Your Body Is Talking to You—Are You Listening?

When I share that I’m now a Certified Focusing Professional, I often notice a pause. A puzzled expression.

For many, the word Focusing brings to mind productivity, mental concentration, or something vaguely “woo-woo.”

But what I practice isn’t mystical or obscure—it’s deeply human.

And it begins with something surprisingly simple: learning how to be present with what’s really happening within us.

What Inner Work Really Means

Inner work isn’t about striving or self-fixing. It’s about becoming less judging, more present, and more compassionate with what’s alive inside you.

At its heart, it means turning inward—toward your thoughts, emotions, beliefs, and bodily sensations. Not to analyze or control them, but to be with them. To listen to what’s there, especially when it’s subtle or unnamed.

This kind of presence invites you to notice not just what you’re feeling, but how you feel it—in your body. A heaviness in the chest. A flutter in the belly. A knot in the throat. These aren’t problems to fix; they’re signals. Invitations. Starting points.

As Robert Ellis writes, “Inner work is the courageous process of turning inward to uncover, trust, and create from your essence.”

It’s not about improvement—it’s about alignment.

What Do We Mean by Embodiment?

Embodiment is the experience of being in and with your body—not just intellectually aware of it, but attuned to it as a living source of truth and wisdom.

It’s the shift from thinking about a feeling to sensing where that feeling lives.From narrating your experience from the outside to inhabiting it from the inside.

To be embodied is to include your body in how you know, decide, and relate.It’s feeling the tightness that says “this doesn’t feel right,” or the warmth that quietly affirms a yes—even before you find the words.

In a world that pulls us out of ourselves, embodiment is a quiet return.It reminds us that insight doesn’t only come from thinking more—but from listening differently.

A Moment of Inner Listening

Elena sat in her parked car outside the office. She was supposed to head inside for a meeting, but her hands stayed on the steering wheel. Something felt off—tight, reluctant.

She told herself she was just being dramatic. “It’s a meeting, not a root canal,” she muttered.

But her stomach disagreed—doing that quiet clench it did when she was pushing past herself.

Instead of brushing it off, she paused.

She closed her eyes. Let her shoulders drop. Her breath came in shallow, but she followed it anyway.

Beneath the chatter of her thoughts, she noticed something else: a quiet ache in her chest, almost like a tug.

And with it, a phrase bubbled up: I don’t want to be here today.

Not because she didn’t care. But because she was tired of pretending to be okay when she wasn’t.

Tired of performing when she needed rest.

The body had known it long before she did.

She didn’t drive away. She didn’t cancel. But she made space to listen—and that changed what came next.

A Different Kind of Listening

Most of us are practiced at listening to others.

But how often do we listen to ourselves—not just to our thoughts, but to the quiet, bodily signals underneath?

There’s a way of paying attention that’s slower, kinder, and more curious than what we’re taught in our go-go-go world.

A way of turning inward that doesn’t demand clarity right away but trusts that something meaningful is already forming—if we can learn how to meet it.

It begins with a pause. A breath. Silence. A moment of sensing what’s here now.

Without needing to name it or fix it.

Over time, this way of listening becomes a kind of inner companionship.

A space where even the tangled parts of us—the ones that feel stuck, ashamed, overwhelmed—can start to feel heard.

Not analyzed. Not pushed aside. Just met.

And when they’re met, they often begin to soften.

To shift.

To show us what they’ve been holding all along.

The Story Doesn’t End in the Car

Elena walked into the meeting a few minutes late.

Normally, she’d be flustered—apologizing, shrinking, pretending everything was fine.

But today, something felt different. Not dramatic. Just… quieter.

She nodded a soft hello and took her seat.

Throughout the meeting, she noticed how the familiar pressure to perform was still there—but not driving.

She felt the urge to speak up, to prove she was on top of things.

But alongside that was something else: the memory of her breath, the ache in her chest, the phrase that had surfaced.

I don’t want to be here today.

It was still true. But now it was held, not hidden.

And holding it changed things.

She said only what she needed to.

She didn’t override herself to sound impressive.

She listened. To the others. To herself.

Afterwards, a colleague pulled her aside.“Hey, I don’t know what it was,” they said, “but something about you felt really grounded in there.”

Elena smiled—genuinely this time.

Not to please, but because she’d remembered something small and important:

She could be in a room without leaving herself behind.

Whole-Brain Listening

This kind of listening isn’t a technique—it’s a language.

And it’s not something you master with your left brain alone.

It’s a whole-brain practice—one that invites the right hemisphere’s openness, spaciousness, and connection with the body, alongside the left’s capacity to name, reflect, and make meaning.

The left hemisphere tends to focus, categorize, and explain.It’s brilliant at language and logic—but it can also override or dismiss what doesn’t fit.

The right hemisphere, by contrast, is more attuned to the body, to emotion, to what’s implicit and not yet formed.

It listens in a different way—more relational, more intuitive, more present.

When we practice this kind of inner listening, we’re not just calming down.

We’re re-balancing.

We’re letting our sensing come first.

And when both sides begin to work together, something powerful happens:

We begin to feel more whole.

This is the skill.

This is the language.

Not one we invent—but one we remember.

Try This: A Simple Pause

If you're feeling overwhelmed, scattered, or just a little disconnected, here's something small you can do:

• Pause for a moment. Let your hands rest. Let your shoulders ease. No performance—just presence.
  

• Feel your body. Notice your feet on the floor, the support beneath you, the texture of what you’re holding. This simple awareness anchors you in now.
  

• Take a few slow breaths. Let them come and go without needing to deepen or control. Just be with them. Let the moment breathe.
  

• Place a hand on your heart—or wherever feels right. Ask inwardly:

  How am I right now? What’s needing attention in me? What would help me feel even a little more ease?

  
  

There’s nothing to solve. Just something to meet.

Listening That Changes Us

You might try this pause once a day—or simply when something in you feels off, tight, or tender.

There’s no right moment. Just the one you’re in.

Afterwards, notice what shifted.

Did something soften? Did a phrase or image arise? Did your breath change, even slightly?

You don’t need to journal (but you can) or analyze (don't)—just acknowledge what came.

This is how the body begins to trust that you’re listening.

If you'd like to explore this kind of inner listening more deeply, you're welcome to connect with me via my website simoneislistening.com.

This is the work I guide—quietly, gently, with compassion and empathy.

Inspired in part by the teachings of Eugene Gendlin, Ann Weiser-Cornell, Jeffrey Morrison, Robert Ellis, and Peter Afford.

A moment of pause. A breath. A view that reminds us: presence is enough. Photo Unsplash.