My new embodiment teacher - Covid-19

After eighteen months of following guidelines and agonising over what was safe, within my ethical framework and worth/not worth risking, I finally enjoyed playing my first post-lockdown gig at a festival recently. And unfortunately, in spite of various risk reducing measures, I tested positive for Covid-19 soon after. It’s not been much fun, but could have been far worse – no doubt, thanks to two rounds of vaccination. The thing that was most discombobulating was the loss of my sense of smell or ‘anosmia’. This has really got me thinking about the embodied approach I now instinctively bring to my work, my emotional wellbeing and life in general.

If you’ve read my posts online, attended workshops or heard me talk about my work, you’ll no doubt have heard or seen me mention grounding techniques and ways to connect with our bodies as a means to de-stress, feel more present and fend off things like panic attacks and responses to trauma such as dissociation (feeling detached from our bodies and disconnected from ‘here and now’ reality). I, and others working in this field, often encourage connecting with our environments and connecting with our own bodies as ways of getting grounded and present. This tends to rely on using our ‘five senses’ – sight, hearing, touch, smell and taste. Talking about our five senses seems to imply that we all possess a full complement of fully or partially functional sensory input and processing mechanisms – something which clearly is not the case for everyone. Although it hasn’t had an especially disabling impact on my life to be temporarily disconnected from one of my senses, it has reminded me that using sensory stimulation for grounding isn’t a ‘one size fits all’. Firstly, because not everyone has the same sensory capacity, and secondly, because we all connect with and feel soothed by our senses differently. Being neurodivergent, I have a lot of lived experience of sensory overstimulation, and sometimes what I need is less input, not more. But, like most people, I’m more tuned into some of my senses than others – these are the ones that can either serve as a fast-track to feeling calm and a quick way of connecting me with emotions and memories, or can cause overwhelm if the input is too much or particularly unpleasant. For me, these are hearing and smell – both of these are very important to me and very sensitive. This is why it was so bizarre spending two weeks sniffing at things that normally help to wake me up, relax me or make me feel excited about the food I’m about to eat, and getting nothing. I embarked on what seemed to be a pretty successful regime of smell training in an attempt to stimulate whatever olfactory nerves or mechanisms had fallen into an infection-related snooze. If nothing else, it was a helpful reminder after an oddly disembodied era of Zoom calls and remote connections, that I live in, and experience life through a body. And that bodies can be fragile, sensitive, wise, resilient and the recipients of so much mistreatment, whether intentional or otherwise.

I recently came across an article that vociferously argued against the traditional Cartesian theory of mind-body dualism and suggested we abolish the concept of ‘mind’ as separate from body altogether. It’s – ironically – a bit of a mind bender, but the more embodied work I do, the less I tend to think in terms of a separation between the mental and physical when I consider my own or others’ inner worlds. I look out for how thoughts, ideas and interactions and their resulting emotional responses are experienced in the body, and how physical experiences in turn might be shaping our psychology. There are specific physical signs that I’m pretty tuned into these days, and that serve to give me information perhaps even before my conscious mind has caught up. The one I tend to offer as an example most often is a vibrating or trembling at the back of my neck that kicks in when I feel vulnerable, exposed or threatened. Often, the threat is pretty benign – perhaps I’ve offered a gentle challenge to a client or received one from someone supporting me, and a small part of me is anxious about potential conflict. But sometimes, it’s an early alert that something isn’t right, and when I feel it, I know I need to respond. Alternatively, I can use an awareness of my physical responses to keep an eye on my list of resources that support my wellbeing, adding or deleting things according to how well they’re working for me… I’ll realise that certain practices, songs, smells, places, pictures or objects need to go on the list if interacting with them produces an instant release of shoulder tension, softening of the diaphragm, excited skin tingling or general feeling of ‘expansiveness’.

I’m excited to see the rise and rise of therapy, coaching, writing, retreats and training programmes using embodied or somatic approaches. It feels incredibly timely, and as if it might herald a much-needed sea change away from compartmentalising and intellectualising and towards a whole-person view of how we move through the world and interact with each other. In an age of rapidly developing technology, with seemingly endless opportunities to connect and express ourselves from ‘behind a screen’, it can be easy to forget that we are more than just our brains. Perhaps eighteen months of stark reminders that we are physical beings might offer an opportunity to bring about some balance in this area – here’s to more permission to rest when we need to, to tuning into what our body sensations might be trying to tell us, to remembering that we have the potential to be both vulnerable and resilient, and to offering our bodies some compassion. It might sound like a weird concept, but why not take some time to consider what your body wants to tell you, and what you might need to say to it? My message to mine right now is “thanks for keeping me alive through all of this, and for being strong enough to fight off a dangerous virus. I’ve been reminded of how grateful I am for the senses that I’m able to use to interact with the world and alter my state of mind. The simple joy of smelling the first coffee of the day, the garden after rain or a fragrant bath is one of those amazing “little” things that I’ll try not to take for granted any more”.

Psychological safety

In recent times, the term ‘psychological safety’ seems to have become something of a buzzword. Outside the therapeutic circles I tend to move in, I’ve also heard people talk about it in relation to team meetings, political disagreements on social media platforms and other situations involving groups of people. And I must say, I am pleased to hear terms like this used in popular discourse (as long as they’re meant genuinely).  

Safety is a concept that can’t have been far from anyone’s mind lately. This may be a more practical, rather than emotional form of safety – assessing the risk of a trip to the local shop during lockdown, asking ourselves ‘should I self-isolate?' when we perceive the slightest tickle in our throats, weighing up the pros and cons of meeting a friend in the park for a socially distanced catch up. These decisions might weigh heavily on the psyche for some of us. Our perception of safety, or lack thereof, is psychological. Material risks may not be directly altered by the power of our minds – they exist regardless of our acknowledgement. But our individual relationships to managing risks have a bearing on how we go on to interact with them. At the risk of shaming different approaches to dealing with Covid-19, it’s an interesting study in our different approaches to safety. From those who were furious about joggers continuing their exercise regime in public because they assessed the risk to be critical, to those who flat out denied that anything out of the ordinary was taking place and that the virus is ‘just a flu’, perception informs behaviour, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever before seen an example of this scale where our choices could so profoundly affect the lives of others.  

When I talk about psychological safety, I’m not just referring to the mental risk assessments we all regularly carry out, but they’re a crucial part of the picture. For me, psychological safety is about creating an environment where people feel emotionally safe enough* to allow themselves to be vulnerable and to be seen and heard as they truly are. The term appears in the therapy and coaching worlds because they are about self-reflection, making sense of things that have hurt us and allowing ourselves to be witnessed in a state of vulnerability. In order to feel safe enough to do this work, we need to be able to trust the person or people we’re sharing with. Our mental risk assessment might involve asking questions like ‘will they keep my story confidential?’, ‘do they have my best interests at heart?’ and ‘are they reliable?’ As someone who is trusted with the gift of other people’s stories, emotions and thoughts, I take the responsibility of building a safe enough environment for my clients very seriously. This influences the physical environments I work in, how I set up and contract at the beginning of a relationship with a client, how I organise my time in order to be consistently available and how I respond to clients in session. Occasionally, things go wrong in a client-coach relationship – with enough rapport, trust and safety built up, we can move past any misunderstandings and use them as a powerful learning process.  

This way of thinking has influenced how I am outside of my professional practice. I tend to be acutely aware of how psychologically safe a given situation feels, and will adjust my choices accordingly. I should also add that I am a naturally risk-averse person. Or perhaps it’s less ‘natural’ and more learned. I grew up in a family that had endured an unusual amount of tragedy by the time I came along. My life, health and safety were upheld as the most precious commodity – not to be squandered by doing dangerous things. Of course, there were times in my youth when I rebelled against this as hard as I possibly could. But the tendency to shy away from risk remains. It’s something I work to override when I perceive a risk to be worth taking.  

And so, as we cautiously creep out of our homes after three months of relative isolation, my risk assessment process threatens to go into overdrive. While large gatherings are not yet permitted in London, there will soon come a time when I need to use the city’s notoriously busy public transport system. The question of trust appears in this context as I consider whether those running services will prepare adequately to manage risks, whether I can trust my fellow commuters to take necessary precautions and whether the ‘powers that be’ are offering sensible guidance (I’ll let you guess my take on that last question). And hopefully, before too long, it will be safe to congregate in larger groups again. I imagine that, in our first forays into a wider social life, many of us will experience feelings of elation, relief and a new appreciation for experiences we may have previously taken for granted. But I also expect there to be anxiety and awkwardness for those of us who tend towards a more cautious relationship with risk. How can we reach a place where we feel able to trust not only the people closest to us, but the people we share cultural and physical space with? How do we build psychological safety on a grander scale? This question feels especially pertinent in the current climate of oppression being brought fully into the light, civil unrest and resistance. And it’s one that I do not claim to have an answer to, but we can start with a moment of self-reflection. We can ask ourselves questions like ‘what makes me feel safe and why?’, ‘how do I react when I feel threatened?’ and ‘how do I react when my view of the world is challenged?’. An honest examination of these questions may yield some hard truths. It can be helpful to discuss these with someone we feel psychologically safe with. I believe that getting to know what makes us feel safe and why we feel, think and act the way we do is at least the first step towards collective safety and from there, on to healing the deep rifts in our societies. 

*I refer to ‘safe enough’ or ‘safer spaces’, rather than ‘safe spaces’ because we can only take steps that contribute to another person’s sense of safety. We can’t create it for them. If someone has a deep internal sense of being unsafe due to trauma, we can mitigate by building enough trust and a secure enough environment for them to begin working on this. It’s neither transparent, nor realistic to claim that “you will feel safe here”. 

Collective Psyche, Myth and Ritual

(Content warning: suicide, Holocaust) 

It’s a well-rehearsed argument that humans are hard wired for connection. Ultimately, we are pack animals who historically relied upon safety in numbers. Much has been made already of the possible mental and emotional impacts of existing in a state of relative social isolation during this pandemic. And while it can sometimes be weird, frustrating and exhausting to engage in a barrage of video calls and online chats, those of us who have the luxury of being able to do so may manage to stave off the worst effects of being locked down away from our social networks. As well as being pack animals, we’re meaning-making beings, and when things don’t make sense, it impacts us. So, what sense can we collectively make of who we feel we are in the midst of a crisis? 

 I’ve alluded before to the collectivism that there can be in a global situation like Covid-19, even in our separateness and our different levels of comfort and privilege. Around the UK, there have been acts of kindness and solidarity springing up to replace (for now) the old norms of politely ignoring each other. Rainbows on windows and ‘low skilled workers’ becoming ‘key workers’: symbols and narratives agreed upon collectively. Throughout human history, stories around the campfire, told to warn of the consequences of actions, to create and stay connected to a shared identity and to honour ancestors, grew into religion and ideology. Our unique human ability to think conceptually helped us to collectively imagine – to strengthen our safety in numbers by imagining stories, symbols, tribal identities and rules. This would establish an insider/outsider structure – once myths, symbols and rules were in place, there were consequences for stepping outside of them. Being ousted from your group would, at one time, have meant certain death – this is not necessarily true in the modern world, though the deaths of those who have taken their own lives after being shamed on social media platforms might suggest otherwise.  

We have come a long way in material terms since all our stories were told around campfires (I’m still very partial to a campfire story). And yet, we still participate in collective meaning making as we yell into a curated online bubble and pin our colours to the mast, be they rainbow flag, Union Jack, stars and stripes, Saltire, anarchy symbol... I shout loudly about the causes I care about, and while I do my best to build bridges and find our common humanity, I admit that it’s tough at times. Especially when those I disagree with appear to be invested in stripping people unlike themselves of their rights and their humanity. I’m sure they feel the same way about me. Each of us has decided that the other is on the wrong side of the tribal rules. 

What scares me right now is the use of myths, symbols and stories intended to create a collective narrative for the personal gain of those who are promoting them. This is propaganda. The Nazis used an incredibly slick, powerful campaign of oratory and visuals to convince the poor and disillusioned that putting and keeping them in power, and scapegoating Jews (along with Romany people, LGBT people and other groups) would be in their best interests. Referencing the Holocaust as a warning about sleepwalking into dangerous political action is nothing new. Yet, the VE Day celebrations that took place recently on the streets of England didn’t speak to me of quietly contemplating how the world became so broken that millions of lives were lost to a fight against fascism, or of considering how we can make the ‘never again’ story a reality. Instead, it spoke to me of a need for togetherness, shared identity and hope gone wrong. An attempt to celebrate the myth of a nation, built on empire, priding itself on stoicism, stiff upper lip and standing up to the ‘bad guys’. But when we break out the bunting to celebrate those purported shared values and do the conga while thousands die alone, and carers are sent into perilous situations, I feel we may have lost sight of this national concern for social justice and speaking truth to power, if indeed we ever had it.  

What I take from all of this is that it is time to start creating new narratives. These stories need not be dictated by those who have power and guard it jealously. This requires some form of coming together to ask what kind of society we want to be. What are the needs of our collective psyche? When it comes down to it, we all need the same fundamentals. Belonging is a significant part of that picture, though belonging that exists at the expense of the rights of an ‘other’ cannot be healthy for the psyche of either the ‘in’ our ‘out’ group. We all need those bottom lines of food and shelter, safety and security (a la Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs). Needing to protect our own resources can lead us to believe that the existence and behaviour of others is a threat to our safety, especially in times of scarcity. I suppose that’s the next building block for ‘othering’ and drawing lines in the sand. But assuming that there’s enough food, shelter and security to go round (which there is, it’s just that some people have a lot more of it than others), our next needs in line are social. Some of the powerful people who would have us believe that a national myth of heroic stoicism is more important than our common humanity or safety seem to be abundant in resources and pretty starved of real love and belonging. So, while they may (rightly or wrongly) have been given the job of steering this ship through a storm and ensuring our survival, I hope that we don’t also let them steer us into believing jingoistic national myths. Or, if I’m now dealing in lost causes, that the rest of us will find our collective voice and use it powerfully.

I’m curious about what rituals may be created and what will endure beyond this crisis. I’ve spoken with people a lot recently about the importance of ritual, be it the first coffee of the morning, the lighting of commemorative candles, the lunch time jog, daily meditation or coming together with friends (virtually or otherwise) to connect and blow off some steam. The rituals we choose both demonstrate and shape the stories we tell ourselves. They say things like ‘it’s important to remember those gone before us’, ‘mental and physical health are important’ or ‘in this time of chaos, there are some things I can predict and control, and that makes me feel safe’. For me, intention is important here. It doesn’t really matter whether the ritual is a prayer or a double shot espresso – it’s the meaning that we ascribe to it that gives it significance. So, if we’re up for the challenge of creating new shared stories and rituals, how might that look? Could the VE Day conga lines be replaced with action that really stands up for the little guy? Don’t get me wrong, one of my favourite things is coming together with people to celebrate – to dance up a storm, to sing together, to let go, be silly and be human. This is a bit like my annual pilgrimage and I’m missing this summer’s cancelled festival season already. But much like the importance of the meaning we ascribe to rituals, context is key too. Coming together in defiance of something scary and unjust is a remarkable human trait... though a virus isn’t to be stood up to as if it were some kind of terrorist, so in this case, best to stay at home. It’s hard not to be able to gather in the way we’ve evolved to, but it will happen again before too long. I look forward to being able to come together to connect, analyse, plan and celebrate. In the meantime, we’ve been offered a chance to reflect on who and how we collectively want to be.  

For support around self-care and building helpful rituals during a chaotic time, contact me. If you’re experiencing mental health crisis, contact The Samaritans or your GP. 

Beyond the silver linings

It’s almost four months into the Covid-19 crisis and, in the UK, we’re four weeks into lockdown. At this point, I feel things edging past the initial stages of fear, moments of optimism and finding creative and comforting ways to amuse ourselves and nest. A month of lockdown means that a ‘new normal’ is emerging, along with questions about what habits, rituals, skills and emotions will be carried into the post-pandemic world.

Having written previously about a need to find space for the hopes and fears, joys and despairs present in our current situation, I have now seen first-hand examples of all of these. Things that I will never forget because they were so bleak and impossibly sad, and things I won’t forget because they were perfect examples of how we’ve evolved to seek connection and cooperation, to create and adapt. I wonder how this will be preserved in both my own and our collective memory. What will stick? What will we look back on in disbelief? What will be filtered out for denying our established world view?

As we experience a collective trauma, I’m struck by the different ways that we all attempt to make sense of insane situations. This attempt is a go-to trauma response: ‘if I can just find the bigger meaning, I can move on’. In a world-changing event reminding us that we can’t escape from our biological nature, there isn’t always a neat box or an accessible ‘why’ to help us process the trauma. I stand by my determination for this crisis to lead to a collective re-think of how we want to organise society; and yet, this feels a bit glib in the face of the stark reality of the loss, grief, fear and isolation that is being experienced by so many right now. The best I can hope for in that regard is that our actions now are helpful to ourselves and others wherever possible, and that most of the big learning will come with hindsight and be turned into action. It’s been said so often already, but the old ‘business as usual’ is no longer a possibility, whether we’d like it to be or not.

So with all of this in mind, how do we start to look beyond our much needed silver linings, the day to day practice of building routine, finding distractions and creating ‘safe enough’ nests for ourselves? How do we go about healing from a collective trauma? 

Part of my vision in setting up Live and Breathe involves developing the tools to build communities that foster social justice and direct, wholehearted communication. No small feat, but a vision is about dreaming big! Somewhere to start towards this is normalising vulnerability. Covid-19, it is said, ‘does not discriminate’ and is here to remind us all that there by the grace of God/the universe/insert your ‘big picture’ belief here… go we. While it’s true that a virus does not care about  who you are, it does affect some communities disproportionately. That’s an important point for another day. But health inequality aside, a pandemic is certainly one of those rare situations that forces us to stare down our vulnerability and our mortality, regardless of how wealthy, healthy, hardworking or virtuous we may be on the surface. I can feel the ripples of a sea change creeping in, as formal emails suddenly contain opening gambits like  ‘I hope that you and your loved ones are safe and well’ and Zoom calls involving ‘hardened’ business folks start with a wellbeing check-in. This chipping away at the facade of stoicism and invulnerability is how we start to grow and I hope it persists. Permission and encouragement, when required, to start a work meeting with ‘I’m having a shitty day, I’m using my resources and I’ll be ok, but here’s what I need from you’. The courage to get in touch with that old friend you haven’t seen for years and were worried about contacting again in case it was awkward. Using our experiences of having to give up our routines and re-learn how to work, socialise and live to enable us to be honest about when we don’t know the answer to something. Vulnerability is something I have struggled with showing for years. And I’ve done years of work on getting comfortable with it, though there’s still so much room for growth. So here’s an intervention if ever I’ve seen one - a horrific situation that exposes our common humanity and demands our vulnerability and compassion. 

When we’re feeling too vulnerable and too exposed to go analysing a crisis or thinking about what we can do to help, our job is to breathe, self-soothe (I recommend putting together a go-to collection of soothing sensory items in advance - fluffy blanket, hot chocolate, favourite smells, music, whatever works for you) and to find connection and support, even if it’s ‘just’ remotely watching Netflix with someone who cares about you. And when that difficult moment passes, our job is to find ways to name and express our feelings. I hope that this brave new world is brave enough to let us all admit that sometimes we’re vulnerable.