Through the Lens of the Dorsal Space: Why Forcing ‘Motivation’ Can Harm, Not Help

When you’re in the dorsal space, you can see life happening around you — people laughing, planning, dreaming — but it’s like watching it all through thick, soundproof glass. You can see their joy, but it doesn’t touch you. You can’t step through. You can’t feel it. It’s not that you don’t want to — it’s that your nervous system has switched into survival mode, and joy has become unreachable.

I see this often with clients who have lived through complex trauma. They describe feeling like a ghost in their own life — present in body but absent in spirit. From the outside, it can look like apathy or lack of effort. From the inside, it feels like being buried under wet sand. Every movement takes more energy than you have, and every thought of “just try harder” lands like a weight, not a lift.

What is the dorsal vagal state?

According to Polyvagal Theory, developed by Dr Stephen Porges, the vagus nerve has two main branches:

  • Ventral vagal — the state of safety, social connection, and calm engagement.
  • Dorsal vagal — the state of shutdown, disconnection, and collapse when the system perceives escape or fight is impossible.

The dorsal vagal state is not a character flaw or a ‘disorder’. It’s an adaptive survival response. In extreme stress or danger, the body conserves energy, slows systems down, and numbs sensation so we can endure what feels inescapable.

But here’s the challenge: when we are in dorsal, it feels permanent. Hope is chemically out of reach. The world becomes distant and muted. We view life through a lens that tells us this is all there is. And because the state changes our physiology, no amount of “positive thinking” can lift us out.

It’s a temporary state — that feels permanent. How long we stay there is often determined by the quality of support we receive. Co-regulation with a compassionate, consistent, and attuned person can light the path out.

People often say, ‘Polyvagal Theory is only theoretical.’ It’s not theoretical to those who have lived there. It’s only theoretical to those who haven’t experienced it.

The illusion of permanence

Hopelessness in the dorsal state is convincing because our body is actively protecting us from feeling too much. The same numbing that shields us from pain also shields us from joy. We literally can’t access the part of our nervous system where motivation, play, and curiosity live.

It’s an illusion — but a powerful one. The nervous system will shift given time, safety, and gentle steps back toward connection. But the shift cannot be forced. Trying to push someone in dorsal into action or “cheer up” is like demanding they sprint on a broken leg. It’s not encouragement — it’s further injury.

From my own experience

After my own trauma, I felt as though I had slipped through the cracks in the earth — gone, disconnected from the world and everyone in it. It was like being trapped in a round room with no doors, no windows, no escape routes.

People — professionals included — could make as many suggestions or demands as they liked about what I should do. My only thought was, “They can’t see where I am. They don’t understand. I don’t have access to those things from here.” And it was true — from the dorsal space, the pathways they were pointing to didn’t exist for me. It was too exhausting to even pretend they did.

There is only one safe way out of dorsal: through safety itself. That means compassion, kindness, empathy, reassurance, consistency, and care. I created our TRUST framework from this personal understanding — because without safety, nothing changes, and with it, everything can.

When misunderstanding causes harm

Recently, I heard about a distressing incident in an online mental health support group. A participant, having a difficult day, requested to keep their camera off so they wouldn’t be seen. The facilitators told them, “You know the rules,” and insisted they turn it on, warning they would lose their place in the group if they didn’t comply.

For that person, who was already in a fragile nervous system state, the threat wasn’t motivational — it was devastating. In dorsal, even small demands can feel like heavy blows. The message they received wasn’t “We care about you” but “You’re a problem.” Others in the group witnessed the struggle and were distressed too. Trauma responses are contagious; unsafe handling ripples through the whole room.

No one has the right to dictate how someone should navigate their own survival. In the dorsal space, the focus is often simply to get through the day. Listening to your body and honouring what it needs is not avoidance — it’s wisdom.

The hidden cost to helpers

There’s another harm that isn’t talked about enough: the moral injury that can occur when a well-meaning person later realises the damage they caused. Forcing someone to comply when they are in shutdown can wound them deeply — but it can also wound the one who pushed, once the reality sinks in.

I don’t believe most people set out to harm others — but harm still happens when we act without understanding. That awareness can be devastating in hindsight, bringing guilt, regret, and even burnout. We can prevent this on both sides by meeting people where they are, listening to what they need, and replacing compliance with compassion.

What empathy looks like in practice

If we truly want to help, we need to understand the lens of the dorsal space and work with it, not against it. That means:

  • Respecting stated needs — whether that’s keeping a camera off, sitting quietly, or not engaging verbally.
  • Offering choices, not ultimatums.
  • Listening first, problem-solving later.
  • Recognising that “motivation” is a ventral state experience — it’s not available in shutdown.

An invitation to change the conversation

If you’re a mental health professional, facilitator, or simply someone who supports others, please remember: the rules you set for participation might feel safe and reasonable to you, but for someone in dorsal, they might be the difference between staying connected and retreating further into isolation.

Meeting people where they are is not enabling — it’s the first step in building safety. Safety is what makes change possible.

Closing reflection

If you are in the dorsal space right now, please know this: the way you feel is real, but it is not forever. Your nervous system is doing its best to protect you. There is nothing defective about you. You are not “too much” or “too little.” You are human, and you are surviving.

And if you are alongside someone in dorsal, remember that your compassion is not just kindness — it is medicine. It is the bridge that can carry someone, gently and slowly, toward the possibility of joy again.