The Wisdom in Numbness
Numbness is not the absence of feeling—it is the presence of protection.
When a client sits across from me and says, “I don’t feel my body,” I do not rush to fill the silence. I do not label it disconnection. I do not diagnose or intervene. I do not offer a breathing exercise or suggest we shake it out. Instead, I pause. I listen. I make space for the wisdom that lives in what is not felt. Because in that moment, the human in front of me is not describing a problem. They are describing how they survived.
In the field of somatic psychology, we often speak of the body as a source of wisdom—a place where experience is stored, where trauma leaves its imprint, and where healing begins. But in a culture that prizes productivity, resilience, and emotional regulation, we risk turning embodiment into another task, another benchmark of progress. We risk framing numbness, dissociation, or disconnection as personal failures to be fixed.
This is where I take a different approach—this is where my training in somatic psychology takes me. When a woman tells me she cannot feel her body, I don’t push her toward sensation. I don’t praise presence as the ultimate goal. I honor her body’s choice not to feel. Because that choice—whether conscious or unconscious—is evidence of a nervous system that has been working overtime to protect her.
From a somatic lens, numbness is not the absence of feeling—it is the presence of protection. Dissociation, detachment, even the inability to locate sensation—these are not deficits. They are adaptive strategies the body developed to endure. They are sophisticated mechanisms, crafted by the nervous system, to ensure survival when survival felt uncertain.
Dissociation is often misunderstood. It is painted as a problem to correct, as if feeling detached from the body is something that needs to be immediately undone. But dissociation is not the body failing—it is the body stepping in when experience becomes too much to hold. It is a pause. It is protection. It is the body’s way of saying: Not now. Not yet. And that pause deserves respect.
We live in a culture that rewards women for overriding their bodies. We applaud pushing through pain. We normalize skipping meals, numbing desires, smiling through discomfort. We’re taught that the body is something to be managed, controlled, optimized—not something to be listened to or trusted.
Disembodiment, then, is not merely an individual experience—it is a collective one.
It is a consequence of systems that have long asked women to separate from their bodies in order to belong. Patriarchy teaches women that their bodies exist for others. Capitalism teaches that our value lies in our productivity, not our well-being. White supremacy enforces which bodies are seen, valued, and protected—and which are not. Disconnection is not personal failure; it is cultural conditioning. It is survival within systems that profit from our disembodiment.
So when a client says, “I don’t feel my body,” I do not hear resistance. I hear a body that has done exactly what it needed to do. I hear a nervous system that has shielded her from sensations that once threatened to overwhelm. I hear evidence of survival. And that, to me, is wisdom.
This wisdom deserves to be met with respect—not urgency. The online world of therapy, self-help, and the wellness industry often preaches and teaches us that feeling is the goal, and any barrier to sensation is a failure to be overcome.
But feeling isn’t always the goal, because healing is not intended to be forceful. Healing unfolds at the pace the body allows. The nervous system and body cannot be coerced into safety. They can only be invited.
When I sit with numbness, I sit with history. I sit with trauma, both personal and collective. I sit with the ways culture, family, and systems have shaped the relationship between a woman and her body. And I do not rush to change it. Instead, I ask, What is this numbness protecting you from? And I wait. I wait for the body to speak when it is ready—because the body always speaks when safety is present.
It’s important to remember that trauma is not just what happens to us—it’s what happens inside us as a result of what happens to us. And just as critically, trauma is what didn’t happen. It is the absence of what we needed in those moments: the lack of support, of community, of safety. Without these, we are left holding too much alone. The feelings that were meant to move through the body become trapped, suspended, waiting for a time when it is finally safe to feel them. Healing waits—not because we are unwilling, but because our bodies know that without enough support, feeling would only retraumatize.
Trauma leaves an imprint on the nervous system—a chronic state of hypervigilance or collapse that becomes embedded in the tissues, shaping how we experience the world and ourselves. And in a society that teaches women to override their bodies, to ignore their needs, to endure without complaint, trauma and culture intertwine. Together, they widen the gap between sensation and self, between feeling and safety.
This is the paradox of embodiment. It’s not about feeling more for the sake of feeling—it’s about creating the conditions in which feeling becomes safe again. Embodiment is not a destination. It is not a series of exercises or practices we can check off. It is a relationship—a slow, ongoing dialogue between body and self, between past wounds and present safety.
And sometimes, the most embodied thing we can do is honor the numbness. To not rush it away. To sit with it, to recognize it as a protector, to let it know that it no longer has to stand guard alone. Because numbness is not the problem. It is a sign that the body is still holding the line, waiting for enough safety to return.
When a client says she can’t feel her body, I don’t see someone stuck or resistant. I see someone who survived. I see a body that has held her through it all. And I know that when she is ready, her body will tell us how to proceed.
Not feeling your body doesn’t mean you’re broken.
It means your body learned how to keep you safe.
And that, to me, is wisdom.
I love this. Thank you for writing to this. I often tell my clients that the nothing they might feel is actually something. It is information. Just as valuable as big sensations. I am a big fan of your podcast and love your heartFULL and generous approach to the good work you are doing in the world.
This post found me at exactly the right time. I thank you so much for your words - they resonate so deeply with me right now.
Today my therapist asked how I was feeling. I felt like today was a good day so I said calm, but I knew I wasn't totally calm - my body didn't feel calm - it felt on edge. The reason I named that feeling was because I couldn't find something to stress about today, and that label was the first to spring to mind which describe how I was feeling. And I didn't know how to process that, the absence of stress felt uncomfortable. Maybe I don't feel calm right now - maybe I feel numb. And I guess that's OK. My body is still in protection mode from past trauma - my body knows how to cope in stressful situations but the absence of that is unfamiliar. It doesnt feel safe when there isn't anything going on. And so I suppose only by sitting with that unfamiliarity can I become familiar and safe with it.