When Words Meet the Body

Psychotherapy helped me understand my pain. But understanding and healing turned out to be two very different things.

Part 2: Where Psychotherapy Reached Its Limits

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:

Trusting Your Body’s Wisdom Begins with Being Held

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.

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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.