Grounding the Wind: A Somatic Step on the Timeline of Healing

Yesterday, I sat with a realization that had been trying to speak to me for a long time:

I was searching for answers when I didn’t even know the question.

Today, I dropped deeper.

Through somatic work, I found myself trying to describe a sensation in my body.

The best word I could find was wind—not a tornado, not a soft breeze.

Something swirling. Persistent.

Everywhere and nowhere all at once.

At first, I thought it was just energy.

But then I realized—it was a distraction.

That wind I’ve felt inside me for years?

I wasn’t just feeling it...I was grounding it.

I was anchoring the distraction within me.

Giving it space, giving it permission to stay.

Thinking I was grounding myself when, really, I was grounding the chaos I had never asked for.

The Wind Wasn’t Mine—But It Lived in Me

That whirlwind began long ago.

When my mother tried to take her own life.

When the babysitter’s partner beat me.

When my father left.

When my brother died.

I didn’t ask for any of it.

But those moments became part of me.

And the wind?

That became the thing that kept me moving.

Always forward. Always in motion.

Only now do I see—the motion was empty.

I was going through the motions, believing movement meant healing.

But sometimes, motion is just escape dressed up as progress.

Somatic Insight Along the Timeline of Healing

Each step on the timeline of healing reveals something new.

Yesterday was the mind.

Today, the body.

And the body doesn’t lie.

In that session, I felt the truth:

That the whirlwind was never meant to be my foundation.

I don’t have to keep anchoring it just because it’s familiar.

That I am allowed—fully allowed—to feel what happened.

To honor those moments, not suppress them.

To cry. To grieve. To breathe.

To release.

Because only then, without the whirlwind, can I begin to uncover my truth.

Letting Go of the Anchor

What I once mistook for grounding was really survival.

Survival is sacred, but it’s not the same as living.

Now, I’m choosing to live.

To no longer give chaos a home in my body.

To stop mistaking the storm for strength.

To stand still—without spinning—and know I am safe.

This is my next step

on a nonlinear, deeply human

timeline of healing.

And it’s okay if the next step is simply stillness.