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If you have ever felt like you can read a room instantly, noticing someone’s tone, their body language, or the shift in their expression, you are not alone. Many of us grew up learning to tune outward for safety, approval, or connection. We became experts at noticing what was happening around us however that skill often was not attunement. It was hypervigilance. Hypervigilance is born out of survival. It is scanning for threat, bracing for impact, and anticipating what is coming so you are never caught off guard. It is exhausting because it keeps you stuck in a state of alertness, always watching and rarely resting. Attunement, on the other hand, is softer. It is grounded. It is noticing with presence rather than fear. Attunement is intentional noticing. It is bringing your five senses online and paying attention to your breath, your posture, the warmth of the sun on your face, the tension in your jaw, or the flutter in your chest when something lands. It is a skill we can practice in two directions. Attunement to self means slowing down enough to notice your own internal cues and respond with care. Attunement to others means meeting someone where they are, listening not just to their words but to their presence, and doing so without rushing to fix or brace. This is what makes attunement different from hypervigilance. Hypervigilance narrows and tightens. Attunement opens and softens. In a culture that prizes productivity and external validation, we are not often taught how to notice ourselves. We are trained to tune outward, to meet others’ needs before our own, to read moods and smooth over conflict, and to strive, achieve, and keep going even when we are exhausted. I see it in therapy all the time. Clients can recount a conversation in incredible detail, including tone, exact words, and every shift in someone’s expression. But when I ask, “What was happening in you?” there is often silence. Not because they do not care, but because they were never taught how to tune inward. This is one of the quiet and powerful things that happens in therapy. The therapeutic relationship models attunement. Your therapist notices your breath quicken when something feels raw or the way your shoulders soften when relief washes in. You feel that steady presence and your nervous system responds. Your breath slows. Tension loosens. A sense of safety grows. Over time, this relational attunement helps you learn to do the same for yourself. Therapy becomes a practice space for self-attunement and even for relational repair. It is a place where you can say, “Can we slow down?” or “That did not feel right,” and experience what it is like to be met with care rather than dismissal. We cannot and should not be attuned all the time. I am certainly not. Tuning out has value too. Resting, zoning out, and daydreaming allow your mind and body to reset. What matters is learning to shift between the two, to recognize when you have tuned out, and to know how to tune back in when it matters most. Attunement is a skill. With practice, it changes how you relate to yourself and to others. What would it be like this week to pause once or twice a day and notice yourself? Notice your breath, your posture, or the sensations in your body. Not to analyze or fix, but simply to notice. This is how attunement starts. Quietly. Simply. Over time, it becomes a steady foundation for self-trust, connection, and healing. Attunement and hypervigilance are not the same. Attunement is grounded noticing, present-moment awareness, curiosity, connection, and regulation. Hypervigilance is scanning for danger, bracing, tension, over-focus on others, and survival mode. Attunement is not about control. It is about connection to yourself, to others, and to the present moment. That shift changes everything. Try This: A 2-Minute Attunement Exercise Attunement is something you can practice in small moments. Here’s an easy way to begin: 1. Pause. Find a comfortable seat. Let your hands rest in your lap. Take a slow breath in through your nose and exhale gently through your mouth. 2. Notice your senses. Name one thing you can see, hear, feel, and smell in this moment. This helps bring you back into your body and the present. 3. Check in with your body. Gently scan from head to toe. Notice any tension or areas that feel relaxed. No need to change anything. Simply notice. 4. Ask yourself: What do I need right now? Where do I feel steady in my body? What would help me feel just 1% more grounded? 5. Respond with care. Maybe it’s adjusting your posture, taking a sip of water, or simply resting your hand on your heart for a moment. Small acts of attunement add up over time. Attunement is not about perfection. It is about building small, steady moments of connection with yourself. Each time you pause, notice, and respond with care, you strengthen that inner sense of safety and self-trust. If you are ready to move from hypervigilance to grounded presence and learn how to tune in to yourself with compassion, therapy can help.

Are they mad at me? Did I make a mistake? Did I upset someone? You might have caught yourself wondering that exact question. You may have worried, replayed a conversation in your mind, or asked yourself, “Did I say the wrong thing? Did I do something?” If this sounds familiar, you are not alone. The need for reassurance can feel overwhelming, especially when anxiety is high or connection feels uncertain. It can feel like being pulled into the tide, reaching for anything steady to hold onto. For a moment, reassurance feels like a lifeline, helping you catch your breath. But just like the waves, the relief often fades, and soon the worry returns, pulling you back out again. Healing invites us to learn how to steady ourselves in those moments, to find an anchor within rather than being carried away by each wave of fear or uncertainty. You may have a sense that your need for reassurance is rooted in the past. Perhaps there were times when your feelings were dismissed or ignored. Perhaps you had to work to earn love or safety. Maybe you experienced being left alone with big emotions and no one there to help you understand or soothe them. This cycle is especially common for people with anxious attachment, unresolved trauma, or early experiences of emotional unpredictability. When love felt inconsistent or unavailable, you may have learned to look outside yourself for stability. Reassurance seeking then becomes a way to manage the unease that you feel inside. In those moments of uncertainty, reaching out for reassurance makes perfect sense. However, healing often involves gently shifting from reaching outward for relief to reaching inward for support. This shift is not about doing everything on your own. It is about developing your ability to meet yourself in moments of distress. It is about becoming someone your anxious parts can turn to, someone steady, kind, and present. Self-soothing does not mean you stop needing anyone else. It means you learn how to offer comfort to yourself while still staying open to connection with others. Over time, these inner tools create more choice. You may still want reassurance from others, but you no longer feel dependent on it in order to feel okay. Where does reassurance seeking come from? Reassurance seeking is not a flaw in your personality. It is often a survival strategy that was learned early in life. When caregivers were emotionally unavailable, unpredictable, or inconsistent, a child’s nervous system could not fully settle. Love may have felt conditional. Safety may have depended on reading others’ moods, staying small, being “good,” or constantly proving your worth. You may have learned beliefs such as: If I do not check in, I might be forgotten. If I do not ask, I will not be chosen. If something feels off, it must mean I did something wrong. If I speak up, I will be too much or not enough. In this context, reassurance becomes a way to manage emotional uncertainty. It is an attempt to close the gap between fear and safety. Because the original wound was about inconsistency, reassurance does not hold for long. It soothes momentarily, but then slips away, which leads to the urge to seek it again. To truly shift this pattern, you must first honor where it began. You can begin to notice the parts of you that learned to scan for danger, overfunction, apologize too quickly, or constantly ask for confirmation. Instead of criticizing those parts, you can learn to sit with them, soothe them, and gently show them that the conditions for safety are different now. Three ways to begin shifting the cycle 1. Notice when you are seeking reassurance. When you feel the urge to reach out for reassurance, pause and notice what is happening inside of you. Ask yourself: What just got stirred up? What am I hoping someone else will say or do for me right now? Can I offer some of that to myself first? Often, you may notice a younger part of yourself that feels scared or unsure. Instead of pushing that part away, acknowledge it. You might say, “Here is the part of me that is afraid I did something wrong.” Naming what is happening helps you become aware of it. Awareness creates space for choice. 2. Shift from “what if” to “what is.” Anxiety thrives when you focus on imagined futures. You may hear thoughts such as: What if they are upset with me? What if I said the wrong thing? What if I am too much? These thoughts often feel urgent and real, but they are usually rooted in old experiences rather than the present moment. Instead, try gently guiding yourself toward “what is.” Ask yourself: What is actually happening right now? What do I know for certain? What is my body telling me that it needs in this moment? This shift helps bring you out of the spiral and back into the present, which is where regulation becomes possible. 3. Develop self-soothing strategies. Place your hand over your heart or your belly. Take slow, steady breaths. Speak to yourself in a kind and steady voice, as you would to someone you love. You might say: “It is okay to feel uncertain.” “I am here with you.” “We are safe right now.” You can also try grounding practices. Look around the room and name what you see. Step outside and feel your feet on the ground. Press your feet into the floor and remind yourself, “I am here. I am safe. I am not alone.” These small and repeatable practices teach your nervous system that you can find safety inside yourself. Why therapy helps Over time, shifting from reaching outward to reaching inward begins to feel less forced and more natural. You start to feel your own steadiness even in moments of doubt. You begin to trust that support is not only something you get from other people. It is also something you can build within yourself. Therapy offers a powerful space to practice these skills in real time, with someone who provides genuine care and connection. When you learn to regulate yourself in the presence of another person who feels safe, it rewires the nervous system. Your brain begins to pair these tools with true connection, which makes it easier to access them later, even when you are on your own. Healing does not mean you will never want reassurance again. It means that when the urge comes, you will know what to do. You will be able to notice it, meet it with compassion, and respond from a grounded and aware place instead of panic. If this resonates with you, please know that you are not broken. You have been doing what you needed to do to feel safe, given what you learned early on. Now you are learning new ways. These ways help you root yourself in trust, steadiness, and connection not only with others, but also with yourself. Would you like support in shifting this pattern? I help clients explore the roots of anxious attachment, develop tools for emotional regulation, and experience the steady kind of connection that changes everything. If you are curious about working together, book a free consultation here . Your nervous system deserves to feel safe and steady.

A trauma-informed reflection on healing the shame around being a highly sensitive person For many people, sensitivity was not just misunderstood growing up—it was subtly or overtly shamed. A sigh when they cried, a sarcastic comment when they got overwhelmed, or an accusation of being dramatic or too emotional. Over time, these moments send a message: your way of feeling the world is wrong. In my work as a trauma therapist and coach, I meet so many clients who have internalized the idea that their sensitivity is a flaw. They come in exhausted, confused, and often carrying a deep belief that they are too much. But more often than not, what they are carrying is not a problem within them. It is a response to being a highly sensitive person in a world that has not always known how to meet them. A highly sensitive person (HSP) is someone with a more finely tuned nervous system. Research by Dr. Elaine Aron shows that about 15 to 20 percent of people fall into this category. HSPs process sensory input and emotional information more deeply. They tend to notice subtleties in their environment, feel more affected by relational conflict, and often need more rest and nervous system support after stimulation. Sensitivity is not a disorder. It is a trait. But when that trait is met with invalidation, shame often takes hold. When a sensitive child grows up in an environment that discourages emotional expression, they may begin to believe they are the problem. Instead of receiving co-regulation, they are told to stop crying, calm down, or toughen up. Their authentic reactions are dismissed or mocked, and they begin to internalize a harmful belief: “If I feel this much, there must be something wrong with me.” Over time, this leads to emotional suppression, perfectionism, or people-pleasing. These are protective strategies, often developed unconsciously, to avoid rejection and stay safe in relationships. In trauma healing work, we explore how these early experiences shape nervous system responses and relational patterns. Many highly sensitive people struggle with emotional regulation not because they are weak or unstable, but because their early environments taught them to distrust their internal cues. Somatic therapy helps people reconnect with their body’s wisdom. It allows space to notice how shame feels in the body, where it lives, and how it may still influence present-day thoughts, choices, and relationships. Releasing shame begins with curiosity. Instead of asking, “Why am I like this?” we begin to ask, “Where did I learn this about myself?” Clients often discover that what they believed were personal flaws were actually adaptive responses to invalidating or emotionally neglectful environments. This awareness can be both painful and liberating. It opens the door to practicing self-compassion and building nervous system regulation from a place of respect, not rejection. Healing does not require that we become less sensitive. It invites us to become more supported. With the right tools and relationships, sensitivity can become a strength. Sensitive people often have deep capacity for empathy, creativity, and connection. When they are no longer carrying the weight of shame, they begin to thrive. They learn how to discern what is theirs to feel and what is not. They learn how to set boundaries without guilt. They learn how to regulate their emotions without disconnecting from them. They learn how to live in their bodies with a sense of safety and choice. If you recognize yourself in this, know that you are not alone. There is nothing wrong with the way you feel. Sensitivity is not a flaw to fix, but a trait to honor. You are allowed to feel deeply and still be grounded. You are allowed to set limits and still be kind. You are allowed to be sensitive and strong. If you would like support in learning how to work with your sensitivity rather than against it, I offer trauma-informed therapy and somatic coaching for highly sensitive people. Together, we can explore the roots of your patterns, support your nervous system, and help you reclaim sensitivity as a source of strength. If you're interested in learning more about how we can work together, I invite you to book a free consultation session. It would be an honor to support you on your healing path.

Maybe you were the one who stayed quiet so someone else could fall apart. The one who cleaned up messes, emotional or otherwise. The one who noticed everything, even when no one noticed you. The one who sensed the mood in the room before you even walked in. You were perceptive. Helpful. Capable. You probably got praised for being mature for your age. You may have even taken pride in it. Until it became exhausting.This dynamic has a name. This is parentification. It happens when a child takes on caregiving roles in the family before they are developmentally ready. Sometimes it looks like helping with practical tasks, like cooking, cleaning, or taking care of siblings. Sometimes it’s more emotional like being the listener, the peacemaker, the one who absorbs tension and smooths things over. Either way, it creates a role that shapes your nervous system, your sense of identity, and your relationship with care. The parentified daughter becomes the one who holds it all. Who tracks others' emotions more than her own. Who performs strength but struggles to feel safe enough to be soft. She learns to stay useful, alert, and selfless because that’s what helped her survive. And often, she carries those same patterns into adulthood. How It Shows Up in Adulthood Many women who grew up with this dynamic still carry it today. They might: Be the one everyone turns to in a crisis Feel responsible for others' emotions and wellbeing Struggle to ask for help or receive care Feel disconnected from their own wants and needs Believe they must be productive to be worthy Feel guilty when resting or having fun Carry a quiet grief that’s hard to name Sense a part of themselves is always on alert You may long for ease, for creativity, for freedom, but not know how to access it. Or feel like it belongs to someone else. In my work with clients, I often hear things like: “I don’t know how to stop caring for everyone else.” “It feels selfish to rest.” “I’ve forgotten what fun even means.” “There’s always a part of me that’s watching, managing, staying ahead.” This is not your fault. It’s your nervous system doing what it learned to do to survive. But now, you get to choose something new. I know this experience intimately. I didn’t have the words for it as a child, but I now see clearly that I was the helper. The one who made herself useful. The one who stayed calm under pressure. When I became a mother, that unprocessed grief surfaced. Watching my daughters play freely and be met with care stirred something in me, both awe and ache. I realized I had never known what that kind of freedom felt like. Something in me knew it was time to change that. So I began to play. At first, I played alongside them. While they built fairy houses in the yard, I danced in the kitchen. I signed up for a contemporary dance class, then another. That grew into a deeper practice of embodiment and creativity. Eventually, I became a JourneyDance guide and pursued training in expressive arts therapy. This work helped me reconnect with my body and imagination. I bought a hula hoop. I rode a beach cruiser with a bell that made me laugh out loud. I climbed trees, painted freely, made art with no outcome in mind. We stirred potions from herbs and flowers in the yard. I became the adult who made time for creativity and mess, who said yes to connection, who was regulated and present—not only to my daughters, but to myself. It wasn’t always easy. The inner voice trained to be efficient and composed still showed up, but I let it be part of the process. I was healing. Not just for my daughters, but with them. Reclaiming something I never got to fully live. If you resonate with this, please know you are not broken. You adapted beautifully. You became who you needed to be to make it through. But now, you get to choose a different way. You get to rest. You get to receive. You get to explore joy without apology. You get to feel good without having to earn it. This is not about becoming someone new. It is about returning to a self that’s been quietly waiting for you to come home. A Gentle Invitation If you want a place to begin, you might ask yourself: What did I love as a child, before life got heavy? What brings ease or lightness to my body, even for a moment? Where do I feel pressure to always be the strong one? What would I try if it didn’t have to be perfect? Your story matters. Your healing matters. Your joy matters. And it’s not too late to reclaim what you never got to have. If you’d like to explore this work together, I welcome you to book a free consultation: https://www.youmatterhealing.com/consultation . You deserve to be held, too. With heart, Shaelyn

When I was younger, I used to tell people, “Oh, I don’t like mustard.” Not because I’d tried it. Not because I had some strong dislike. But because my mom always said, “We don’t like mustard.” And somewhere along the way, I adopted it as my own truth. I didn’t question it—why would I? It felt like a small, shared identity. A certainty. Until one day in my twenties, I tried honey mustard. And guess what? I liked it...a lot. And it got me thinking: How many other things have I believed simply because someone I loved told me they were true? That may sound silly on the surface—but we all have our mustard. The inherited beliefs.The family sayings. The “this is how we do things” rules that shape how we relate to ourselves and the world. have you ever sat down and questioned why you believe what you do? We don’t talk about feelings. We always say yes. We don’t rest until everything’s done. We spend every holiday together. We keep the peace. We don’t need help. We don't talk about money. We don’t like mustard. It’s the invisible curriculum of our early life. Psychologist and author Harriet Lerner writes in The Dance of Anger about how we often adopt roles and rules in our families that shape our adult relationships until we consciously examine them. And in Untangled , Lisa Damour describes adolescence as the developmental season where we begin to individuate—asking, often for the first time, What do I think? What do I believe? Who am I apart from the people who raised me? But this process isn’t limited to teenagers. Many of us revisit it in adulthood. Especially when life cracks us open. That’s what individuation is about: Not rejecting where we come from, but separating enough to see clearly. Not in rebellion—but in reflection. We start to ask: Where did this belief come from? Does it still feel true for me?What do I want to carry forward—and what am I ready to let go? In her book Mother Hunger , Kelly McDaniel calls this process “sorting the sacred from the familiar.” Sometimes we keep things because they are precious. Other times, simply because they are familiar—even if they no longer serve us. Some of what we’ve inherited still fits beautifully. Some never did. And some, like honey mustard, might surprise us. The point isn’t to reject it all. The point is to become aware of what shaped us—so we can choose what shapes us now. To say: I come from this. And I’m also allowed to become something new. ✨ A reflection for you: What’s your mustard? What have you believed or practiced without ever asking if it was actually yours? What belief, story, or rule are you ready to revisit—with compassion and curiosity?

There’s a quiet, steady truth I return to often, both in my work and in my life: Repair is always available. It’s a truth that steadies me as a therapist, a coach, a parent, and a person still learning. Because even in our closest relationships — whether you’re navigating marriage conflict, childhood wounds, or anxious attachment patterns — we will inevitably miss moments to attune. We will misstep, react, defend, or disconnect. But disconnection isn’t the end of the story. Repair is the bridge that allows us to return — again and again — to connection. What Is Emotional Repair? Emotional repair is the brave work of returning after rupture. It’s not simply saying “I’m sorry. It’s noticing. Naming. Taking responsibility. Offering empathy. And reaching toward reconnection. For many of my clients, emotional repair feels foreign at first. They share things like: “I grew up with parents who never modeled repair — it was just silence or tension.” “I’m always the one who fixes everything in my relationship.” “I overthink everything after conflict. My anxiety spirals, and I can’t calm down.” “Even small disagreements make me feel like I’m not safe, like I’m walking on eggshells.” When repair is missing, ruptures accumulate. Small moments of hurt, left unspoken, quietly build distance. Over time, this can lead to disconnection, resentment, emotional labor exhaustion, even estrangement. When repair is practiced, rupture becomes part of strengthening trust. It becomes an opportunity to deepen intimacy. To say: Our relationship can hold this. The Steps of Emotional Repair There’s no single formula for repair, but many relational frameworks share a common rhythm. The process often includes: 1️⃣ Recognize the rupture: Something felt off—a missed attunement, a sharp word, a moment where disconnection entered the space. 2️⃣ Regulate yourself: Before reaching toward repair, pause. Anchor yourself. Repair requires enough internal steadiness to stay open and attuned. 3️⃣ Take responsibility: Acknowledge your role in the moment—regardless of your intent. Ownership is key. 4️⃣ Express empathy and care: Validate the other person’s experience without defensiveness. 5️⃣ Offer a clear, heartfelt repair: This may sound like: “I see how that impacted you.” “That wasn’t fair.” “I wish I had responded differently.” 6️⃣ Commit to change: Repair deepens when paired with meaningful shifts in behavior. 7️⃣ Stay present for ongoing repair: Sometimes, repair unfolds over time. Tangible Examples of Repair Repair often happens in ordinary moments. Here are a few examples: Parent to Child: “I yelled earlier when we were running late. That must have felt scary. I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Partner to Partner: “I shut down during our conversation. That wasn’t fair to you. Can we try again when we’re both ready?” Friend to Friend: “I haven’t been as present as I want to be. I value you, and I’d like to reconnect.” Self to Self: “I ignored my own needs again. I see that now. I want to care for myself differently tomorrow.” What Gets in the Way of Repair? If repair is so healing, why do we struggle with it?Many clients I work with say: “I get so defensive because I feel like admitting I was wrong means I’m a bad person.” “Taking responsibility triggers old shame wounds.” “I never saw repair growing up, so I don’t even know how to do it.” Often, what gets in the way isn’t just the conflict itself, but the deeper nervous system activation, shame, or survival patterns beneath it. For those who grew up in homes marked by emotional invalidation, neglect, or complex trauma, even small conflicts can trigger a familiar fight, flight, freeze, or fawn response. We disconnect from ourselves first — and that makes it harder to repair with others. The Internal Work of Repair Often, the hardest repair begins within ourselves. Many people I work with arrive carrying a quiet, persistent knowing — a gut feeling that their present struggles are somehow rooted in the past , even if they can’t fully name or remember why. They say things like: “I’ve done talk therapy for years, but I still feel stuck.” “Logically, I can explain my past, but I still carry it in my body.” “I have this sense that my anxiety or relationship patterns are connected to earlier wounds.” “Even small conflicts send me into overthinking or shutdown.” For many, these patterns reflect attachment wounds, unresolved grief, or experiences of emotional neglect that never had the safety of repair. When repair was missing in early relationships, even small mistakes or conflicts today can activate deep shame or anxiety. Taking responsibility can feel dangerous, because once, it was. This is where healing begins. In this work, we gently tend to the younger parts of you that learned to disconnect in order to feel safe. We work together to: Notice your nervous system responses (fight, flight, freeze, or fawn) in real time Build internal safety , so accountability no longer feels like a threat to your worth Unlink shame from responsibility , allowing you to say: “I can acknowledge my impact and still be good, still be loved, still belong.” Create new internal dialogue that makes space for both your humanness and your healing A Closing Reflection Repair is not about perfection. It’s about presence. It’s about being willing to stay open when our instinct says to defend or disappear. Whether you're navigating marriage tension, conflict with friends/family, parenting overwhelm, anxiety that feels like emotional tornadoes, or wounds that trace back to childhood — repair is brave work. And it's always available.

Because not all tired is physical. And not all rest is sleep. Dear one, I see how tired you are. Not just the kind of tired that begs for a nap—though maybe that too. But the soul-deep weariness. The kind that accumulates slowly. The kind you try to push through. The kind that doesn’t always make sense on paper, but you feel it in your bones. There are many kinds of tired.Some of them look like: Physical exhaustion from overdoing, under-sleeping, over-caring, under-nourishing. The chronic depletion that comes from imbalance—of giving more than you receive, doing more than you rest. The quiet drain of living outside your values. Saying yes when you mean no. Smiling when something aches. The invisible weight of internalized beliefs— I must perform to be loved.   I can’t show weakness.   I need to keep it all together. The tension of holding it all in: emotions, grief, needs, longing. The ache of a desire denied or a life not fully lived. This kind of tired doesn’t always announce itself with drama. Sometimes it arrives as a whisper: You don’t feel like yourself. You snap more easily. You feel foggy, numb, irritable, distant from joy. And then, over time, if it’s not met with care, it calcifies. It settles into the body. Sometimes it becomes anxiety. Sometimes it becomes depression. As Mark Nepo says,  “That which is not expressed is depressed.” To the tired part of you: you don’t need to try harder. You need to be held. Held in compassion. Held in honesty. Held without hurry. This is your invitation to stop striving and start listening. To unclench. To exhale. To put down the mask or the armor—just for a moment—and feel what’s underneath. Maybe what you need isn’t another strategy. Maybe it’s permission. To rest. To soften. To want. To matter. Because you do. Your needs matter. Your longing matters. Your tiredness is a message, not a failure. Let this be your sacred pause. Not to fix anything. Not to explain. Just to say: I see you. You are not lazy. You are not broken. You are not too much. You are carrying a lot. And you’re allowed to rest. Held, not hurried. That’s how you’ll find your way back. rooting for you, Shaelyn

A soulful reflection for those who know how to disappear behind doing, and who are ready to be seen in their full humanity. As children, we played hide and seek with squeals and laughter, hearts pounding behind couch cushions or trees, waiting to be found. It was a game of presence and pursuit—of disappearing and then being discovered. But for many of us, the game never really ended. We learned to hide in different ways. Behind achievement. Behind our smiles. Behind the to-do list, the role, the mask. We buried ourselves beneath what was expected of us—quietly struggling, quietly striving, quietly wondering if anyone saw the fullness of who we really were. And yet, even in all that hiding, there’s always been a seeker inside. The one who devoured self-help books before knowing what healing truly meant. The one who took every quiz in Seventeen, explored Enneagram types, Human Design, horoscopes, natal charts, or pulled Tarot cards in quiet moments—falling down online rabbit holes just trying to understand, why am I the way I am?  The one who tucked spiritual podcasts into morning commutes, the one who journaled late at night trying to make sense of it all. The hiders I work with are seekers, too. They always have been. They are the quiet cycle-breakers. The ones who began self-reflecting before they even had language for their pain. The ones who thought if they could just improve enough, fix enough, figure it all out, they could finally earn peace. By the time they find their way to me, they’ve been riding the self-improvement train for years. And something in them is tired. Not in a defeated way—In a wise, soul-weary, ready-for-something-real kind of way. Together, we begin to play a different game. One not about hiding or even seeking. But about being seen. It’s not about fixing what's “wrong” with you. It’s about finally getting to know what’s true about you. This is the tender work of self-knowing and self-acceptance. Of honoring your quirks, your rhythms, your emotions, your longings. Of building a life that supports your sensitivities, instead of asking you to hide them. A life that honors your needs instead of overriding them. A life that doesn’t demand perfection—but invites you to belong to yourself. This is the game I know well. Because I’ve played it, too. I’ve hidden. I’ve sought. I’ve softened. And now, I hold the lantern for others. So if you’re someone who’s hidden behind strength or silence and still finds yourself seeking. Come closer. There’s another way. Not hide and seek. But see and be seen. And you don’t have to play it alone. rooting for you, Shaelyn

For years, I refused to stop and ask for directions. Even when I was hopelessly lost, something in me would tighten at the thought of pulling over, rolling down the window, and admitting I didn’t know. It wasn’t just about finding the right road—it was about what it meant to be seen in uncertainty. Underneath it all was a quiet, crushing shame that said: "You should already know this." (And yes, this was before the days of GPS—when asking a stranger was often the only way to reroute.) 🧠 When Knowing = Safety This isn't just about directions. It’s about survival. I see this belief show up all the time in my work with clients—especially those who grew up in high-pressure, emotionally unpredictable, or chaotic. In those systems, not knowing often meant being criticized, overlooked, or left behind. So a part of you stepped up. A part that learned to anticipate, research, prepare, stay two steps ahead. A part that became the one who knew. In many families—especially larger ones—children were quietly deputized into the emotional labor of the household. They became caregivers, organizers, emotional buffers. They figured things out, because someone had to. Because their parents were overwhelmed, under-supported, and often trying to survive themselves. This is a personal wound with a systemic backdrop: A culture that fails to support parents especially mothers. A society that glorifies self-sacrifice. A system that doesn’t make space for asking, resting, or not knowing. Over time, knowing became your role. And your worth got tangled up in it. 🎭 The Part That Carries It All This part is often praised. It looks like high functioning. It sounds like “You’re so organized,” or “You always know what to do.” But inside, it can feel like pressure. Perfectionism. Exhaustion. And it’s usually protecting something much younger and more tender: The child who was left to figure it out alone. The teen who was praised for maturity but never allowed to be messy. The one who learned: if I don’t know, I don’t belong. This part isn't bad. It ’s brilliant. It adapted. It kept you safe. It gave you something to hold onto. But it’s tired now. And it may be time to ask: What if you didn’t have to hold it all anymore? 💻 When the Internet Feeds the Fear In today’s culture of constant input, this part has endless ways to stay activated. There’s always another podcast. Another expert. Another post that says this is the thing you’ve been missing. And while information can be empowering, it can also be addictive—especially when it’s trying to soothe an unhealed wound. The more you feed this part, the more it craves because it’s not really hungry for knowledge. It ’s hungry for relief, for permission to rest and for someone to say: You don’t have to earn your place by having all the answers. 💬 A Gentle Invitation If this resonates, I invite you to pause—not to fix, solve, or research—but simply to notice. Bring to mind something uncertain in your life right now. Something unresolved. Something foggy. Ask yourself with compassion: – Is there a part of me that feels responsible for knowing? – What is it afraid would happen if I didn’t? – How long has it carried this role? – Has it ever been praised or rewarded for its knowing? Then gently shift to your body: – Where do I feel this pressure to know? – Is there a tightness, a buzzing, a bracing? – What happens if I thank this part—not for being right, but for trying so hard? Let yourself pause. Let the question hang. Let this moment be enough. 🌙 In the Space of Not Knowing You don’t need to know everything. You don’t need to be everything. You get to be here, in the mystery. Not-knowing is not failure. It’s not weakness. It’s space. Its presence. It ’s the quiet breath between chapters. Sometimes, the part of you that doesn’t know is the one that finally gets to rest. So let this part rest. Let this part lay it all down. Let this part feel held, not hurried. I'm rooting for you- Shaelyn

inspired by my recent vacation.... There are seasons for becoming—and seasons for returning. In a culture that rewards acceleration, it’s easy to forget that  slowness  is not stagnation. It’s sacred. It’s where your body softens enough to hear oneself again. After years—maybe decades—of striving, many of us are relearning how to  be . Not perform. Not push. Not produce. Just  be . But that’s not just a mindset shift. It’s a body practice. The Wisdom of Slowing When we pause, even for a moment, we meet the parts of ourselves we’ve been rushing past. We notice the breath we’ve been holding. The ache in our jaw. The tension disguised as productivity. The quiet yearning for something simpler, softer, slower. Stillness isn’t empty—it’s fertile. It’s where the deepest parts of us come back online. So instead of asking  “what should I do next?”  We get to ask: “What do I need to feel safe being fully here, now?” For the Body: A Practice to Come Back to Stillness This practice is a gentle invitation to drop beneath the noise and return to yourself. The Three-Breath Drop-In You can do this anywhere—lying down, sitting on a cushion, or stepping outside into the air. Take just a few moments. You don’t need a lot of time. You just need a little willingness. First Breath – Arrive: Let your inhale come gently. As you exhale, feel your body drop into gravity. Whisper to yourself:  I am here. Second Breath – Soften:  On your next exhale, let one part of you soften—your shoulders, your belly, your throat. Say silently:  I don’t have to hold it all right now. Third Breath – Listen:  Let your final breath be an invitation to listen—not for words, but for sensation. Ask:  What do I need right now to feel more like myself? No need to answer with your mind. Let your body speak. Closing Reflection: Slowing down is not a failure of momentum. It’s the birthplace of alignment. In stillness, we find our truest rhythm. Not the one handed to us by culture, family, or our calendar—but the one that has always lived inside. So, if today you feel the pull to do less. To cancel the plan. To close your laptop. To stare out the window and let your eyes unfocus… That might not be resistance. That might be wisdom. Let it lead you home.

There’s a moment—right before the growth—that feels like a tremble. A pause. A lump in the throat. A quiet no before the deeper yes. I see it every day: in the therapy room when someone shares the thing they’ve never said out loud. In the stretch of a parent choosing repair over reaction. In the face of a client trying something new—not because it’s easy, but because they’ve decided they matter enough to try. And lately, I’ve been seeing it in myself. Launching a private practice has brought me face-to-face with stretch after stretch. Sharing my voice publicly. Naming my needs more clearly. Holding boundaries. Embodying the very work I walk others through. Stretch is where growth lives. But unlike the culture of hustle or performance, this isn’t about pushing through pain. It’s about meeting yourself at the edge—with presence, not pressure. What is a “growing edge”? In somatic work, a growing edge is that moment right before expansion—physically, emotionally, or relationally. It’s where the nervous system perks up and says:  Wait, are we safe to do this?  And often, it’s where our deepest patterns live. In nervous system terms, the growing edge can feel activating because your body is wired to protect you from the unfamiliar—even if the unfamiliar is healing. Stepping into new behaviors, boundaries, or truths can stir up  sympathetic activation  (anxiety, racing thoughts), or even  dorsal collapse  (numbness, shutdown, disconnection). This doesn’t mean you’re doing it wrong. It means your system is doing what it was designed to do: try to keep you safe. I’ve come to think of the growing edge as sacred terrain. It shows up in different ways: When you say no and risk being misunderstood. When you speak a long-held truth, even if your voice shakes. When you shift from pleasing to honoring. When you let another see you cry, instead of masking your own humanity. These are not small moments. They’re how we say to ourselves: “I matter.” Stretch doesn’t mean snap. Like a muscle, your emotional world stretches best with warmth, support, and rhythm. Too much too fast can flood the system and reinforce shutdown or avoidance. But gentle, supported expansion—what we call  titration —helps the nervous system gradually build capacity. That’s why I often invite clients to stretch just a little beyond what’s comfortable, staying within or near their “window of tolerance.” This might look like: Taking one micro-action instead of ten big ones Practicing a pause before reacting Speaking gently to the scared part of you Letting yourself rest after emotional effort Using movement (walking, dancing, shaking) to process tension Just like in the body, our healing requires both effort and ease. Tension and rest. The reach and the return. A Gentle Closing Wherever you are right now—stepping forward, resting, or somewhere in between—may you remember this: Stretching isn’t the opposite of safety. Stretching  is  safety when it’s supported by care. It’s how we grow roots  and  wings. With you in the stretch, Shaelyn

Understanding the Many Parts That Live Within You The other day, I sat down at my desk to start a project I’d been putting off. One part of me was ready to dive in: “Let’s be productive and finally check this off the list!” Another part chimed in: “But what if it’s not good enough? Maybe you should research a little more first.” And then another whispered: “Honestly? I just want a snack and a nap.” Three minutes in, I hadn’t written a word — but I was already hosting an entire inner conversation. If this sounds familiar, you're not broken. You're human. We all have many different parts inside of us, each with its own voice, agenda, and need. Internal Family Systems (IFS)  therapy helps us understand those inner voices—not as distractions or flaws, but as valuable parts of who we are. So... what is IFS therapy? IFS is a model of therapy that views the mind as made up of  distinct parts  — inner voices or sub-personalities that take on different roles to help us navigate life. Some parts are protectors. Some carry wounds. Some try to help us feel safe, seen, or successful — even if their strategies aren’t always helpful anymore. IFS helps us build relationships with these parts, and strengthens our connection to our  Self  — that calm, compassionate, grounded center that can lead with clarity and care. A few common parts you might recognize: The  Inner Critic , keeping you in check The  Overachiever , who doesn’t know how to rest The  Caretaker , who always puts others first The  Shut Down Part , who checks out when life feels overwhelming The  Inner Child , who still longs for softness, safety, and playful joy The  Maximizer , who always wants to turn everything into an opportunity Each part has its own history, fears, and hopes. IFS isn’t about getting rid of parts — it’s about getting to know them. Here's a fun video clip to help you conceptualize parts work. What makes IFS different? Many therapeutic models focus on managing symptoms.IFS focuses on  building relationships  — with every part of you. IFS believes: Every part has a positive intent, even if its methods are extreme or outdated No part needs to be exiled or silenced You are not your parts — you are your  Self , your true inner leader Healing happens when parts feel seen, heard, and supported What does IFS look like in therapy? In IFS sessions, you might: Gently identify your different parts Notice  when  and  why  certain parts show up Develop curiosity instead of judgment Unburden parts carrying pain or old protective roles Cultivate Self-energy — calm, clarity, compassion, and confidence It’s like holding an inner family meeting — but this time, nobody gets shut out.Everyone gets a seat at the table. And you get to lead. Why this matters So many of us carry invisible tension: One part striving. One part freezing. One part people-pleasing. One part quietly longing for rest. IFS offers a language for that experience.It helps us turn inward, not to control or “fix” ourselves — but to connect. When you get to know your parts, you can begin to lead them — instead of letting them lead you. Curious to explore more? IFS can help whether your inner parts are loud, quiet, confusing, or beautifully complex. If you’d like to explore this work together, you can read more about my approach  here  or reach out for a consultation.