Somatic Meditation: What Over 10 Years of Meditation Has Taught Me About My Body
The Heart of This Blog
After more than ten years of meditation practice, teaching, training meditation teachers, leading retreats and sitting with hundreds of students in this work, one of the clearest things I have learned is that meditation is not just something we do with the mind.
It is something we meet through the body.
I do not say that lightly, because when I first came to meditation, I was not looking for a deep embodied spiritual practice. I was looking to relax, to quieten the noise in my mind, to feel less tightly wound in my body and to find a little more space from the constant hum of thinking, feeling, planning and holding everything together.
For a while, meditation did give me that. There were moments where something softened, where I could feel a wider space around my thoughts, where the world seemed to slow down enough for me to breathe again.
But body scans? Body awareness? Somatic meditation?
Honestly, I found a lot of it uncomfortable.
At the time, I did not understand why. I probably would have thought I was simply bad at it, too distracted, too restless, too unable to settle. Looking back now, through years of meditation practice, nervous system training, somatic therapy and teaching others, I can see that my body was not being difficult. My body was being protective.
My nervous system was heightened. I was disconnected from myself in ways I did not yet have words for. And I had not always been guided by people who knew how to bring me towards my body safely, gently and with enough choice.
That changed everything for me.
It also changed how I teach.
My relationship with meditation has been long, layered and very human
I have been in the world of meditation for over ten years now and meditation has been part of my personal practice, my professional work, my teaching, my training and my own inner life for a long time. For many years I have been a teacher trainer with the Australian Centre for Meditation and Mindfulness, supporting the training of meditation and mindfulness students as they learn how to guide others safely and skilfully.
Alongside that, I have facilitated retreats, supported students through their own practice challenges, run my own meditation classes online and in person, and taken meditation into corporate spaces, schools, community settings and women’s retreats.
So when I speak about meditation, I am not speaking from theory alone.
I am speaking from years of watching what happens when real people with real nervous systems meet practice.
Some people soften quickly and feel more connected through meditation, while others suddenly realise how tired they are, how much they have been carrying, or how unfamiliar it feels to be with themselves without distraction. I have watched students discover the beauty of presence, and I have also seen people try very hard to be “good” at meditation while quietly leaving their body behind.
I have done some of that myself too.
That is part of why my relationship with meditation keeps changing. It has never been a neat spiritual identity I can put on a shelf and say, “there, I understand it now.” It has been an evolving relationship, sometimes tender, sometimes confronting, sometimes spacious, sometimes annoying, sometimes incredibly ordinary, and always asking me to come back to what is true in the body rather than what I think a calm or spiritual person should look like.
I started meditation because I wanted to relax, but my body had other ideas
When I first started meditating, I wanted what a lot of people want.
Relief and some kind of internal pause button.
There were moments where meditation offered that, and I still honour those early experiences because they gave me a doorway into a way of being I had not really known before. Yet the practices that brought me closest to my body often felt the hardest.
Body scans irritated me. Closing my eyes felt hard. Breath awareness could feel uncomfortable. Somatic meditation felt like being asked to turn towards a place I did not yet trust, and at that stage of my life I did not have enough understanding of the nervous system to know why that might be.
Now I can see it differently.
My body was not refusing meditation.
It was letting me know that going inward was not simple for me.
Many of us, especially women, have learned to live from the neck up. We think, plan, anticipate, organise, care, perform, respond, manage and hold everything together, often while ignoring the quieter signals of the body until they become impossible to ignore. So when a meditation guide says, “bring your awareness into your body,” it can sound simple, but for a heightened or disconnected nervous system, that can feel like stepping into a room that has been locked for a long time.
Of course there might be resistance and the mind wanders.
But the body might also go numb, restless, heavy, anxious or blank.
The body is always communicating, even when the communication is “not there,” “too much,” “I don’t know,” or “please do not make me feel this yet.”
That is why safe guidance matters.
Why a meditation guide needs to understand the nervous system
A meditation guide can have a beautiful voice, a peaceful script and a lovely room, but if they do not understand the nervous system, they can accidentally lead people into places that feel too much.
I say that with care, because I know most meditation teachers are trying to help. Still, good intentions are not enough when people arrive with trauma histories, anxiety, burnout, grief, chronic stress, neurodivergence, pregnancy, postpartum depletion, pain, medical trauma, fertility grief, dissociation, shutdown or simply a very tender relationship with their body.
Meditation is not neutral for every body.
Closing the eyes may feel restful for one person and unsafe for another. Breath awareness may feel grounding to someone who has a steady relationship with their body, while another person may become more anxious when they notice their breathing too closely. Silence can be sacred, but it can also feel empty, exposing or overwhelming if someone does not have enough inner or outer support.
This is why I care so deeply about trauma-informed meditation, somatic meditation and body-led meditation.
A guide needs to know how to offer options. They need to understand that eyes can stay open, bodies can move, breath does not need to be the only anchor, and a person may need to orient to the room, the sounds, the floor, the trees outside the window or the feeling of a blanket before they can safely turn inward.
I truly believe that real care lives in the details.
When meditation becomes another way to override the body
Over the years, both in myself and in students I have supported, I have seen how easily meditation can become another place where people override themselves.
A person can sit beautifully still while their whole body is bracing. Someone might say they are “observing” their feelings, but really they are floating above them, trying not to be touched. Another may use spiritual language around acceptance or non-attachment while their body is quietly asking for anger, boundaries, grief or protection to be acknowledged.
This can be especially familiar for women who have been praised for being calm, capable, agreeable, low-maintenance, helpful or emotionally contained.
Meditation, when taught without a body and nervous system lens, can accidentally become more of the same.
Be quieter.
Stay still.
Do not react.
Rise above it.
Let it go.
Find peace.
Those instructions can be beautiful in the right context, but they can also be misused. Someone who freezes under pressure may not need more stillness as their first doorway. A woman who has been over-giving for years may not need a practice that makes her more accommodating before she has had the chance to feel her no.
The body often knows these things before the mind does.
Somatic meditation makes room for that knowing.
Spiritual bypassing in meditation is often very well dressed
Spiritual bypassing is when spiritual ideas or practices are used to move around pain rather than meet it.
It can sound very wise and from the outside, it can even look peaceful.
A person may speak about acceptance when they are actually in collapse, or talk about compassion while abandoning their own boundaries. Detachment can sometimes be confused with dissociation, and calm can be mistaken for regulation when the body has actually gone far away.
Some people become very skilled at witnessing thoughts, but much less comfortable feeling the body. Others learn to breathe their way through emotion without ever asking what that emotion is trying to say.
There is nothing wrong with wanting peace.
The difficulty begins when peace becomes another way to silence the body.
At its deepest, it invites us into relationship with life as it is moving through us, and life moves through sensation, emotion, breath, impulse, memory, longing, boundary, grief, tenderness and all the places we would sometimes rather skip.
What my silent meditation retreat taught me
One of the experiences that really shaped the way I now understand meditation was a silent retreat I attended years ago.
I went into it with such sincerity. I wanted to meet myself in the silence and I think, if I am honest, there was also a part of me that wanted to be good at it. The devoted meditator. The one who could sit, surrender, stay, breathe, be still, follow the instructions and come out the other side somehow clearer, wiser and more peaceful.
There were beautiful moments. Silence does change the texture of things. Birds sound different. A cup of tea becomes a whole experience. The mind gets louder because there is nowhere for it to hide, and ordinary things start to feel strangely vivid because life has slowed down enough for you to actually notice them.
But my body was not peaceful.
By day six, I was in full flight mode.
Not a little restless. Not simply challenged by the practice. My nervous system was activated, my body was saying no, and I did not yet have the somatic language I have now to fully understand what was happening. I just knew I could not stay.
So I left.
At the time, there was a huge part of me that felt like I had failed and felt deeply ashamed. I imagine many people would feel that way, especially in meditation spaces where staying is often quietly treated as strength and leaving can feel like not being disciplined enough. But when I look back now, I can see that my body trying to protect me.
I see a nervous system that had moved beyond its window of tolerance and woman who was being asked to keep sitting still when her whole system was mobilising to get out.
That retreat taught me something I still carry into my work now: meditation does not only open peace. It can also open what has been waiting underneath the noise, and if there is not enough support, choice, grounding or trauma-sensitive guidance, the practice can become too much.
This is the part of meditation I think we need to be more honest about.
Silence can be sacred, but it can also be exposing.
Stillness can be deeply restful, but it can also feel trapping to a body that is activated.
Going inward can be beautiful, but it is not automatically safe for every nervous system at every moment.
A silent retreat is not inherently healing just because it is quiet, spiritual or traditional. Depth does not come from forcing someone to stay beyond their capacity. True depth needs enough steadiness, enough choice, enough support and enough respect for the body that is actually in the room.
That experience changed the way I guide meditation.
I no longer believe the “best” meditator is the one who can sit through anything. I am much more interested in whether someone can stay in relationship with themselves, notice when their body is moving into overwhelm, honour the signals that are arising, and choose what actually supports their nervous system.
Sometimes that means staying, at other times it means moving or it means opening the eyes, feeling the ground, stepping outside, asking for support, or ending the practice altogether.
Leaving that retreat did not make me less committed to meditation.
In many ways, it made my relationship with meditation more honest, trauma informed and body-led.
Traditional meditation does not always work for every body
Traditional meditation often assumes that stillness, silence, closed eyes and breath awareness are safe and accessible starting points.
For some people, they are.
Others may have a very different experience.
If someone is anxious, traumatised, burnt out, grieving, postpartum, neurodivergent, chronically stressed, living in shutdown, or carrying a history of having their body ignored, touched without consent, criticised, shamed or made unsafe, being asked to close the eyes and go inward may not feel calming at all.
Rather than settling, they might feel more anxious. Instead of peace, they may notice intrusive memories, agitation, numbness, panic or a sense of floating away from themselves. A person can leave a meditation class thinking they failed, when actually their nervous system was doing exactly what it learned to do to protect them.
This is something I wish more meditation spaces understood.
Someone who cannot sit still is not necessarily undisciplined.
A person who needs to keep their eyes open is not doing a lesser version of practice.
When breath awareness feels activating, the answer is not always to keep returning to the breath.
If silence feels too much, more willpower is rarely the medicine.
Support may look like movement, grounding, orientation, shorter practices, a different anchor, a clearer beginning and ending, or simply a guide who says, “you can adapt this in a way that works for your body.”
What is somatic meditation?
Somatic meditation is a body-based approach to meditation that includes the felt experience of the body, rather than treating the body as something separate from awareness.
In somatic meditation, we listen to sensations, emotions, breath, posture, impulses, nervous system states, images, tension, numbness, heaviness, warmth, contraction, softening and the subtle ways the body communicates.
The aim is not to force calm or empty the mind. Nor is it about performing serenity while something inside us is quietly screaming.
Somatic meditation invites a relationship with what is happening in the body, with enough gentleness, curiosity and choice that the nervous system does not need to be pushed beyond its capacity.
For one person, this may look like sitting quietly and feeling the breath. Another may need eyes open, feet on the ground and awareness of the room. Someone else might find their way in through movement, touch, sound, walking, stretching, drawing, journaling or lying down under a blanket with one hand on their heart.
What is body-led meditation?
Body-led meditation follows the wisdom, capacity and needs of the body.
Rather than forcing the body into a shape that looks like meditation, the practice begins by asking what kind of support this body actually needs today.
Does stillness feel nourishing, or would movement help the system settle?
Would closing the eyes deepen the practice, or would keeping them open feel more steady?
Is the breath a helpful anchor right now, or would sound, touch, sight or the feeling of the floor be more supportive?
Could the body sit, lie down, stand, walk, sway or stretch?
Am I becoming more connected to myself, or am I starting to disappear?
These questions change the whole feeling of meditation.
Instead of pushing through, the body becomes part of the conversation. This matters because the body is not an obstacle to spiritual or inner life. It is one of the ways we come into contact with it.
The nervous system is always in the room
Meditation is often spoken about as though it is mainly about attention, awareness and the mind, but the nervous system is always there.
Always.
A body that has learned to stay alert may meet meditation through vigilance. A body shaped by shutdown may first reveal fog, heaviness or numbness. Someone who has survived by staying busy may feel agitated when there is suddenly nowhere to go, while a woman who learned to please may notice how quickly she tries to do the practice “properly” rather than listen to herself.
None of this means meditation is wrong for you.
It means meditation needs to be adapted to you.
A nervous-system-led approach does not only ask, “Can you be present?” It asks, “What kind of presence feels safe enough for this body right now?”
The answer will not be the same every day.
Breath might be supportive one morning and too much the next. Movement may be needed before stillness. A walk outside could be more meditative than sitting on a cushion trying not to crawl out of your skin.
Sometimes the most embodied practice is looking at the trees, feeling your feet, noticing the air on your skin and remembering that you are here, in this moment, in relationship with the world around you.
That counts.
Honestly, sometimes that is the practice.
Why movement belongs in meditation
Movement has become one of the parts of meditation I care about most,
For so long, many of us were taught that meditation meant stillness, and while stillness can be beautiful, it is not the only doorway into presence.
The nervous system does not always regulate through stillness.
A body with a lot of activation may need to move before it can rest. Shoulders might want to roll, hands may want to push, the jaw may need to loosen, the spine may want to sway, or the whole body may be asking to walk, rock, stretch, shake or dance.
Movement can help discharge stress, bring sensation back into numb places, soften bracing, express what has been held in and give the body a way to participate in the meditation.
This does not need to be dramatic.
A hand slowly opening can be a meditation.
So can a gentle turning of the head, a shift of weight, a stretch through the ribs, a slow rock, a hand on the belly, or a tiny movement that says, “I am here.”
For women who find stillness difficult, for mothers who are touched out and overstimulated, for postpartum bodies, anxious bodies, grieving bodies and bodies that have learned stillness is not always safe, movement can be the doorway that makes meditation possible.
After the body has been allowed to move, stillness may arrive naturally.
Trauma-informed meditation is about respect, not overcomplication
Some people hear the phrase trauma-informed meditation and imagine something overly clinical or cautious.
To me, trauma-informed meditation is about humility. It is remembering that as a teacher, I do not know the full history of the person sitting in front of me.
Their body may have survived things I know nothing about. Closing the eyes might feel fine, or it might feel impossible. Breath awareness may be soothing, neutral or activating. Silence could be spacious, or it could feel like too much too soon.
Because I do not know, I guide with choice.
Options and pacing matter and language matters too, perhaps more than many people realise.
Instead of saying, “you are safe,” I might invite someone to notice whether anything in the room, the ground, the chair, the sounds or the breath feels supportive or steady enough right now.
Rather than telling a group, “you feel calm,” I may say, “you might notice whether there is any ease here, even a very small amount, or you may simply notice what is present.”
If inner body awareness feels too direct, attention can stay with an outer anchor such as sound, light, texture, contact with the floor, or something in the room that helps the person feel oriented.
It is making it feel safer for more bodies.
Language matters more than people realise
The words used in meditation land in the body.
They can soften or pressure, open a doorway or close one.
There is a big difference between “you are deeply relaxed now” and “you may notice whether any part of you feels able to soften.”
A phrase like “let go completely” can sound lovely, but for someone whose body has needed to hold on for survival, it may feel too much. A gentler invitation might be, “you might allow the body to release what feels ready, in its own time.”
Specific body language also needs care. Not everyone has the same relationship with their belly, chest, pelvis, womb, reproductive organs, scars, pain, gender, fertility, birth history or trauma history. A guide who assumes too much can accidentally lead someone into a place that feels vulnerable or unsafe.
More spacious language often creates more room.
Instead of directing everyone to a specific intimate area of the body, I might say “the lower belly,” “the pelvic area,” “the centre of the body,” “the inner landscape,” or “any part of you that is asking for attention now.”
Good meditation guidance does not impose an experience.
It creates conditions where a person can discover what is true for them.
Meditation should include real bodies
When I say meditation needs to include the body, I mean all bodies.
Not only calm bodies, flexible bodies, able bodies, still bodies, rested bodies or bodies that can sit upright for forty-five minutes with their eyes closed and their breath perfectly slow.
Real bodies need room.
Pregnant bodies. Postpartum bodies. Bodies in pain. Bodies with trauma. Bodies in transition. Bodies with disability. Bodies with fatigue. Bodies with sensory sensitivities. Bodies that are grieving. Bodies that are anxious. Bodies with children climbing on them. Bodies that need to move, pause, lie down, look around, leave the room or say, “not today.”
A meditation practice that cannot include real bodies is too small for the lives we are actually living.
Body-led meditation makes more space.
What over 10 years of meditation has really taught me
After all these years, I do not think meditation is about becoming a perfectly calm person.
Thank goodness, because I am still very much a human woman with a nervous system, children, moods, tenderness, impatience, history, love, grief, laundry and a body that has opinions.
Meditation has taught me that:
Awareness is not the same as control.
Stillness is not always safer than movement.
Presence without compassion can become another form of discipline.
A practice can be spiritual and practical, ordinary and sacred, beautiful and messy.
Most of all, meditation has taught me that coming home to myself is not a final destination. It is a relationship. An ongoing one.
Again and again, practice asks me to listen.
To notice when I am performing calm instead of feeling what is real.
To include my body, not just my awareness.
Somatic meditation for women navigating anxiety, overwhelm and transition
This is why I now offer somatic meditation and body-led meditation for women moving through anxiety, overwhelm, burnout, motherhood, grief, trauma and life transitions.
So many women do not need another practice that tells them to be calmer, quieter or more disciplined.
What many of us need is a practice that helps us feel safe enough to listen.
A way to notice the body we have been living in, caring from, surviving through and sometimes quietly leaving behind.
A meditation practice can make room for the nervous system, for movement, for tears, for numbness, for uncertainty and for all the parts of us that do not fit neatly inside an idealised picture of peace.
Body-led meditation is not about getting meditation right.
It is about being in a more honest, compassionate and responsive relationship with yourself.
A gentle invitation
If meditation has ever felt hard for you, I want you to know that it may not be because you are bad at it.
The practice may not have been shaped for your body.
Perhaps your nervous system needed more choice, or stillness arrived too soon. Maybe breath awareness was not the safest anchor, or your body needed movement before quiet. It could be that what you needed was not more discipline, but more listening.
There is another way.
One where meditation is not used to leave yourself, but to return.
FAQs About Somatic Meditation and Body-Led Meditation
What is somatic meditation?
Somatic meditation is a body-based approach to meditation that includes sensations, emotions, nervous system states, movement impulses, breath, posture and embodied awareness. Rather than trying to quiet the mind or transcend the body, somatic meditation helps you listen to what is happening in your body with curiosity and care.
What is body-led meditation?
Body-led meditation follows the needs, capacity and wisdom of the body. It may include stillness, movement, breath awareness, grounding, self-touch, sound, imagery, walking, stretching or simply noticing what feels supportive in the moment.
Is somatic meditation good for anxiety?
Somatic meditation can support anxiety by helping you notice how anxiety lives in the body, such as tension, racing thoughts, shallow breathing, restlessness or urgency. Instead of forcing calm, it supports a safer and more compassionate relationship with your nervous system.
Why did I used to hate body scans?
Many people dislike body scans because body awareness can feel uncomfortable, exposing or activating, especially when the nervous system is heightened or there is a history of disconnection from the body. This does not mean you are bad at meditation. It may mean your body needs more choice, grounding, movement, pacing or a different kind of guidance.
Why does meditation sometimes make anxiety worse?
Meditation can make anxiety feel worse when the practice brings too much attention to uncomfortable sensations, thoughts or memories without enough grounding, choice or support. For some people, closing the eyes, focusing on the breath or sitting still can feel activating rather than calming.
What is trauma-informed meditation?
Trauma-informed meditation recognises that trauma can affect the body and nervous system. It includes choice, consent, grounding, flexible anchors, open eyes, movement options, shorter practices and permission to stop or adapt the practice when needed.
Do I have to sit still to meditate?
No. Meditation does not have to involve sitting still. Movement can be a deeply supportive part of meditation, especially for people experiencing anxiety, restlessness, shutdown, trauma, grief, postpartum depletion or nervous system overwhelm.
Can movement be part of meditation?
Yes. Movement can be part of meditation when it is done with awareness and connection to the body. Gentle stretching, swaying, rocking, walking, shaking, intuitive movement or small gestures can all help the nervous system regulate and allow the body to express what it is holding.
What is spiritual bypassing in meditation?
Spiritual bypassing happens when spiritual practices or ideas are used to avoid emotional pain, trauma, anger, grief, boundaries or the body’s needs. In meditation, this can look like trying to rise above feelings before they have been acknowledged or using calmness to override what the body is truly experiencing.
Is breath awareness always safe in meditation?
Breath awareness is helpful for many people, but it is not always the best starting point for everyone. For some people, especially those with trauma, anxiety or panic, focusing on the breath can feel uncomfortable or activating. Other anchors, such as sound, touch, sight, movement or the feeling of the feet on the floor, may be more supportive.
Who is body-led meditation for?
Body-led meditation can be supportive for women navigating anxiety, emotional overwhelm, motherhood, postpartum changes, burnout, grief, trauma, fertility challenges, life transitions or a sense of disconnection from the body. It is especially helpful for people who want meditation to feel more inclusive, gentle and nervous-system aware.
