Deborah J Crozier

When the Body Knows Before the Mind

Understanding fainting, fear, and the wisdom of the vagus nerve

Someone once told me they believe they faint in the presence of evil.

To some, that might sound far-fetched or even dramatic — but to me, it made perfect sense.

I believe there’s truth in it, though perhaps not in the way it first appears.

When the body detects overwhelming threat, the vagus nerve — the great communicator between brain and body — can trigger an emergency response. It slows the heart, drops the blood pressure, and reduces blood flow to the brain. Consciousness fades, and we faint.

This is called vasovagal syncope, and it’s the body’s most extreme form of self-protection — a complete “cut-out” when survival energy becomes too much to process.

A nervous system that learned fear early

As a young person, I fainted often — sometimes weekly. Especially in church or at school.

It took years before I understood why.

When I was seven, a teacher humiliated me in front of my classmates. At nine, a nun stabbed my hand with a pen and shamed me publicly. Those moments left deep marks — not only in memory but in my nervous system. My body learned that authority, church, and classrooms were dangerous places.

So even when nothing “bad” was happening years later, just stepping into those environments triggered the same fear pathways. My nervous system didn’t distinguish between past danger and present safety. The fainting was my body’s way of saying, “I can’t bear this. I’m shutting down.”

The body’s secret surveillance system

Stephen Porges calls this neuroception — the body’s unconscious ability to detect safety, danger, or life threat.

Unlike perception (which is conscious), neuroception happens automatically, below awareness. It’s an ancient survival mechanism that continuously scans the world around us and inside us, asking:

“Am I safe, or am I in danger?”

It listens to tone of voice, facial expression, posture, energy, and even the spaces between words. It detects micro-signals — the subtle shifts in presence and intention that our thinking brain may never notice.

This means we can feel danger long before we understand it.

We might walk into a room and suddenly feel uneasy. Our stomach tightens, our breathing changes, or our heart races — and we don’t know why. That’s neuroception at work.

When someone says they faint in the presence of evil, perhaps what they’re really describing is this:

Their body perceives a profound energetic or moral threat — something cold, unsafe, or deeply incongruent — and the vagus nerve steps in to protect them from overwhelm.

When words fail, the body speaks

Looking back, I see those fainting episodes not as weakness, but as wisdom.

They were my body’s attempt to manage what I couldn’t process.

What religion called “sin” and psychology might call “trauma,” the nervous system simply calls too much.

The body doesn’t lie. It tells its truth in sensations, symptoms, and sometimes in silence.

And when the cues of safety return — through compassion, connection, and time — the same body that once shut down can begin to reopen, soften, and trust again.

So yes — I do believe there’s truth in the idea of fainting in the presence of evil.

But I see it through a different lens now.

Not superstition. Not weakness.

Just the ancient intelligence of the body — doing its best to keep us alive in a world that sometimes felt unsafe to feel.

by Deborah J Crozier

The Opposite of TRUST: A Mirror We All Must Face

Trauma-informed practice isn’t just about understanding others — it’s about choosing how we show up in every interaction.

Every day, in every conversation, we have a choice:

To walk the path of alignment, compassion, and light — or to fall into the unconscious patterns that perpetuate harm.

Even those who intend to help can become part of the problem when awareness slips. And that’s why I’ve been reflecting deeply on TRUST — the framework that underpins my trauma-informed work — and its shadow opposite.

Because everything that heals can also be inverted to harm.

The TRUST Framework

(A Trauma-Informed Approach)

T – Trigger Recognition

Awareness of what activates fear, pain, or defensiveness — in ourselves and others — so we can regulate before we respond.

R – Reassurance

Offering calm, consistent presence that tells the nervous system: “You’re safe now.” Reassurance rebuilds trust where fear once lived.

U – Understanding

Seeking to understand the why behind behaviour, not just the what. It’s choosing empathy over judgment and compassion over control.

S – Safety

Creating physical, emotional, and relational environments where people feel seen, heard, and safe enough to heal.

T – Truth

Honesty with self and others. Congruence. Saying what we mean and meaning what we say — because truth and safety cannot exist without each other.

This is the path of awareness, compassion, and connection — the path of light and alignment. It’s how we heal, lead, and create genuine change.

The Shadow of TRUST

(A Trauma-Perpetuating Approach)

T – Trigger Recognition

Still present — but used manipulatively. Recognising what provokes others, not to heal but to control.

R – Reactivity

Acting from fear or ego. Escalating rather than calming. Reacting to protect self-image instead of building safety.

U – Undermining

Eroding another’s confidence or sense of self to maintain dominance or superiority.

S – Suppression

Silencing truth, emotion, or individuality. Valuing compliance over authenticity.

T – Transactional Thinking

Conditional care: “I’ll support you if you behave the way I want.”

Relationships become about control, not connection.

This is the path of power, fear, and disconnection. It can look confident on the surface, but it’s a fragile strength — built on defence, not integrity.

The Choice

Every one of us stands at this crossroads, especially when we’re tired, triggered, or under pressure.

We can respond from trauma — or from truth.

From fear — or from love.

Being trauma-informed isn’t about perfection; it’s about presence.

It’s about noticing which version of TRUST we’re embodying in any moment — and having the courage to choose again.

When we walk the path of alignment, our energy becomes restorative rather than depleting.

We repair what we once repeated.

We regulate, reconnect, and rebuild — one conscious choice at a time.

Which path are you on in your journey?

Do you ever switch between the two? When does that happen?

What do you see in yourself — and what do you see in the world around you?

Self-awareness is the path to happiness.

by Deborah J Crozier

As Above, So Below

I’ve been reflecting, as I regularly do…

Let’s consider the environment.

Chaos on the outside, chaos on the inside.

Calm on the outside, calm on the inside.

Hate on the outside, hate on the inside.

Love on the outside, love on the inside.

This is how it might work for those of us who have experienced the contrast — who know both chaos and calm, hate and love, and can recognise the difference.

But what about those who haven’t?

Those who have only ever known chaos, hate, pain, suffering, and fear?

For them, “as above, so below” isn’t yet a reflection — it’s a distant concept, almost unimaginable.

When the nervous system has only ever known threat, safety feels foreign. When love was absent or unsafe, trust doesn’t come easily. This is the legacy of trauma — particularly complex trauma formed through Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs).

The body learns early that calm can’t be trusted, that quiet might precede danger, and that connection might lead to pain. Fear becomes familiar — and so, when calm appears, the body resists it. It’s not because the person doesn’t want peace, but because peace feels unsafe.

Over time, I began to see how much outside conditioning and programming interferes with our alignment. From childhood messages and cultural expectations to systems that reward productivity over presence, we’re constantly shaped by influences that disconnect us from our truth.

Fear, in particular, disconnects us. It severs the flow between mind, body, and soul — like a hosepipe that’s been kinked or nipped, blocking the water from reaching where it needs to go. In our attempt to survive, we dissociate, shutting down parts of ourselves to avoid suffering. But that same mechanism that once protected us can later become the very thing that prevents healing.

For many years, when I worked directly with clients, I used to take them to the quiet grounds of a local priory. It was a peaceful, sacred place — still, safe, filled with birdsong and open sky. But what I noticed was profound: I could often gauge the depth of trauma by how long someone could simply sit in silence.

For most, it was no more than three minutes before the body began to react — stimming, shaking, rocking, fidgeting, crying, panicking. Their nervous systems could not yet tolerate stillness. Silence felt threatening. Calm triggered chaos.

That experience taught me, again and again, that trauma lives in the body — and it shapes our thoughts from the bottom up, not the other way around. We can’t think our way to safety; we have to feel our way there. Healing begins not with logic, but with the body learning that it is no longer in danger.

For those with complex trauma, this isn’t achieved in a single visit or through a one-off experience of calm. It requires gentle repetition — inviting them back to that calm space over and over again. Each visit creates a new comparison: chaos versus calm, tension versus release, fear versus safety.

Over time, these repeated moments begin to rewire the body’s understanding. What was once foreign starts to become familiar. Eventually, they begin to take the reins and move forward themselves — not because they were told to, but because their nervous system finally feels the difference.

This is where TRUST becomes essential.

T – Trigger recognition

R – Reassurance

U – Understanding

S – Safety

T – Truth

The Trauma-Informed TRUST Framework isn’t a tick-box exercise or a ‘nice thing to have’. It’s purposeful. It’s intentional. And it’s desperately needed. It represents the steady bridge between survival and safety — between knowing fear and learning peace.

So how can “as above, so below” become a reality for someone who has only ever known fear and suffering?

How does a body that has never felt safe learn to trust safety?

This is the lifelong work of trauma recovery. Alignment doesn’t come through striving or forcing calm. It begins with gentle awareness — the smallest moments of safety, repeated often.

A steady breath.

A kind gaze.

A tone of voice that doesn’t demand.

A space where the body isn’t braced for impact.

These moments may seem insignificant, but they are everything. They are the entry points to realignment.

When the nervous system begins to feel safe — even for seconds at a time — the mind starts to open. The body begins to soften. The soul starts to remember what peace feels like.

For those who have lived on guard, constantly predicting and pre-empting the worst, this process takes immense patience and compassion — both from themselves and from those who walk beside them.

So how do we reach to teach?

Not through correction, and not through preaching calm to those who have never felt it.

We reach through embodiment.

We teach by becoming the example — by holding consistent compassion, modelling regulation, and creating spaces where calm is felt, not enforced. When survivors are met with presence instead of pressure, their nervous system begins to sense that safety might be possible.

“As above, so below” isn’t a rule or ideal to attain — it’s a rhythm that re-emerges when the mind, body, and soul are no longer at war. When we align the internal and external, Heaven and Earth, reality and perception, we rediscover the flow that trauma once interrupted.

It’s not instant. It’s not easy. But it’s possible — one safe breath at a time.

So I wonder… where are you on your own journey of “as above, so below”?

What does alignment look and feel like for you — in your mind, your body, and your soul?

by Deborah J Crozier

Filtering Reality: Attention, Awareness, and the Expanding Mind

In The Doors of Perception, Aldous Huxley described something extraordinary.

Under the influence of mescaline, a naturally occurring psychedelic compound found in the peyote cactus, his brain activity didn’t increase — it decreased — yet his perception expanded. Colours deepened, time slowed, and he felt profoundly connected to life itself.

Peyote has been used for thousands of years in Indigenous ceremonial practices across the Americas, valued for its ability to open the mind to spiritual awareness. Huxley’s experiment was part of his own search to understand consciousness beyond the limits of ordinary perception.

From that experience, he proposed something radical: perhaps the brain doesn’t create consciousness — perhaps it filters it.

He suggested that the mind’s natural state is vast, but the brain acts as a reducing valve, narrowing what we perceive so we can survive without being overwhelmed by the full flood of reality.

It’s a beautiful idea — that what we experience as “ordinary consciousness” may only be a fragment of what’s possible.

The Everyday Filter

We can all see this filtering in our daily lives.

Imagine sitting quietly, paintbrush in hand, working on a tiny die-cast model. The hum of the fridge fades, the world disappears, and every ounce of attention narrows into the curve of the brushstroke. The brain is doing what Huxley described — filtering.

Filtering helps us focus, survive, and function. But the same mechanism that allows deep concentration can also keep us disconnected from the wider richness of life.

It’s the paradox of being human: we need the filter to survive, but we thrive when we remember to widen it.

ADHD and the Leaky Filter

For people with ADHD, that filter behaves differently.

The ADHD brain often struggles to separate what’s important from what isn’t. Sounds, lights, textures, emotions — everything arrives at once. It’s not a lack of discipline, but a different neurobiology. The brain’s “gatekeeper” lets more sensory input through, which can lead to overstimulation and fatigue.

And yet, ADHD also brings moments of hyperfocus — deep, sustained immersion in something that captivates the mind completely.

This is the paradox of the leaky filter: it can flood us or free us, depending on context.

The ADHD experience reminds us that attention itself is an art — not always about controlling the mind, but learning to meet it with compassion when it overflows.

Autism and the Precision Filter

Autistic and neurodiverse people experience attention differently again.

Many describe a world of intense detail — where patterns, sounds, and textures stand out vividly. The filter is tuned in a unique way: sometimes wide open to sensory information, sometimes tightly focused in what we might call hyperfocus or flow.

This precision of attention can be a gift — a kind of deep consciousness that others overlook — yet it can also lead to sensory overwhelm when too much enters awareness at once.

Autistic focus, in this sense, shows us that consciousness isn’t one fixed shape.

It varies across individuals, each brain filtering the world through its own rhythm, each mind revealing a different facet of reality.

Overstimulation and the Modern Mind

Our digital age has turned attention itself into a commodity.

Every scroll, ping, and notification competes for a slice of our consciousness, training our filters to stay half-open all the time.

Doom-scrolling keeps the RAS — the brain’s attentional gatekeeper — in constant vigilance, feeding it an endless stream of alerts, alarms, and emotional triggers.

The result?

A society of anxious minds, overstimulated yet undernourished.

We’ve learned to mistake constant input for awareness, when in truth it narrows the mind, reduces empathy, and fragments consciousness.

For children and young people, whose filters are still developing, this can be especially damaging. Their sense of safety and identity is being formed through algorithms rather than authentic connection — through comparison rather than compassion.

The Reticular Activating System and Survival Awareness

The Reticular Activating System (RAS) sits at the heart of how we filter the world. It decides what information reaches conscious awareness. Normally, it lets in only what seems relevant to our goals — but under threat, it instantly recalibrates.

I remember a day, long ago, when I experienced this with stark clarity.

An abusive partner’s footsteps sounded on the floor above me — heavy, deliberate, charged with anger. In that moment, my awareness shifted.

Time slowed.

Every detail became amplified — the creak of the floorboards, the position of my children, the space between one breath and the next.

That was my RAS and survival brain working together.

The amygdala had sensed danger, flooding my body with adrenaline. My RAS tuned in to only the most vital information: sound, timing, escape.

In that frozen moment, I noticed the smallest thing — a single drip of wine running in slow motion down the side of a glass.

It was surreal, almost suspended in time, and I later wrote about it in my book When I’m Gone.

That image has never left me. It captured the paradox of trauma — how the mind can expand in focus even as the body prepares to fight, flee, or protect.

That was my RAS and survival brain working together — the amygdala sensing danger, the RAS focusing attention, adrenaline flooding my body to act.

Within seconds, I had moved my children out of harm’s way, moments before his rage erupted and a table crashed across the room.

Terrifying, yes, but precise. A pure expression of the body’s will to protect life.

It wasn’t thought. It was instinct — a focused, timeless state that felt both terrifying and sacred. My consciousness didn’t expand in beauty; it expanded in survival.

And it saved us.

The Cost of Survival Mode

After experiences like that, the RAS can stay switched on.

It keeps scanning for danger, long after the threat has passed.

A creak in the floor, a raised voice, even a subtle shift in energy can send the body into high alert. This is trauma’s residue — the nervous system learning from history and trying, tirelessly, to keep us safe.

But when the brain filters for danger more than for life, the world begins to feel smaller.

Anxiety, hypervigilance, and exhaustion take hold.

The filter becomes too narrow, the mind too guarded, and consciousness contracts into survival.

When Safety Feels Unsafe

When the RAS has been tuned to threat for a long time — perhaps since childhood — even safety can feel unsafe.

The nervous system becomes so accustomed to reading danger that calm can feel foreign, suspicious, even unbearable.

Kindness lands heavy on a body that has learned to brace for harm.

A gentle word — “you’re looking really well today” — can cause the same visceral recoil as a threat, because the body doesn’t yet recognise tenderness as safe. It reads tone, energy, and proximity through a lens calibrated to survive cruelty.

Just as survivors flinch at sudden movement, they can also flinch at affection, praise, or care. The mind may understand it, but the body contracts, narrowing awareness again, pulling back behind invisible walls.

It isn’t rejection — it’s protection.

This is why healing can’t happen through the mind alone.

Traditional “mental health” work often focuses on thoughts and beliefs, but trauma lives in the body — in fascia, breath, posture, and heartbeat. The nervous system must relearn safety through direct experience: slow breath, grounded movement, eye contact, connection, presence.

Integration is what allows safety to stay.

When mind, body, and soul begin to work together again, the filter shifts — no longer tuned only to threat, but to connection, curiosity, and love.

Expansion Through Stillness

Healing begins when safety returns — not just around us, but within us.

Through practices like mindfulness, breathwork, prayer, nature, art, and even simple rest, we teach the RAS that it can soften its grip.

Modern neuroscience now shows what ancient wisdom has always known: when the body feels safe, the brain’s “default mode network” quiets, and awareness naturally expands.

Stillness doesn’t empty the mind; it reveals it.

In that openness, we rediscover connection, creativity, and compassion — the very qualities trauma tries to erase.

Consciousness and the Future of Awareness

If each brain filters reality uniquely — shaped by neurodiversity, trauma, attention, and environment — then consciousness itself is not fixed, but fluid.

It evolves with our experiences, our technologies, and our collective values.

When education rewards performance over presence, when media feeds fear more than curiosity, our shared awareness narrows.

But it can also widen again — through self-understanding, empathy, and intentional slowing down.

Through reclaiming the power to direct our own filters rather than letting them be hijacked by survival, distraction, or design.

In closing…

Huxley believed the brain’s purpose was to limit consciousness so that we could survive it.

Perhaps our task now is to learn to use that filter wisely — to know when to focus and when to expand, when to protect and when to open.

Survival once required narrowing the mind; thriving now requires widening it.

Awareness grows the moment we notice what’s shaping it — the scroll, the noise, the pace, the fear — and choose, even briefly, to pause.

In that pause, consciousness awakens.

For me, this is where STAND becomes a daily practice of presence:

Stop — pause long enough to notice what’s shaping your awareness (the scroll, the noise, the pace, the fear).

Think — name what your nervous system is doing (threat-focusing or safety-widening).

Act — choose a regulating step: breath, grounding, connection, a kinder word.

Never Doubt — trust your inner truth and the body’s wisdom that safety and connection can return.

Survival required contraction.

Healing invites expansion.

Awareness begins the moment we Stop and make space to Think, Act, and Never Doubt the possibility of wholeness.

In that pause, consciousness awakens — and maybe that’s where the next evolution begins, not through more information, but through presence.

Q. When was the last time you felt truly present — not thinking about life, but living it? - Answers in a journal please  😉

References

Carhart-Harris, R. L., & Friston, K. J. (2019). REBUS and the anarchic brain: Toward a unified model of the brain action of psychedelics. Pharmacological Reviews, 71(3), 316–344. https://doi.org/10.1124/pr.118.017160

Christakis, D. A., Ramirez, J. S. B., Ferguson, S. M., Ravinder, S., & Ramirez, J. M. (2018). How early media exposure may affect cognitive function: A review. Pediatrics, 141(2), e20170335. https://doi.org/10.1542/peds.2017-0335

Crozier, D. J. (2025). When I’m gone: Reclaiming safety, trust & hope after trauma. Self-published via Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing. https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DVGJNGTC

Damasio, A. (2018). The strange order of things: Life, feeling, and the making of cultures. Pantheon Books.

Grandin, T. (2011). The way I see it: A personal look at autism and Asperger’s. Future Horizons.

Huxley, A. (1954). The doors of perception. Chatto & Windus.

LeDoux, J. (2015). Anxious: Using the brain to understand and treat fear and anxiety. Viking.

Liss, M., Mailloux, J., & Erchull, M. (2008). The relationship between sensory processing sensitivity, alexithymia, autism, and empathy. Personality and Individual Differences, 45(3), 255–259. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.paid.2008.04.009

Porges, S. W. (2011). The polyvagal theory: Neurophysiological foundations of emotions, attachment, communication, and self-regulation. W. W. Norton & Company.

Posner, J., Park, C., & Wang, Z. (2014). Connecting the dots: The cerebral basis of ADHD and attention regulation. Nature Reviews Neuroscience, 15(2), 65–81. https://doi.org/10.1038/nrn3654

Raichle, M. E. (2015). The brain’s default mode network. Annual Review of Neuroscience, 38, 433–447. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-neuro-071013-014030

Smallwood, J., & Schooler, J. W. (2015). The science of mind wandering: Empirically navigating the stream of consciousness. Annual Review of Psychology, 66, 487–518. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev-psych-010814-015331

van der Kolk, B. A. (2014). The body keeps the score: Brain, mind, and body in the healing of trauma. Viking.

by Deborah J Crozier

Learning to Say No: Reclaiming Ourselves Through the STAND Framework

 How We Learned to Fear “No”

From early childhood, many of us were conditioned to equate obedience with love. When we complied, we were rewarded with affection or approval.

When we resisted, expressed anger, or said no, we were met with disapproval, punishment, or withdrawal.

We didn’t just learn this from what people told us — we learned it from what we saw.

We watched the adults in our lives say yes with a smile, even when their eyes said no.

We saw them appease, overextend, and agree to things that clearly made them uncomfortable.

We noticed the change in their energy once the visitor left or the phone call ended — the sighs, the frustration, the quiet resentment that followed the polite compliance.

As children, we absorbed that contradiction: the mask of persona — the belief that being kind meant being compliant.

We saw incongruence modelled as normal: the split between how we feel and how we present ourselves to stay safe or accepted. And from that, we learned our first survival pattern — self-abandonment disguised as kindness.

Bit by bit, our nervous systems adapted. We became experts at scanning for disapproval, reading emotional cues, and adjusting ourselves to maintain harmony.

For many, that became the template for love: keep others comfortable, and you might stay safe.

But what begins as protection in childhood often becomes a prison in adulthood.

This became the start of a lifelong pattern: people-pleasing as protection.

The Adult Consequences — When Saying “Yes” Hurts More Than “No”

In our personal lives, this conditioning often shows up as:

• Feeling responsible for other people’s emotions
• Struggling to set boundaries in relationships
• Feeling anxious when others are disappointed
• Over-apologising or explaining ourselves

At work, it might look like:

• Taking on extra tasks to avoid letting others down
• Feeling invisible or undervalued but too afraid to speak up
• Saying “it’s fine” when it isn’t, to avoid conflict
• Burning out while smiling through it

Each of these moments is a quiet act of self-abandonment — a way of saying, your comfort matters more than my wellbeing.

The Hidden Cost — When Manipulation Finds Our Weak Spots

Unfortunately, those who seek to control, dominate, or exploit often recognise this pattern of compliance.

They sense the need to please and use it to maintain power.

It might sound like:

“You’re overreacting.”

“I thought you were kind — why are you being difficult?”

“If you loved me, you’d do this for me.”

These are not innocent phrases; they’re tools of manipulation designed to trigger our deepest fear — the fear of rejection.

When someone learns that our sense of worth is tied to approval, they can press that button repeatedly until we no longer trust our own perception of reality.

This is why learning to say “no” is not simply a communication skill — it’s an act of liberation.

The Process of Recovery — Learning to STAND

Healing begins when we notice the automatic “yes” rising and choose to pause.

That moment — the gap between reaction and response — is where freedom begins.

The STAND framework offers a simple way to practise that pause:

S – Stop.

Notice what’s happening in your body before responding. The tight chest, the quickened breath, the urge to fix — all are signs you’re about to self-abandon.

T – Think.

Ask: Is this my responsibility?

Am I doing this from love or fear?

What’s mine, and what belongs to the other person?

A – Act.

Choose a response that honours your truth — even if it’s uncomfortable.

A boundary said calmly is more powerful than an argument shouted in frustration.

N – Never

D - Doubt.

Never doubt - that protecting your peace is self-care, not selfishness.

You are allowed to exist without explanation.

The Outcome — Reclaiming Connection, Not Losing It

As we learn to STAND, we stop reacting from fear and start responding from truth.

We begin to separate other people’s emotions from our own.

We build relationships based on authenticity rather than appeasement.

We rediscover that belonging doesn’t require disappearing.

Each time we pause, breathe, and choose differently, our nervous system learns a new message:

“I can be safe, even when someone is disappointed.”

That’s where real connection begins — not in saying yes to everyone, but in saying yes to ourselves.

In Closing -

It’s not about becoming hard or detached.

It’s about becoming whole — rooted in integrity, compassion, and self-respect.

When we learn to STAND, we show others how to meet us honestly too.

And that’s where true belonging lives.

Each time you say no without guilt, fear, or shame, you reclaim a piece of yourself that was lost in appeasement.

You remind your nervous system that safety isn’t found in compliance — it’s found in congruence.

If you’d like to learn more about STAND and how to say no with confidence — without guilt, fear, or shame — join our workshop:

STAND: Parents as Protectors, in partnership with Safeguarding Fundamentals.

To register or find out more, visit our website or send a direct message with “DMSTAND” to connect.

Because protecting yourself and those you care for isn’t defiance — it’s self-care.

https://apositivestart.org.uk/stand-parents-as-protectors/

by Deborah J Crozier

Finding Belonging Away From Home

I’ve been reflecting on what it really means to belong — not just to live somewhere, but to feel that deep exhale of “this is home.”

Is it possible to truly belong to a place you weren’t born or raised in?

Is belonging something we’re invited into through acceptance — or something that grows through time, love, and showing up?

Maybe it’s both.

For me, the question runs deeper than geography.

There was a time when my nervous system was always alert — always scanning for threat. My instinct was to run.

That flight response becomes familiar when life has taught you that danger can hide in the ordinary. Sometimes you don’t even notice you’re running — you just keep moving, searching for somewhere that feels safe enough to stop.

In seeking safety, my children and I all, in our own ways, settled far from our original home.

We didn’t plan to scatter — we were simply trying to find a sense of peace, a place where our bodies could rest, where we could breathe without fear.

Over time, I’ve come to realise that belonging doesn’t always begin in comfort.

Sometimes it begins in healing.

It begins when you stay long enough for the ground to feel familiar, when faces at the local shop start to recognise you, when the seasons begin to mark your own memories.

What Does It Take to Belong?

Perhaps belonging isn’t one thing, but a tapestry woven from many threads:

• Time — to let roots take hold
• Love — offered freely, without condition
• Giving — of yourself, your energy, your presence
• Acceptance — of others and of your own story
• Tolerance — for difference and discomfort
• Friendship — that softens the edges of loneliness
• Kindness — to and from those around you
• Being seen and heard — for who you are, not where you came from

Maybe that’s where the heart finally exhales — when all these threads intertwine into a quiet knowing: I belong here.

Belonging Within Ourselves

There’s another kind of belonging — the one that lives inside us.

When we spend years in survival mode, our nervous system is doing everything it can to protect us. It keeps us alert, guarded, and prepared to run or freeze. But protection often comes with a cost: we become strangers to our own bodies.

In survival, there isn’t space to feel at home within ourselves.

Our thoughts, emotions, and bodies can feel disconnected — like we’re scattered pieces instead of one whole being.

That’s where co-regulation becomes vital. Before we can self-regulate, we need to feel safe with someone else.

Safety grows in the presence of calm, attuned people — people whose nervous systems communicate, “You’re safe here. You can rest.”

Through co-regulation, our bodies begin to learn what safety feels like again.

And from that, the capacity for self-regulation — and inner belonging — slowly unfolds.

Belonging, then, isn’t only about where we live; it’s about how safely we can exist within ourselves and alongside others.

It’s the dance between connection and autonomy — between being held and standing on our own.

When we experience co-regulation — through empathy, warmth, understanding — we begin to anchor into safety.

And from that anchor, we can finally inhabit our own mind, body, and soul with gentleness.

Once we belong to ourselves, we find it easier to belong anywhere.

A Reflection

Have you ever found yourself belonging far from where you began — in place, or within yourself?

Who helped you feel safe enough to stay?

by Deborah J Crozier