where my body can exhale. And once that happened, sauna stopped being a challenge and became a place I return to when I want to feel safe and warm again.

I would love to hear how sauna feels for you, and whether you have any little hacks that make it a good experience.

Resources

https://jamanetwork.com/journals/jamainternalmedicine/fullarticle/2130724

https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC5023696/

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/28905164/

https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC7713799/

https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/11239634/

https://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/22423982.2024.2419698

In order to keep you on track, I want to explain why I’m on this search for movement that is actually sensitive enough (Sensitive Enough Movement is a special dedicated part of my publication), what it means, how far along I am, and most importantly, what this can bring to you.

After all these years of exercising and using the body in various spaces, for fun, for healing, against pain, I’m in a period when I don’t exercise in any structured way at all. I also feel no pain.

Bear with me, I am definitely not the lazy type living an unhealthy lifestyle. I just realized something I believe is worth sharing with my sensitive ladies who are tired but still show up on that mat or in the gym because they believe it is the healthy choice. With all the good girls who go to the chiropractor and do the exercises regularly at home. With women who were forced to perform at an early age. And we are entering the thin layer between physical and emotional pressure.

My case was extreme. I was brutally trained as a young rhythmic gymnast by a Russian coach. You can catch a glimpse here:

No one would survive that easily, but a highly sensitive girl lives with the damage for the rest of her life. And still, the way I saw sport and movement after this experience was not negative. The other way around, I was so used to performing with my body whatever I pleased that I was successful in all types of dancing. I could do things in the gym no one else could. I was physically strong. I was able to learn new types of movements and keep my body in great shape (when you looked from the outside). I was open to trying various sports that brought me joy, kept me with my friends, and during all those twenty-something years I thought I had to move in some way anyway, so I thought I was doing the right thing.

More or less, I was forced to keep moving with a physiotherapist, and to enter the world of healing through acupuncture, acupressure, pilates, yoga, and a few others, because my body was hurting. From the age of 13, I was in musculoskeletal pain that I believed I would get rid of by exercising the “proper way.” You can read about my life journey with movement here:

Most of the experts I saw told me I was experiencing this because of gymnastics, and that it wouldn’t get much better. They were right about one of the root causes of my pain, and completely wrong about what healing could look like.

That’s why my story applies to many: many of us can find hidden reasons behind our pain and respond to what our bodies actually need, with a real healing effect.

Here Are My Findings

Mainly, no regular exercise of anything, yes, I said it.

Yes, there are also those among us who were forced, or who force themselves, to often undergo some form of exercise as proof. Proof of a healthy lifestyle, or that they still have it, or youth, or the ability to follow rules. But definitely no tired sensitive women, and not even those who do not have a negative movement background like me, should force themselves into anything.

Even though movement is important and it can be done in a healthy way (finding what and how is truly healthy for our specific bodies and mental health is not easy at all nowadays), it should not be done for these reasons. From joy is fine, sometimes also from anger or frustration. Under the recent movement toward rest and listening to the cyclicality of women that I see online, it only makes sense to stop being hard on yourself. Compassion, listening to the signals, knowing your body and loving yourself is the way toward a healthy life.

The Rooms Where We Learn to Disconnect

The straight, intuitive way into healthy movement was blocked for me early on. And I don’t think I’m the only one. I think many of us lost that natural relationship to movement in different rooms, for different reasons. In school gym class, where we were expected to perform things our bodies couldn’t do, and were corrected or judged for it. In childhood sports, where talent quickly became a system, and joy became training. In families where someone hoped we would become a professional athlete, and we learned early what it meant to disappoint.

It’s possible my body and my mind learned to survive extreme pressure by splitting into two roles. During gymnastics, my body was under intense expectations and physical force. It resisted, because it didn’t want that load. But I was also in a kind of threat, and I adapted the only way I could: my mind took over. My mind learned to function not only with the body, but often instead of it. That’s why I still struggle to “get into” my body. I analyze everything. And I know that comes from more than one life experience, but this is a big piece of it.

And I want to name something important: my mind kept me safe. With my mind, I could withstand the coach’s pressure. I could behave and move according to what was demanded of me. I’m deeply grateful to my mind for carrying me through the hardest parts of my childhood.

Only now, about 25 years later, am I beginning to see what kind of damage that adaptation left behind. And only after long years of healing am I able to connect these dots. So what do I do with it now? I keep returning to one thing: safety.On a physical level, and on a psychological level, I keep reminding my system that now is not then.

And I’ll be honest, this can feel lonely. I don’t know if there’s someone out there who has lived something similar and can see it clearly from above. I’m trying to write for you, but I don’t always know if anyone will recognize themselves in this. I just know I can’t pretend it isn’t real.

I’m starting to believe that this kind of split, or disconnect, can be created in more places than an extreme sports environment. Not because the details are the same, but because the mechanism can be similar: the body resists, the body signals, the body does not want it, and the mind learns to override it, because overriding becomes the price of being safe, being accepted, being good.

It makes me wonder how many of us learned this same split in different rooms. In classrooms where performance mattered more than presence. In families where being the good girl meant pushing through, being responsible, being composed, not causing trouble, not needing too much, not feeling too much. There are so many ways a sensitive body can learn that its truth is inconvenient, and so the mind steps in as the one who manages everything.

What Movement Looks Like for Me Now

As I said at the beginning, I am not performing any kind of “known” exercise that I can name. This does not mean that I am not moving at all, or that I’ve abandoned my body in the difficult situation it grew into.

Behind the paywall, I share what sensitive movement looks like for me in my daily life, and how I care for my body in a way that has brought me the most pain-free season I’ve had since childhood. You’ll see how rest fits into it, and how I respond when pain tries to return.

It is an inspiration for you to discover what really suits you, not to follow any kind of routine created without your sensitivity and your specific situation at the center.

If you feel you truly need this and can’t access the paid section, message me and we’ll find a way.

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In the first part of this two-part story, I shared my long relationship with a chronic skin condition that appeared in early puberty and stayed with me for nearly twenty years. From the outside, it was labeled genetic, incurable, and manageable only through creams and sea water. From the inside, it was lived as tightness, exposure, constant adaptation, and learning how to live with constant discomfort of my already highly sensitive body.

In this part, I want to explore what didn’t fit into the medical explanation. What changed when my environment changed. What happened when my nervous system stopped being on constant alert. And why the skin, of all places, was where my body held the line for so long.

External Help, External Relief

Over time, after long struggles and uncomfortable sensations, I found treatment through water baths combined with “artificial sun.” These kinds of baths can be done through insurance (under the use of a different similar official diagnosis) once a year, you have to commute there daily, and in warm water you turn in circles. It was my happy place. It prepared my skin for summer and I didn’t peel nearly as intensely during the time when the body is more exposed. And I repeated this for several years, through my whole university period and also during two consecutive jobs. It helped, but only from the outside.

And not a single doctor who saw me even accidentally searched for the cause. Everyone stoically accepted my state, and I accepted it with them.

What Actually Helped Me

And you might be asking: what truly helped me? From the outside, I could lazily say: it came the way it came, and it left the way it left. Today, with my experiences and psychosomatic understanding, I know nothing happens “just because.” It’s a bit of a mystery and a bit of multiple causes. A life change in the form of moving, which I believe started the process and led to the gradual disappearance of this skin condition, and a holistic approach of a therapist who practiced, among other things, craniosacral biodynamics.

In psychosomatic and integrative medicine, the skin is understood as more than a physical barrier. It is the body’s largest sensory organ and develops from the same embryological layer as the nervous system. Because of this shared origin, skin and nervous system remain closely interconnected throughout life. This connection is well documented in psychodermatology, a field that studies how psychological states, stress, and nervous system regulation influence skin conditions. Stress can alter immune responses in the skin, disrupt the skin barrier, increase inflammation, and intensify sensations like itching, burning, or tightness. In turn, persistent skin symptoms can increase stress, creating a self-reinforcing loop. From a psychosomatic perspective, skin is often described as a boundary organ: it mediates contact between the inner world and the outer environment. When the nervous system is under long-term strain — emotional overload, lack of safety, chronic adaptation, or suppressed expression — the skin can become one of the places where that strain manifests physically.

In this framework, improvement does not always come showy or suddenly. It can appear gradually, alongside changes in environment, pace of life, emotional load, or the quality of support a person receives. When the nervous system no longer needs to stay on high alert, the skin may slowly regain its ability to regulate, repair, and protect without excessive signaling.

What I’m Sharing Behind the Paywall

Below is the part where I share my own conclusions and the steps, both conscious and unconscious, that helped my skin heal. The story becomes less about skin, and more about what my body was living through.

This can encourage you to understand your own body more deeply and lead towards healing.

If you feel you truly need this and can’t access the paid section, message me and we’ll find a way.

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This post lands in your inbox as a two-part story. This piece is the first part. What you’re about to read is my personal experience of living with a visible chronic skin condition that followed me through adolescence and into adulthood. I’m sharing it openly this time, without a paywall. Years ago, while I was lying comfortably on a treatment table, wrapped in warmth, my holistic cosmetician said something that stayed with me and supported my decision to write: that by sharing my own story, I could help other people living with similar conditions.

In the second part, I’ll explore what changed beneath the surface and how my skin became healthy again, despite the condition being considered incurable. For now, this is the story as it was lived.

When It Began

From around the same age when my chronic neck pain started (around 13–14, maybe a little earlier), my skin on my body also started to become extremely dry. A dermatologist told me it was ichthyosis. It’s a rather specifically “drawn” skin pattern, a kind of texture you can recognize.

Ichthyosis vulgaris: it often appears during childhood, causes dry, scaly skin especially on the trunk, arms, and legs, and is caused by genetic mutations that affect normal skin function, specifically the process of forming and shedding dead skin cells. Most forms of ichthyosis are hereditary. It is a chronic condition that cannot be fully cured, but its symptoms can be alleviated.

Mine showed up at the beginning of puberty. The doctor immediately asked who else in the family had it or had it too. Of course, nobody. At most someone had dry legs, but nobody had a clearly scaly, very visible, relatively large part of the body affected. On top of that, the extreme dryness and scaliness moved around my body. So if someone else in our family had it, it would definitely not have been something you could miss.

Living Inside It

For me, this condition meant a frequent feeling of tightness in the skin. It was very noticeable when the worst “centers” were right on my back. A simple action like putting on shoes would stretch my back uncomfortably, and it would feel itchy, or simply like my skin was smaller than it should be. On my shins the pattern was the strongest and almost constant, so if I wanted to wear a skirt or shorts, my legs literally looked like they were covered in fish scales. At home I often passed time by peeling these scales off. Of course, huge amounts of dead skin stayed everywhere, inside clothes, in bed, and in general it increased the dustiness of any space. For a long time I also had visible signs on my arms. My neck and chest were so dry that I couldn’t imagine wearing necklaces or anything similar, because it physically rubbed my skin and made the dryness more noticeable and more unpleasant. For most of my life I couldn’t imagine taking a shower and then not putting on cream. The sensation was intense tightness and it genuinely made movement unpleasant. So I was constantly forced to search for, and keep nearby, creams that would ease the tightness and itching. I was literally dependent on them. Everything got worse in cold months when I had to dress and undress more, and the friction of fabric against my skin made it visibly more scaly again. When I had a chance to go to the sea in summer, it could noticeably “heal” the symptoms, but first it would get worse. Meaning, the top layer of skin had to fully renew itself into a healthier, nicer, more comfortable version. I would say my skin with this condition was much more sensitive than skin is “supposed” to be. And on top of that, add the fact that I am highly sensitive, both to what I feel and to how I look. I was lucky that the scaling didn’t show up on my face or hands. There I “only” had very dry skin that I had to care for specially. But at least I could dress fully, cover myself, and the rest, once creamed, looked normal.

When Medicine Stops at Creams

What’s interesting again is the doctors’ approach. A relatively rare condition comes to them (I know it’s rare because almost everyone was nearly excited that they could see ichthyosis in real life), they see that it physically stigmatizes a girl in adolescence, and the treatment was not covered by health insurance in the countries where I lived. They prescribe a pharmacy cream with questionable ingredients and send me home. A common “recommendation” was also to move to the sea shore.

Adolescence is a period when the body becomes highly visible — to others and to oneself. Developmental psychology shows that during puberty, appearance becomes tightly linked to identity, belonging, and perceived worth. Any visible difference, especially one that cannot be easily hidden or “fixed,” can lead to a heightened sense of exposure. Chronic or visible skin conditions during puberty often carry a quiet but persistent stigma. Even when they are not openly commented on, they can shape how a person moves through the world: how they choose clothing, how comfortable they feel in changing rooms, swimming pools, intimacy, or being looked at. Research and patient reports consistently show that young people with visible skin conditions experience increased self-consciousness, shame, social withdrawal, and hypervigilance about how their bodies are perceived even when peers are not explicitly unkind. What makes skin-related stigma particularly complex is that it sits at the boundary between “medical” and “aesthetic.” The condition may not be severe enough to receive sustained medical attention, yet it is visible enough to affect daily life. This can leave adolescents feeling invalidated: not sick enough to be cared for, but different enough to feel excluded. Over time, many learn to adapt silently rather than ask for support, normalizing discomfort as something to endure. This is especially impactful for highly sensitive individuals, who tend to process social cues, bodily sensations, and emotional responses more deeply. For us, physical discomfort and perceived social exposure are not separate experiences, but layered and mutually reinforcing.

When I describe it like this after so long, I surprise myself that I was even able to form intimate relationships. But nobody got actually scared and ran away.

Next: What Changed Underneath

And about the “incurable” part of this condition in my case: when I was pregnant and had genetic tests because of it (there was a small chance I could have a child with a severe form of ichthyosis), all the doctors kept asking me where my ichthyosis was, and I told them: it left me. :) This condition stayed with me for almost 20 years.

In the next part, I’ll write about what safety actually meant in my body and why the skin was the place where everything showed up first. And most importantly, I want to show you what healed my skin, even though I was told it wouldn’t.

Health Notice

I’m not a doctor, and nothing here is medical advice. I share lived experience for education only. For your health decisions, consult a qualified clinician you trust.

In my last piece I wrote about asana yoga, the physical yoga practice, and what it can do for a sensitive nervous system. Today’s topic is my top practice for mornings, evenings, and sleepless nights: yoga nidra.

Yoga Nidra: rest without effort

Yoga nidra is a guided practice of deep rest, often called “yogic sleep.” You lie down, get comfortable, and follow a gentle voice that guides your attention through the body and the mind. The aim is not to “do it right,” but to drop beneath the busy surface and let the nervous system settle. Many people describe it as a state between waking and sleeping, where the body can rest deeply even if the mind is still lightly aware.

What makes yoga nidra different from many meditations is that it welcomes you exactly as you are. You can arrive tired, overstimulated, tense, sad, restless, or numb. You are not asked to sit up straight or keep your focus perfectly. You are invited to rest. Over time, this kind of rest can soften stress, calm the body, and help you feel more present again, not by effort, but by allowing the system to downshift.

It’s also why yoga nidra often overlaps with the modern term NSDR, non-sleep deep rest. The idea is simple: even a short period of guided rest can reset your inner state, the way a small pause can change the entire rhythm of a day. Yoga nidra also seems to do more than soothe. Research on yoga nidra and NSDR-style deep rest suggests it can support things like attention and even learning and memory performance, which makes sense to me: when my system finally downshifts, my mind works differently too.

A different kind of healing

Behind the paywall, I share how yoga nidra looks in my real life, why it’s especially supportive for highly sensitive women learning to rest, how it can actually change the course of your day and why it became one of my most reliable anchors for sleep, energy, and emotional balance.

Read more

Today I want to share some thoughts about safety. The kind of safety everyone talks about. The kind we’re told we should find within ourselves so we can calm our nervous systems.

Very often we hear that to bloom, make grounded decisions, enjoy life, and heal, we need to feel safe. And so much of inner work is, in one way or another, a return to safety: feeling safe in the relationship with a therapist, feeling safe at home, telling our protective parts that we are safe now.

“I am safety for myself. I am surrounded by safety.”

I repeat versions of this often. I also write extensively about how important safety is especially for highly sensitive people to be able to heal in almost any environment. For many people on a healing journey, safety is the baseline: establishing enough safety to find, rewrite, change, or simply soften what hurts.

And still… it strikes me how hard we have to search for safety. Sometimes it feels like we lost it somewhere along the way. I even dare to say that many of us didn’t experience enough safety while growing up, at least not consistently enough to have it “wired” as something we can return to without effort.

That’s the angle I want to explore today: what helps a child grow up with a deeper, steadier sense of safety.

This isn’t a post about physical safety hazards around children. You can find plenty of information about that. This is about emotional safety, which gets discussed far less. And as you already know me, I’ll be looking through a highly sensitive lens.

Safety Starts in Relationship

When I say “emotional safety,” I don’t mean a life without frustration, disappointment, or hard moments. I mean the felt sense of: I’m not alone in this. Someone bigger and steadier has me. I can rest.

This is where Gordon Neufeld’s attachment-based approach has deeply influenced me as a parent. In Neufeld’s language, attachment isn’t a parenting trend, it’s a fundamental drive for closeness and connection, and it’s the ground from which healthy development can unfold.

And Darcia Narvaez has shaped my thinking in a similar way, especially through her focus on what early humans may have expected for optimal development: lots of warmth, touch, responsiveness, and community support.

The First Attachment: Closeness and Co-Regulation

A child needs a strong, safe attachment to at least one primary caregiver, often a parent or the person doing most of the daily care. It is about closeness, responsiveness, and repeated moments of being met.

A newborn’s nervous system is regulated through co-regulation, through an adult who offers steady presence, soothing, and a sense of “I’ve got you.” Physical closeness can be one of the most powerful ways this happens: warmth, voice, smell, eye contact, gentle touch, being held. Not the only way, but a primary way many babies feel safe enough to settle.

This is one place where Narvaez’s influence lands strongly for me. Her work has helped me take seriously the idea that early life thrives with a lot of contact, affection, and responsiveness as nourishment.

And this is where I’ll be honest about my bias as a parent. Don’t even get me started on bottles with formula versus breastfeeding, or sleep training versus co-sleeping because I have opinions, and I know how personal and charged these conversations can become. What I’m trying to say here isn’t “one right way.” It’s something more basic: when early caregiving prioritizes closeness, responsiveness, and connection—especially around stress and separation—it supports a felt sense of safety.

That’s the principle. How each family lives it will look different.

Two Harbors Are Better Than One

We can also aim to build a secure attachment with another adult in the home, often the other parent, but it can be any consistent, caring adult who is truly present in the child’s life.

Imagine being a child with not only one safe harbor, but two. Two stable adults who can nurture you and meet your needs. Two people you can rest into.

And then imagine something even rarer: those two adults living in enough harmony that the child doesn’t have to carry tension on their small shoulders.

I’m not an idealist. I know what real partnerships go through, especially in the early years of parenting. These can be some of the toughest seasons adults ever live. But when parents (or caregivers) manage to support each other and repair conflict in a healthier way, the child sees something essential: that relationships can hold strain and still return to connection.

That, too, creates safety.

The Home as a Nervous-System Nest

With this, we build a safe home, not a perfect home, but a home where the emotional climate is steady enough for a child to thrive.

This matters even more because every child is different. Some children are highly sensitive. Some are intense. Some are quiet observers. Some need more time to warm up. Some feel everything through their bodies first.

When a parent learns to see the child in front of them—who they truly are, and what their nervous system needs in this season—decisions change. We stop parenting from the pressure of what society expects and start parenting from attunement.

In that kind of home, a child can grow with more freedom to play, to explore, and to return for comfort without shame.

Sometimes it feels like a fairy tale when I write it: two stable, emotionally attuned adults in a safe home.

What kind of world would we live in if this were the norm?

The Village: Adults Who Hold the Lead

We also shape safety through the wider circle of people our child is in contact with. This might be the “village” we often talked about and often missed: grandparents, aunts, uncles, close family friends, people who know the child and can be trusted.

Yes, siblings and cousins can be wonderful. Peer relationships can be meaningful. But here’s where Neufeld’s work has been clarifying for me: children do best when caring, responsible adults “hold the lead,” and when adults matter more than peers as the main source of direction, comfort, and belonging.

That doesn’t mean peers are bad. It means peers can’t replace mature care.

When children become primarily oriented around other children for belonging and identity, it can create a subtle instability because children can’t reliably provide the steadiness children need.

Choosing Communities That Feel Safe

Of course, we don’t live only with family members in modern society. So we as parents often have to choose communities: activities, groups, schools, playground cultures, and daily routines that put our children in contact with other adults and other children.

It makes an enormous difference what kind of people our children experience, and what kind of emotional tone lives in those spaces.

A safer worldview forms when a child learns, early on: Home isn’t the only place that’s supportive. The world has pockets of warmth. Adults can be trusted. My needs won’t be mocked.

And I keep coming back to this: in any setting, a child needs at least one attached adult, someone they can rely on, someone who can help them to feel safe and regulate.

Children aren’t meant to manage chronic stress, relational chaos, or forced independence. Yet many young children are asked to spend large portions of their days in systems that can struggle to provide consistent, attachment-rich conditions but offer high turnover, large groups, rushed transitions, and very little room for true connection.

The Bigger Picture

When we consciously and intuitively create emotionally safe environments for our children, we prevent so many future struggles: health struggles, relationship struggles, self-worth struggles.

I believe that when we create emotional safety for children, we heal the world.

It would be so much easier for any person to return to safety or to find that feeling within themselves if they grew up in an emotionally safe environment. Not because life stayed easy, but because safety was their default setting. Because, in childhood, their caregivers were a natural safe haven.

And maybe this is the most hopeful part: even if we didn’t grow up with that kind of safety, we can still create more of it now inside our homes, inside our relationships, and inside the small communities our children will one day call “normal.”

Yoga is an exercise that is extremely well-known and widespread and has many forms. I’m sure that among my readers there are yoga experts, people who practice yoga, people to whom yoga brings relief, and almost everyone has somehow brushed past it. For clarification, in this article I will be focusing on classical yoga exercise, asanas. As you may already know, and as you may learn in my following articles, my entire young adult and adult life I devoted myself to movement activities of various kinds. I thought it was necessary, healthy, and many of them also entertained me. So I certainly couldn’t overlook yoga. I practiced it for a long period. Without a doubt it helped me. When I found a little path that was most pleasant for me. But do I practice it today? I will tell you everything in the following lines.

The Studio Chapter

My beginnings were naturally a visit to a yoga studio. I tried several of them, with friends. It looked like an activity that could entertain me and give me calm. Some of you may remember that in childhood I (unfortunately) did modern gymnastics, a demonstration here. That gave me confidence that I would learn to do any movement and at the same time that my largely artificially created hypermobility would show up as an advantage in yoga positions. And that was confirmed.

I remember the enthusiasm of several yoga instructors when they saw me practicing. Physically I managed to do all the positions that were to be practiced and even something extra.

But it had nothing to do with practicing yoga well, or understanding what it means beyond the shape of the body. Here too, I saw how appearance can matter more than what’s happening inside. Suddenly, no one cared how I actually felt. No one cared that forward bends were unbearable for me, that my head filled with blood, and that I felt sick until the end of class. The main thing was that my poses looked good.

Since I had no interest in being visible, nor becoming an example in yoga classes, and also because the exercise itself at the pace of others simply didn’t suit me (especially those forward bends, terrible!), I stopped going anywhere for yoga. I can vividly imagine the opposite case, where someone starts going to classes and outwardly can’t do it at all, and they are also discouraged that there is pressure for performance and highlighting the abilities of others. And I really visited several yoga studios. The pattern felt the same.

Home Practice

Years later, through a work contact, I found an amazing YouTube channel: Yoga with Adriene. Practicing at home changed my relationship to yoga. I practiced privately for years, and many times it brought me real relief.

I know some experts don’t recommend home practice because people may not do the positions safely or correctly, and someone “should” teach them. I understand that. It just wasn’t my story. I listened to my computer and the voice guiding me, and I could do everything. I didn’t need a teacher to assist me. A professional instructor would probably have helped me improve things, but that was never my priority.

What mattered was something else: as a highly sensitive organism with a sports background, home yoga gave me quiet time with myself. The softness and intimacy of the videos. The freedom to choose a practice based on my mood and physical needs. Over time I learned what my body liked and what it didn’t. Yoga can be brutally demanding, and it probably won’t surprise you that I preferred the calming, connecting practices over the performance-oriented ones filled with forward bends. I practiced several times a week, often in the quiet of the morning before work. When there wasn’t time, I tried to do at least sun salutations.

I used to think yoga itself was what brought me relief. But looking back, I think what truly brought relief was me. The time. The gentle self-connection through movement. It gave me an unforgettable experience of being alone with myself and slowly learning to listen to my body again, after years of being trained to stop listening just to survive gymnastics. Gentle movement with gentle words could bring me relief and even joy. And I could always skip or modify anything that didn’t fit that day. It felt refreshing and calming. For that, I’ll always be grateful. Yoga was part of my path, and I remember it with warmth.

Looking Back With New Awareness

Do you see yoga recommended for back pain? Almost everywhere. Can yoga be great? Yes. Did yoga help my back pain?

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For a season of my life, Pilates Reformer felt like the answer I had been waiting for.

At that time, it was alternating pain in my neck and lower back, sometimes accompanied by pain in my toes while walking, or in my shoulders, and similar issues. I would describe it as musculoskeletal problems. I lived with them with acceptance, thinking this was part of me, due to gymnastics and hypermobility. My role, I believed, was to manage it through the right combination of exercises and massage techniques.

A Practice That Made Me Feel Strong and Safe

It is a method of exercise that combines the principles of classical Pilates with the use of specially designed machines. It’s a comprehensive workout for the whole body, focused on improving strength, flexibility, and overall physical health.

I came across a wonderful instructor who brought me joy, lots of helpful advice and tips for life, and explained a lot about my body. Over years of one-on-one work, she gave me the time to feel seen. I trusted her not only as a professional, but as a human. That kind of presence is rare in physical spaces. She shared insights, gave practical advice, and brought warmth into every session.

I really enjoyed it. It was a gentle and yet demanding physical activity, fundamentally aimed at eliminating spine-related pain. The variety of exercises, machines, and various tools was amazing, and I felt fun, effort, relaxation, and release. Even during pregnancy and the delicate period after birth, I continued practicing. I truly believe that the exercises and her support helped me carry both chronic and new postpartum discomforts with more ease. She was a mother of three. The emotional steadiness she offered during that time felt quietly life-saving.

Maybe you’ve also found something that worked until it no longer did. A space that is not aware of your sensitivity and makes you hooked, is not ideal.

When Movement Becomes a Safe Place That’s Hard to Leave

At that point, I didn’t yet understand that my high sensitivity is an actual thing.

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It’s not burnout or heartbreak, it’s just one of those days. I’ve come to call them vrr days. That word captures the low, quiet growl under your skin, the hum of frustration or inner resistance that doesn’t want to be soothed or explained away. It just wants to be felt. Even though your conditioning, more often than not, urges you to end it immediately and push it away so you can feel and act “normal” again.

The worst part? These days often show up without a clear reason or with too many possible reasons if you’re deeply self-aware. Hormones, moon phases, weather, energy dips, a memory from a year ago, overstimulation (hello, HSP mothers), or nothing at all. But the good news is: you’re not powerless in them. These days don’t have to unravel you. There are small, deeply human ways to ground yourself.

Here are tools you can reach for when you feel stuck in that strange emotional fog: practical, honest, and not meant to “fix” you, just to bring you back to yourself.

Start With Breath

Before anything else, try to slow your breathing. Not because it magically changes everything, but because it helps you arrive. You can use a physiological sigh, which involves taking a deep inhale through the nose, followed by a short second inhale, then a long exhale through the mouth. This helps release tension and activates the parasympathetic nervous system.

You can also try square breathing: inhale for 4 counts, hold for 4, exhale for 4, and hold again for 4, imagining the sides of a square as you go. Or simply breathe slowly and count your breaths from 1 to 7, then down from 7 to 1.

I continue this rhythm until I begin to feel myself from the inside, breathing in a way that reconnects me with my body and quiets the outside noise.

Acknowledge and Accept

Acknowledge your current state and offer yourself compassion. There is nothing wrong with how you feel. Say to yourself, It’s okay to feel this way. I am here with myself, and I can hold this. This isn’t about making the feeling disappear, it’s about allowing it to exist without judgment. Acceptance can be a form of release, too.

Speak Safety Into the Moment

Gently remind yourself of simple, grounding truths: I am safe for myself. I love myself. These aren’t affirmations meant to override emotion, but quiet reminders that help soften the edge of discomfort.

There cannot be too much self-love and safety for a dysregulated sensitive nervous system.

Lie Down Into Yoga Nidra

Yoga Nidra, often called yogic sleep, is a guided meditation that brings the body into deep rest while keeping the mind gently aware. Lie down, close your eyes, and follow a voice that guides you through breath, body awareness, and visualizations. It can help you pause the spinning thoughts and return to a grounded, restful state.

When I need something that meets my current state with softness or simply offers me a rest, this is where I go. Here’s one I return to often.

Move the Energy

Even when you feel tired, some kind of movement can help. Not structured exercise, more like instinctive body expression. Close the door, stay in your room, and let your body guide you. Sometimes you might stretch or sway. Other times you might flail, kick, or hit the bed with your fists. Silent screams, tearful groans. No choreography, just release.

It may look wild to someone else, but it’s an act of presence. Your body often knows how to process what your mind can’t yet explain.

Go Outside

When you have a lot of energy, try a brisk walk, ideally in nature, near a running spring or somewhere that feels good in the moment. For lower-energy states, simply go outside and sit on a bench to watch the clouds pass by in the sky. This alone can be a meditative state.

Watch the Green

Try lying down or sitting comfortably and simply watch what’s happening outside the window, the trees growing, bushes moving with the wind, or just observe your indoor plants slowly unfolding in their own quiet rhythm. Trace the outline of a leaf with your eyes. Remind yourself that growth can be slow, even invisible, and still be real.

This often leaves me in awe of nature and the order of things.

Fuel With Intention

Sometimes part of the irritability is just... physical. Drink mineralized water or an adrenal cocktail, or prepare a soothing hot drink. Eat something nourishing or comforting, ideally both. Something with protein. Or simply whatever you’re craving.

It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to remind your body that it matters and many times it helps the vrr feeling immediately.

Gratitude Is Always Helpful

Even when you feel dull, you can usually name one thing you appreciate. Not to erase the discomfort, but to anchor yourself. I look at something lovely in my life. My healthy and happy child. My supportive husband. The place I live in. The beautiful space around me. The way a sunlight plays on my wall through the shades. The fact that I can do this safely.

Gratitude isn’t always an emotion. Sometimes it’s a choice to pause and say: yes, this too exists.

Write It Out (Even If It’s Rambling)

When the vrr feeling doesn’t move through breath or body, I write. Don’t worry about coherence. Just empty your head and let your feelings find shape.

Sometimes I write with the hope that someone else might need these words. Sometimes I write just for myself. Either way, giving the mood language takes away some of its weight.

You Are Still More Than Enough

On days like these, when your emotional landscape feels raw or uncooperative, remember: you are still more than enough. You don’t have to be in your best mood to be worthy of care. You don’t have to be fully functional to matter.

This feeling isn’t all of who you are.

These tools aren’t meant to polish you up. They’re here to reconnect you with the quiet, steady part of you that knows: this feeling isn’t all of who you are.

If this feels familiar…

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I found a specialist who worked in a sports center and had experience with athletes, including modern gymnasts (which resonated with me, as I had practiced it as a child).

Acupressure is a traditional Chinese method of healing that uses pressure on specific points in the body to relieve pain and support recovery. It’s done by pressing, rubbing, or massaging these points using hands, fingers, or special tools. But in my case, the holistic focus that this therapy ideally offers was not part of the process.

A Cycle of Pain and Relief

The worst pain usually came in the mornings. I often woke up unable to turn my head, and in extreme cases, my neck would lock completely. The pain was intense. I lived with daily discomfort in my neck for years.

For a long time, I believed acupressure was truly helping. I went for a session when the pain became too strong, and it did provide quick relief from acute discomfort. The sessions were minimal in conversation. Most of the interaction happened when I was already lying face-down on the massage chair. The therapist knew I had trained in modern gymnastics and once surprised me by noticing I was anemic. That level of observation felt like a breakthrough at the time — something I hadn’t experienced before.

The strong finger pressure applied to the most painful points, and their surroundings, typically for about half an hour, brought instant relief. I often left the session sore, but the sharp pain was usually gone. Then it returned within a week. So I kept going back.

Discomforts That Went Unspoken

One experience, which I believe may be unique to highly sensitive people, was

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I would have shared Vadym’s work with you even without any collaboration, simply because it continues to inspire and support my healing journey. I’ve followed his work for years and studied psychosomatics even longer.

The Hidden Weight of Ancestral Stories

I believe understanding how psychosomatics works is a basic part of healing any kind of issue or sickness. I am thankful for the knowledge I am able to use for myself and my family, and I see how it actually works. This is definitely not only a topic for highly sensitive women, it will be beneficial for everyone with any kind of chronic issues or recurring symptoms. But don’t worry, my angle is always HSP, that is the only angle I can authentically write from, right? ;)

Today I want to focus only on Ancestral Programs. I would say it’s a deeper layer of psychosomatic work, focused on how our ancestors and their lives shape ours — often without our awareness. I took this course because my existing relationships with my family are too heavy. Many of you share various problems in this area and I know almost everyone out there lives with some kind of stigma, grudge, misunderstandings and hard feelings with their mothers and fathers.

Healing Family Bonds Through Awareness and Gratitude

What is without a doubt the biggest surprise of this course is the positive attitude towards our ancestors, gratitude and acceptance. It taught me that we inherited traumas and unresolved issues from at least 7 generations before us. That is much more than just our biological parents, and most of us know at most our great grandparents. It is so many generations and so many actual people who lived their struggles in very difficult times, and we are their lineage. This brings me to a very important point when taking any kind of healing into account: we are not only who we are as single individuals, but we are created by many people before us. This leaves us feeling part of a bigger group and also gives us peace over certain issues that are not necessarily ours but inherited. The great thing is that we are here as capable parts of huge family systems to finally resolve these recurring problems, break unhealthy generational patterns, and in this way heal ourselves and, even more importantly, our children and their children.

This might sound too poetic or not concrete enough, but I had to share with you the broader understanding that this course brought into my life. You will be surprised how very practical it is. Vadym presented 12 lessons that each consist of about 30 minutes of theory and meditation practices that work beautifully with energy. These meditations are my favorite part as you already know I prefer rest and deep work ideally in lying position. Some of the meditations make you feel great just with the metaphorical images that are used, and some help you answer very specific questions and resolve deep issues you might have with your ancestors. All meditations left me feeling new, rested, aware, and more clear-minded. The best part is that you can keep them and use them in your life even after the one-month course is over. Based on my previous experience, I keep using such meditations at least a few times a week for a very long time. That is how much my system and mind feel they are beneficial. You are not alone in this journey, you can always share your experience with Vadym, and he or his curators are able to guide you kindly via messages.

There are a lot of practical questions you are going to articulate answers for, like: What kind of person should I be versus what kind of person do I want to be? What leads you to the behavioral pattern you keep repeating?

You will learn how crucial the role of a mother is in family dynamics. What are the basic conflicts passed down through generations? Why should we not exclude anyone from our family lineage? You will learn how to process stressful situations from your childhood.

It is advised to do this course in one month. That is the only rule I did not follow. First of all, I have enough experience to know myself and my own discipline. I knew from the beginning I would actually finish it because I choose wisely where I invest my time, energy, and money. Second, as a highly sensitive person who still lives everyday life while making courses, I was able to set boundaries whenever the living ancestor presence or issue met me. In such occasions, I deliberately chose to pause the course and its learnings until I was again prepared to continue, not under the heaviness of my emotions. It is advised during the course to get to know your family lineage as much as possible, talk to people, and get their views. In my case, as a curious family empath, this work was already done from my early childhood.

The Law of Hierarchy: Restoring Order in Family Systems

I am going to share with you one super interesting law, the law of hierarchy, that I see broken everywhere I look. It can bring so much peace and save a lot of energy if you follow this rule. I learned to accept the hierarchy of my family lineage. It means that the parents are above the children. Before you ask “whaaaat?” it is meant in a respectful and natural way. They are here longer, they pass down certain knowledge, and children are always smaller, newer. Children are not here to hold the burden or take care of parents’ issues, not even as adult children.

Older generations are meant to take care of younger ones, not the other way around. For the survival of our species, we should give all our love and care to our children. All we “owe” our parents is living our own lives and the raising of our own children.

In such a case and healthy dynamics, the priority is our own partner and children, with full acceptance and gratefulness to our ancestors. It shows the boundaries we should aim for. So next time you want to scold your elderly parent for not taking your advice on how to lead their life, accept it and do not try to be higher than them. They are adults, responsible for their own choices and capable of dealing with their problems their own way, however kind and well meant your way is. We shouldn’t take care of our parents in their place because it drains the energy they need for their own healing.

On the other side, understanding this law gives you a respectful tool to set boundaries and make clear priorities in living your own adult family life.

The obligation towards our parents is destructive, it is like trying to force a river to flow in the opposite direction.

Violation of hierarchy manifests through criticism, non-acceptance, resentment, complaints, and a never-ending circle of issues.

Finding Peace Beyond Our Own Lifetime

I have to admit that I have been dealing with healing my mental and physical symptoms for quite a long time. I am already aware of many problems, their causes, and I was able to heal in most areas and break a lot of generational traumas. Most importantly, I have been able to live the parenting life I wish for, for my child. But this course offered me a very different view and helped me integrate much more peaceful resolutions when I deal with my issues by myself. Remember, it is possible to hold two sides of the same experience at once, the good one and the bad one. It is never a smart move for your health to hold grudges, suppress or ignore problems in yourself, and feel the resentment all over your system. This course and Vadym’s work offer powerful tools for understanding how the body and mind carry old burdens and how to finally set them down.

If this post spoke to you, you’ll feel at home in Sensitive Enough Movement. It’s an exclusive space where I write about healing recurring symptoms, emotional patterns, and sensitive bodies that carry too much.