I recently came across a quote by Charles Darwin that stopped me in my tracks:

“Attention, or conscious concentration on almost any part of the body, produces some direct physical effect on it.”

It immediately brought to mind another familiar line — “Where attention goes, energy flows” — as well as the phrase “What we resist persists,” often attributed to Jung. Taken together, these statements point to something quietly radical.

They feel like a map — or perhaps a key — for moments when we want to turn inward, especially when we are suffering. When emotional pain is present, and sometimes physical pain too, the question becomes unavoidable: how do we move from this? How do we find a way through suffering rather than remaining caught inside it?

What strikes me about Darwin’s observation is how little known it is. This understanding, that attention itself can create a physical shift in the body, is rarely taught, and yet it feels fundamental. I often find myself thinking how different things might be if we learned this early on, if we were educated about the relationship between attention, the body, and change.

And if there’s scepticism here; “I’ve tried sitting with pain and nothing happened” I understand that response. It’s precisely why this needs unpacking. What does this idea really mean, and how do we actually work with it?

I don’t know what Darwin himself intended, or whether he was explicitly referring to emotional experience as well as physical sensation. But I do know that one of the most significant shifts in my own life came when I realised that healing isn’t only something that happens through thinking or talking. Healing also involves coming into the body and being with what is already there.

As I speak about this, the subject seems to widen rather than narrow. There is more to say, and I’m aware that whoever is reading may come with very different levels of familiarity. Some may know this terrain well; others not at all. I ask for patience if I cover ground that feels obvious.

I think back to a time when I knew very little about any of this. Of course, I knew I had emotions, but I didn’t understand that healing often happens by allowing emotions to arise — by creating enough space for them to move through. That allowing, in itself, is a form of movement.

Another way of saying this is that energy wants to move. Movement is its nature. It seeks completion, to arise, to travel its course, and to settle.

Thomas Hübl often uses the image of the Zen circle: a circle with a small gap. The gap is sometimes described as enlightenment, but it is also the place where energy begins. It moves through the full arc of experience and eventually returns to stillness. In many ways, this mirrors what happens in our bodies. We carry unfinished movements, sensations, emotions, impulses, that are quietly asking to complete.

These do not always arrive as recognisable emotions. Often they show up first as tension, bodily sensation, repetitive or anxious thoughts. Over time, these experiences are named as anxiety, depression, rage, collapse, states we find ourselves stuck in rather than moving through.

If we understand that directing attention inward can create movement, that awareness itself has an effect, this represents a small but profound shift. It means that change does not always require altering external circumstances. Something essential can happen internally, through attention alone.

Our culture tends to emphasise changing the outside world. At the same time, some spiritual approaches swing to the opposite extreme and bypass the body altogether. Neither is what I am pointing to here. What I am suggesting is simpler and more grounded: attention, when brought into the body with care, can initiate change.

So how does this work in practice?

Consider anxiety or panic, or perhaps a time you remember being in that state. For one person, panic might register as fear; for another, as a racing heart; for someone else, as tightness, dread, or the thought I’m going to die. There are many layers.

The first step is deceptively simple: what do I notice in my body right now?

Curiosity is crucial here. Curiosity has no agenda. It doesn’t try to fix or remove anything. It simply asks, What is this?The body responds differently to curiosity than it does to resistance. As soon as there is an attempt to push something away or make it stop, movement tends to stall. This is why the idea that what we resist persists matters so much.

With panic in particular, the sensation can feel utterly convincing. There is often a genuine belief that fully feeling it would be unbearable, even fatal. That belief itself keeps the cycle alive.

Something changes when we approach sensation differently. Instead of bracing against it, we can bring attention to it as though with a magnifying glass, gently zooming in, becoming interested. We focus on the strongest part of the sensation, not to analyse it, but to know it.

Staying with sensation is rarely linear. Attention drifts, the mind wanders, we leave the body altogether. This isn’t failure; it’s protective intelligence. The practice is not forcing ourselves to stay, but returning, again and again, without judgement.

Even as I write this, I can notice subtle sensations in my own body: a feeling near my chest, some tension across my upper back. As attention rests there, my breath changes. There is a softening, a small but tangible shift. These changes can seem minor, yet they matter.

Trauma, at its core, is energy that could not complete itself.

Often this is because there was no safe, attuned presence available when overwhelming experiences occurred. Or because something happened that made it impossible to remain in the body. Leaving the body was not a mistake; it was the correct response. It was protective.

When people later try to reconnect with bodily sensation and find the same protective responses returning, nothing has gone wrong. That response deserves respect.

What changes with time is capacity. As adults, we can tolerate sensations that a child could not without support. When sensations are met gently and without agenda, energy that has been held for years can begin to move again. This is what trauma release often looks like, not dramatic, but precise and embodied.

It’s true that trauma healing can be complex. But at its heart, it is about allowing energy to complete its movement.

I wanted to write this because so many people I work with do not know this. They ask why they need to feel their feelings, or why attention keeps returning to the body. The resistance makes sense, especially when the body has been a site of harm or violated boundaries. Going slowly is essential.

At the same time, many people simply haven’t been shown that something this fundamental can create change. Long-standing patterns: fear, procrastination, self-criticism, repeated behaviours, can begin to shift when this relationship with the body is understood.

This is not easy work. Most of us have spent years learning to live in our heads rather than in our bodies.

For me, this was a practice that involved fear at the beginning. My thoughts warned that feeling fully would lead to overwhelm, breakdown, or annihilation. I hear similar fears often: It will take over. It will never end.

Those thoughts feel true until experience shows otherwise.

I remember the first time I was able to sit with panic while feeling supported. I was certain something catastrophic was about to happen. And then, quite suddenly, it passed. It was gone.

Experiences like this gradually build trust. An embodied trust. A knowing that whatever arises can be met. Fear still appears for me at times, but there is far less fear of the fear itself. Often there is even a willingness to turn towards it.

Being present with sensation is sometimes described as “tasting” the feeling,  knowing it directly. When that happens, movement follows.

There are many therapeutic approaches because this process is not always straightforward. Much of therapy, when stripped back, is about helping someone stay with sensation long enough for something to shift. Resistance is strong, and the mind is persuasive.

Listening to the unconscious matters. Defences exist for a reason. I often imagine locked doors: they are not meant to be forced open. They are meant to be honoured.

The body is not against us. It is protecting us.

Many people experience their bodies as adversarial, especially in the context of chronic pain. Yet, with careful attention, it often becomes clear that the body is consistently acting in service of survival and care.

When we listen, doors begin to unlock.

If attention is brought to a sensation and nothing moves, that is information. There may be resistance, an agenda to get rid of the feeling, or something that needs to be heard first. Sometimes asking Can I be with this without trying to change it?is enough to alter the field.

Touch can help; placing a hand on the body, offering physical reassurance. Gently asking, Is there something you want me to know? Presence alone can be transformative.

At times, what blocks movement is shame.

This becomes apparent when the idea of bringing in love feels impossible. When the suggestion of a caring presence is met with an immediate no, it often indicates that a critical, shaming voice from the past has taken over. Shame freezes experience and aligns itself with earlier harm.

In these moments, love, even in the smallest amount  is essential. A memory of a loving gaze, an animal, a tree, a sense of spirit. Anything that allows a trace of compassion to enter can begin to loosen what is held.

Again and again, it is this quality of loving attention that allows movement to resume.

And so we return to these simple, enduring truths:

Attention on the body produces direct physical effect on it.
What we resist persists.
Where attention goes, energy flows.

 

© Lizzie Bryher 2026. All rights reserved.