There are days when words feel like another demand. When we have explained enough, listened enough, and need somewhere to be without having to make sense of ourselves.

Nature can offer that space. A silent friend, asking for nothing.

The light moving through leaves. A robin pausing on a fence. The scent of earth after rain. Small encounters that draw our attention beyond the thoughts we have been turning over and over.

There is room here for whatever we bring. We can walk with grief, sit with uncertainty, or feel the warmth of the sun while something inside us still aches. We do not have to feel happy to notice something beautiful.

For our mental wellbeing, these moments can matter. They offer a pause, a sense of connection, an opportunity to feel ourselves as part of a world larger than our immediate worries.

Sometimes beauty reaches us when reassurance cannot.

Nature also has its bare branches, broken limbs and long periods of apparent stillness. Watching it, we may find a little more patience for the seasons within ourselves.

A few minutes beneath an open sky may not change what we are facing. But they may change how we feel as we face it.

And sometimes, a silent friend is the company we need.

We inherit far more than we realise.

Alongside the stories, traditions and values passed from one generation to another, we can also inherit fears, beliefs, expectations and ways of being in the world.

Some are spoken aloud. Others are communicated without words.

Perhaps we learned that certain feelings were unacceptable. That keeping the peace mattered more than speaking the truth. That other people’s needs came before our own. That we needed to be strong, successful, agreeable or useful in order to belong.

Sometimes we carry the consequences of experiences that happened long before us – loss, trauma, displacement, shame, secrecy or relationships in which there was little emotional safety.

And because these things are familiar, we may never think to question them.

We simply carry them.

Like something handed from one person to another, generation after generation, we can find ourselves holding beliefs and burdens without ever stopping to ask:

Is this actually mine?

What we carry can quietly shape our lives. It can influence the relationships we choose, how easily we trust, the boundaries we set, the way we respond to conflict, what we expect from ourselves and even what we believe we deserve.

One of the possibilities therapy offers is the opportunity to slow this process down.

To become curious about the beliefs, patterns and responses that have become so familiar that they feel like part of who we are.

Where did they come from?

What purpose might they once have served?

Do they still serve us now?

And, perhaps most importantly, do we want to continue carrying them?

Awareness does not mean blaming our parents or the generations that came before us. They too were shaped by what was handed to them, often doing the best they could with what they knew and what was available to them.

But understanding where something came from can give us something enormously important: choice.

We can honour what belongs to our history without allowing it to determine our future.

We can keep what nourishes us.

And we can begin, gently and consciously, to put down what does not.

“Shame derives its power from being unspeakable.” – Brené Brown

When we hear the word abuse, many of us imagine violence. Something extreme. Something unmistakable.

But abuse is not always physical. At its heart, it is the misuse of power in a way that causes harm.

It can be emotional, psychological, sexual, verbal, financial or coercive. It can be loud and frightening, but it can also be quiet and subtle – so subtle that we may struggle to name what is happening to us.

Perhaps we have also become desensitised. Television, films, the written word and social media repeatedly expose us to behaviour that is controlling, humiliating, threatening or degrading. Sometimes it is presented as passion, jealousy, humour or even love.

And what should never be normal can slowly begin to feel normal.

Then there is shame.

Shame has a way of minimising our experience.

It wasn’t that bad.
Other people have had it worse.
Maybe I’m overreacting.
Perhaps it was my fault.
Why didn’t I say something?

And so we remain silent.

As a psychotherapist, I have witnessed how difficult it can be to begin to uncover the shame attached to abuse – particularly when the person who has hurt us is someone we love, trust or are connected to.

A husband or wife.
A mother or father.
A daughter or son.
A sister or brother.
A friend.

Sometimes the hardest abuse to acknowledge is the abuse that doesn’t fit the picture we have in our minds of what abuse is supposed to look like.

A place to start is simply to become curious about our own experience. To stop asking whether it was bad enough to deserve the word abuse and begin asking:

What happened to me?
How did it make me feel?
What did I learn to silence in myself in order to live with it?

Because our shame can minimise the event.

It cannot erase its impact.

No one is born saying, “I’m fine.”
We learn it.

Somewhere along the way, we learn that fine is the acceptable answer. The safe answer. The answer that doesn’t require too much explanation, doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable, and doesn’t ask anyone to stop and really listen.

“How are you?”
“I’m fine.”

And so, the words become automatic. They reach our lips before we have even had a chance to notice what is actually happening inside us.

But what is sitting behind that sentence?

Sometimes “I’m fine” means I don’t know how I am.

Sometimes it means I’m struggling, but I don’t know how to say it.

Sometimes it means I’m exhausted, I’m overwhelmed, I’m lonely, I’m angry, I’m grieving, or simply, I need someone to ask me again – and really mean it – really be interested in my answer.

We can become so practised at saying fine or okay that we lose touch with the language of everything that exists underneath those words. We carry on. We do what needs to be done. We show up for other people. We keep moving.

And yet, something inside us may be asking to be noticed.

Therapy offers a place to stop and notice.

Not because you need to have everything figured out before you come.

Not because there is something wrong with you that needs to be fixed.

But because sometimes it takes another person to sit alongside us, gently and without judgement, before we can begin to see what we have been unable to see on our own.

Therapy can offer the experience of being with someone who notices.

Someone who hears the words “I’m fine” but is curious about what might be underneath them.

Someone who notices when your words and the rest of you don’t quite match. When you say you’re okay, but your voice becomes quieter. When you laugh while talking about something that hurts. When you keep saying “it doesn’t really matter” about something that perhaps matters very much.

Noticing is not about analysing every word or searching for something that isn’t there.

It is about being present enough to wonder – to look beyond the words, the smile – to simply be present enough to notice.

How is this really feeling for you?
What happens inside when you talk about that?
I noticed you became quiet just then.
What was happening for you in that moment?

Sometimes, being truly listened to can be the beginning of listening to ourselves.

In therapy, there can be space for the things that don’t always have a place elsewhere – the sadness, anger, fear, confusion, resentment, loneliness, tenderness, hope and uncertainty. The things we may have learnt to minimise, hide or push aside because life seemed to require us to carry on.

You don’t have to arrive knowing exactly what you feel.

You don’t have to know what you need.

You don’t even have to know why you’re there.

You can begin with “I don’t know.”

Or “I’m fine.”

And we can be curious about what comes next.

Because sometimes what we need most isn’t advice, reassurance or someone to tell us that everything will be okay.

Sometimes we need someone to sit with us long enough to notice what is really happening.

To see beyond the automatic answer.

To help us put words to something we have felt but haven’t been able to name.

To remind us that we don’t have to make ourselves smaller, easier or fine in order to be worthy of someone’s attention.

Therapy can become a space where you don’t have to perform being okay.

A space where there is room to be honest, uncertain, messy, angry, sad, hopeful, frightened, relieved – sometimes all within the same conversation.

And perhaps, over time, something changes.

We become a little more able to notice ourselves.

A little more able to recognise when “I’m fine” isn’t quite true.

A little more able to ask, “What is actually happening for me?”

And perhaps we begin to discover that being anything other than fine is not a failure.

It is simply being human.

Sometimes the bravest answer to “How are you?” is not “I’m fine,” but “Let me tell you.”

And therapy can offer a place where someone is there to listen.
To notice.
To stay curious.
To see beyond the “I’m fine.”

So that, little by little, you might begin to hear yourself too.

One of the things I love most about using EMDR with my clients is that it doesn’t depend on finding the perfect words.

Many people come to therapy having become incredibly skilled at explaining themselves. They can tell their story from beginning to end. They can analyse why they think the way they do. They can intellectualise, minimise, deflect, or even joke about experiences that were profoundly painful. These strategies often developed for good reasons – they helped them survive. But sometimes those same strategies can also keep them at a safe distance from the emotions, beliefs, and body sensations that remain connected to unresolved experiences.

EMDR offers something different.

Rather than asking clients to repeatedly retell or analyse their story, EMDR is based on the Adaptive Information Processing (AIP) model. This model proposes that our brains have a natural capacity to process experiences and integrate them into our wider life story. Most of the time, this happens without us even being aware of it.

However, when an experience is overwhelming or traumatic, that natural processing system can become disrupted. Instead of being fully processed and integrated, the memory may remain stored in a maladaptive memory network, along with the emotions, body sensations, images, and beliefs that were present at the time. Even though the event is in the past, parts of it can continue to be experienced as though they belong in the present.

This is why someone can logically know they are safe while their body reacts as if the danger is still happening. It isn’t because they are weak or irrational. It’s because the memory has not yet been fully processed by the brain.

One of the things I appreciate most about EMDR is that it doesn’t require clients to explain or justify every feeling they have. We don’t need to analyse every detail or find the perfect narrative. Instead, we trust the brain’s innate capacity to process what has remained unresolved.

Through bilateral stimulation and carefully guided attention, the brain begins to make new connections. Memories become integrated into a person’s broader life story rather than remaining isolated in their original emotional state. As this happens, the emotional intensity often reduces, unhelpful beliefs can shift, and the body no longer responds as though the event is happening right now.

Often, clients are surprised by what emerges. A memory they hadn’t thought about for years. A physical sensation that finally eases. A belief such as “I’m not good enough” gradually giving way to “I did the best I could” or “I’m enough.” These changes don’t come from being talked into thinking differently. They arise because the brain has been able to process information that had previously remained unprocessed.

That doesn’t mean talking has no place in therapy – far from it. Feeling heard, understood, and making sense of our experiences are deeply important. But EMDR reminds us that healing is not only a cognitive process. It involves the whole memory network – our thoughts, emotions, physical sensations, and beliefs.

For many clients, this is incredibly freeing. They don’t have to perform their pain or have the “right” words. They don’t have to convince me that what happened was significant enough. We simply create the conditions for the brain’s natural healing processes to do what they were designed to do: to process, integrate, and allow the past to become the past.

And being able to witness that process is one of the greatest privileges of my work.

Long before we knew who we were, stories about who we should be were already being written around us.

Many of us spend years living according to stories we never consciously wrote.

Perhaps you were seen as the capable one, the peacemaker, the achiever, the troublesome one, or the one who always had to be strong. These identities may have helped you navigate life, but over time they can become so familiar that you stop asking whether they still reflect who you truly are.

Some of these stories were handed to us by family. Others came from culture, relationships, or experiences that shaped us long ago. Without realising it, we can begin to mistake them for who we are.

Personal therapy offers an opportunity to step away from the noise of everyday life and become curious about the stories, assumptions, and expectations you have quietly carried. Not to judge them, but to notice them. To ask where they came from, whether they are still true, and whether they still belong.

What if this chapter of your life is not a verdict, but a draft?

A draft is never the final version. It can be revisited. It can be reshaped. It can be rewritten. It allows us to lay down what no longer fits and reclaim the parts of ourselves that have been waiting to be heard.

The invitation isn’t to become someone new. It’s to reconnect with yourself beneath the expectations, the roles, and the stories that were never truly yours.

You don’t have to erase every page that came before. Those chapters have shaped you. But you can decide what you carry forward, what you leave behind, and how the next chapter begins.

The draft remains open.

Therapy provides a space to pause, reflect, and explore your life with curiosity, compassion, and honesty. It offers the opportunity to understand old patterns, make sense of difficult experiences, and begin creating a future that feels more aligned with who you are today.

Whether you’re facing a particular challenge, navigating a life transition, or simply sensing that something needs to change, you don’t have to work it out alone. The process begins with a conversation, and from there, together, we can explore what your next chapter might look like.

Your story is still being written.

Philip Larkin’s poem Afternoons ends with a line that has stayed with me for many years. Describing a group of young mothers, he writes that they are being pushed “to the side of their own lives.”

As both a therapist and a mother, I find myself returning to those words from time to time.

Not because motherhood is something to be mourned. Far from it. Many of the women I meet in my practice speak about the deep love, joy and meaning they find in raising their children. I recognise those feelings in my own life too. But alongside them there is often another experience, one that is spoken about less openly: the feeling that somewhere along the way, parts of yourself have quietly slipped out of view.

Motherhood asks a great deal of us. Whether we are balancing work, family life, relationships and the endless mental load that comes with keeping a household running, or whether we are caring for children full-time, there is a constant pull towards the needs of others. Days can become organised around everyone else’s priorities. It can be hard to hear your own voice amidst the noise.

In the therapy room, I often hear my clients speak about feelings they have not felt able to share elsewhere. Loneliness. Exhaustion. Frustration. A sense of loss for the person they once were. The pressure of feeling responsible for everyone else’s wellbeing. These feelings can sit uncomfortably alongside love and gratitude, leaving many women wondering whether they are somehow getting motherhood wrong.

What strikes me is how often mothers feel they should be coping better. As though everyone else has found a way to manage effortlessly while they alone are struggling. Yet beneath the surface, so many women are carrying similar doubts and fears.

There are also the judgements that seem to accompany motherhood whatever path we take. Mothers who return to work can feel guilty for not being present enough. Mothers who stay at home can find themselves viewed as fortunate or privileged. Yet from my experience, both professionally and personally, life is rarely that straightforward. Decisions about work and childcare are often shaped by practical realities, financial pressures and what is possible for a particular family at a particular moment in time. What appears to be a free choice from the outside can feel much more complex from within.

Perhaps this is why I find the work of the paediatrician and psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott so reassuring. Winnicott introduced the idea of the “good enough mother”, a concept that remains remarkably relevant today. He understood that children do not need perfect parents. In fact, perfection is neither possible nor desirable. Children need parents who are present, loving and human.

Part of being human is getting things wrong.

One of the most liberating aspects of Winnicott’s thinking is his recognition that ordinary parental failures are not signs of inadequacy. We lose patience. We misjudge situations. We miss things. We become overwhelmed. We say the wrong thing. We cannot always meet every need at the precise moment it arises. None of this means we have failed as parents. It means we are human.

I know how difficult it can be to hold onto that idea. Like many mothers, I have spent periods of my life trying to get it all right. Trying to be the perfect mother, while also attending to relationships, responsibilities and the countless demands that arise in everyday life. And like many mothers, life has had its own plans. Curve balls arrive. Circumstances change. Expectations must be adjusted. There have been moments when I have had to return, sometimes reluctantly, to Winnicott’s wisdom and remind myself that “good enough” is not settling for less. It is recognising the reality of being human.

Perhaps that is what Larkin was noticing all those years ago. The way that caring for others can sometimes push our own needs, ambitions and identities towards the margins. I do not believe the answer lies in asking mothers to do more, achieve more or somehow become better versions of themselves.

Instead, I think many mothers need permission.

Permission to acknowledge that motherhood can be both wonderful and difficult. Permission to love their children deeply and still miss parts of their former lives. Permission to feel tired, frustrated or overwhelmed. Permission to have needs of their own.

And perhaps most importantly, permission to be imperfect.

The women I meet in therapy are rarely failing. More often, they are holding extraordinary amounts together while quietly questioning whether they are enough. If there is one message, I wish more mothers could hear, it is that being a good mother was never about getting everything right. It was never about perfection.

It was always about being human.

And sometimes, in a culture that asks so much of mothers, remembering that may be one way of finding our way back from the side of our own lives.

Artificial intelligence has become part of everyday life for many of us.

Perhaps you use it at work. Perhaps you use it to help organise your thoughts, answer questions, or make decisions. Perhaps you’ve even found yourself turning to it when you’re struggling emotionally and want somewhere to put your thoughts.

If so, you’re not alone.

Many of the people I work with tell me they use AI in different ways. Some use it before therapy sessions to help clarify what they want to talk about. Others use it between sessions to reflect on difficult experiences, understand their emotions, or explore patterns in their relationships.

I think it is important to acknowledge this reality rather than pretend it isn’t happening.

There is nothing shameful about using AI. It is increasingly woven into the way we live, learn, work, and communicate. For many people, it can be genuinely helpful.

It is available at any time of day. It can offer information, suggest coping strategies, help people find language for experiences they have struggled to express, and provide a space to think things through. I can understand why people are drawn to it.

At the same time, I often find myself reflecting on the difference between receiving a response and being in relationship.

For me, therapy has never been primarily about advice, information, or even insight. Those things can be valuable, but they are not what makes therapy meaningful.

What matters most is the experience of sitting with another human being.

Whether therapy takes place in person or online, there is something profoundly important about being with someone who is genuinely present with you.

A therapist notices the hesitation before you speak.

They notice when your words say one thing but your face suggests something else.

They hear the change in your tone of voice when a difficult subject arises.

They may gently wonder about the tears that appear unexpectedly, the smile that briefly crosses your face, or the silence that settles when words become difficult to find.

Often the most important moments in therapy are not the ones that were planned.

They emerge in the space between two people.

Therapy is not simply a conversation about your life. It is a relationship in which your experiences, thoughts, feelings, fears, hopes, and vulnerabilities can be explored with another person who is paying close attention.

It is a place where you do not have to work everything out on your own.

AI can offer reflection, but it cannot share your experience.

It cannot feel the emotional weight of what you are carrying.

It cannot notice the expression on your face when you talk about someone you love.

It cannot sit alongside you in the way another human being can.

For me, that human connection remains at the heart of therapy.

This doesn’t mean AI has no place. I think it can be a useful tool, and many people will continue to find value in using it. It may help you reflect, learn, organise your thoughts, or prepare for difficult conversations.

But I see it as something that can sit alongside therapy rather than replace it.

Perhaps the more interesting question is not whether AI is good or bad, but what we are looking for when we turn towards it.

Sometimes we need information.

Sometimes we need clarity.

And sometimes what we need most is another person.

Someone who can see us, hear us, respond to us, and meet us as we are.

As technology continues to evolve, my belief about therapy remains unchanged.

Human beings heal in relationship.

The opportunity to be genuinely seen, understood, challenged, supported, and accepted by another person is, in my view, one of the most powerful aspects of therapy.

AI may increasingly be part of our lives, but the heart of therapy remains what it has always been:

One human being meeting another.

I’ve been noticing how completely my life has shifted into a different part of its arc – one that is less about becoming and more about belonging to what has already been built and what is now unfolding beyond me.

My children are grown now, living full lives of their own. And with grandchildren having arrived, something in me reorganises again. I can feel my place in the larger lineage of my life changing shape. I am no longer the centre of the family in the way I once was. I am becoming part of the wider ground they stand on, part of what they come from rather than what they orbit.

There is a strange and beautiful disorientation in that. Not loss exactly, but repositioning. A quiet reorientation of purpose.

And alongside that, there is a fact I can no longer avoid: I am closer to death than I am to my birth. That isn’t said with fear so much as with clarity. It changes how I listen to life. It changes what I can pretend matters and what I can no longer uphold as important.

What I find myself asking now is: who are my guides in this part of the journey?

Because I am entering what our culture has so few honest images for – this time of elderhood, cronehood, cronedome. A stage that is often spoken about, but rarely truly inhabited in public without distortion or invisibility.

And I can feel how much of the culture around me is still deeply afraid of age. It resists it, edits it, manages it, fights it in quiet and visible ways. It is hard not to feel pulled into those currents – into the pressure to remain presentable through youthfulness, to soften or disguise the changes that are simply part of being alive long enough to have lived.

There is a tension here: between what feels natural in me and what is culturally rewarded around me. Between what it might mean to truly inhabit age, and what it means to try to remain acceptable within a framework that was never designed to honour elderhood as power, presence, or beauty in its own right.

And I notice the emotional complexity of that most sharply around visibility and attractiveness. The experience of no longer being automatically positioned as “physically desirable” in the way younger women are often conditioned to be seen. That shift can land as a kind of grief if it is measured only through the old lens.

But something else becomes possible when that lens begins to loosen.

There is a slow, sometimes reluctant, refinement of what beauty actually means. It stops being something granted by external agreement and starts becoming something perceived through depth, presence, character, and attention. Something that is less about being looked at and more about how one sees, and what one chooses to honour in others and in oneself.

This is not an easy transition. It asks for honesty. It asks for the release of certain forms of validation that were never fully stable to begin with, even when they were abundant. And it asks for a different kind of grounding, one that is not dependent on being mirrored in a narrow way by culture.

At the same time, something in me resists the idea that this is about disappearance. It feels more like reorientation than erasure. A widening of what counts as meaningful, a deepening of what counts as beautiful, a shift in what I am willing to answer to.

And underneath all of it, there is this question that keeps returning in quieter and quieter form: what is my life’s purpose now?

Not productivity. Not appearance. Not even legacy in the conventional sense. But something more lived and immediate than that – how I am present, how I love, how I meet what is here, and how I allow myself to be changed by time without trying to negotiate my way out of it.

If I am honest, there is grief in this passage. And also a kind of liberation I am only beginning to understand.

Because if I am no longer trying to secure my worth through how I am seen, then I am left with something both simpler and more demanding: to locate my worth in being itself. 

And that, more than anything, feels like the terrain of elderhood I am only just beginning to learn how to walk. It is not easy.

There was a time when my body stopped feeling like a place I could trust.

It happened in a single moment, the kind that divides life into before and after. A bike accident. Impact. Shock. Pain arriving faster than understanding. In that moment, everything I thought I knew about control disappeared as I hit the ground. Afterward, my body was still mine, but it was no longer predictable. It could fail me. It could be hurt. It could be taken from ease into injury without warning.

But in truth, the accident didn’t begin anything. It deepened something older.

It took me back.

To a childhood where safety was not a given condition, and letting go was not something I had learned how to do. I was hypervigilant for as long as I can remember – prepared, alert, always adjusting, always scanning. Not because I chose to be, but because it was how I stayed steady in a world that didn’t always feel steady itself.

So I learned early that surrender was not safe.

And without realising it, I carried that forward into adulthood. I mistook vigilance for strength. I mistook control for safety. I mistook adaptation for limitation.

Then came the accident – and it confirmed everything my body already believed. That it could be fine one moment and broken the next. That preparedness was never enough. That control had limits I could not see until I was already falling.

After that, surrender became even more impossible. Because surrender, once you’ve been hurt, can feel like forgetting what protects you. Like letting go of the only thing that might keep you intact.

So I didn’t.

Not just physically, but in all the quiet ways life asks us to release. I held on emotionally too – in relationships, in rest, in asking for help, in anything that required trust in something outside of myself.

I didn’t notice I was doing it. I only knew I felt safer when I stayed slightly braced, slightly prepared, slightly in control.

For a long time, I thought this was just who I was. Careful. Controlled. Unable to let go in the ways other people seemed to manage so easily. I didn’t question it because it felt like truth. I had never learned how to fully trust myself –  not my body, not my balance, not my capacity to catch myself if I fell.

And then I tried to do a handstand.

It was simple, almost ordinary. A moment that asked nothing more than an experiment in balance. But the moment I lifted my legs, something familiar happened. One leg found the wall immediately. The other searched for air, for space, for the possibility of lifting fully. But I didn’t let it. I couldn’t. There was no trust that I would stay up without contact. No internal sense that my body would hold me if I let both points of support go.

So I stayed there – half inverted, half anchored. One foot pressed into the wall, the other reaching upward but never fully released into the unknown.

And I realised that this was not just a physical hesitation.

It was the same pattern I had lived in for years.

Not trusting that I could hold myself. Not trusting that the ground, internal or external, would be enough without something to brace against.

In that moment, the handstand was not an exercise. It was recognition.

This was how I had always lived.

One part of me reaching for freedom, expansion, possibility. Another part refusing to let go of contact, because contact had always meant survival.

And yet, something shifted while I stayed there.

I didn’t force myself out of it. I didn’t push both legs away from the wall. I didn’t turn it into failure. I simply noticed what was happening: that I was not broken for needing support. That I was not weak for not fully releasing. That my body was doing exactly what it had learned it needed to do in order to stay safe.

And in that noticing, something softened.

I began to understand that trust is not a single act of surrender. It is not a leap into nothing. It is something built in layers – negotiated between safety and risk, between what is known and what is not yet safe enough to release into.

There are moments in life that invite full surrender. And there are moments that ask for contact, for grounding, for one point of stability while the rest is explored. Wisdom is learning the difference without turning it into self-judgement.

For a long time, I thought my inability to let go meant I was closed. But now I see it differently. I was not closed. I was consistent with what I had learned. I was adaptive in a world that had taught me, through experience, through impact, through repetition, that certainty could not always be trusted.

Recovery, then, is not about becoming someone who trusts without hesitation. It is about slowly expanding what trust can feel like in the body. It is the re-learning of safety in small increments. The return of choice where there was once only protection.

It is discovering that the body is not only something that can be injured, but something that can re-learn steadiness. That not every imbalance becomes collapse. That support can exist without total surrender. That it is possible to stay in relationship with uncertainty without being consumed by it.

And so I return again to the handstand.

Not as metaphor imposed from outside, but as something lived from within.

One foot on the wall. One foot reaching.

Not a failure to balance. Not an inability to let go. But a truthful expression of where trust currently lives in me.

And maybe that is what healing looks like after everything has been disrupted: not the sudden arrival of complete surrender, but the gradual permission to not rush it.

To stay half in contact, half in possibility.

Until, slowly, the body learns that it does not have to choose between safety and freedom – it can learn how to hold both.