What Was Protecting Me

How do we know whether we're feeling fear because we're growing... or fear because we're moving away from ourselves?

That question has been swirling through my mind all week.

This morning, it landed in my body.

I woke with a familiar hint of anxiety resting quietly in my core, asking for my attention. In the past, I would have gotten up, gone for a walk or a run, moved it through my body, and then gotten busy with my day. Eventually it would fade, or I'd simply outrun it. But recently, a sore ankle took away my usual escape route. Instead of walking away from the feeling, I decided to sit with it.

Eyes closed. Breath in. Breath out. 

A sensation in my body arose. Familiar, but one that I couldn’t immediately name. I leaned into the feeling because words couldn’t describe it. I became aware of what felt like a quilt covering my entire body. Most of it was colorful and familiar. But there was one area on my back quietly pulling at my attention.

This part wasn't quilted. It was a dense, black, blob-like shape. Not heavy. Not frightening. Just... old. Familiar. Protective.

As I stayed with it, I could feel how still it was. It wasn’t moving at all. It felt like it was sewn into the rest of the quilt, but was an unseen part. I wouldn’t have noticed it was even there if I hadn’t quieted enough to feel its presence. 

I invited this blob like shape to move out of my body, through the back. And then imagined me turning to face it. It didn’t move. It didn’t change.  It simply waited. I asked it, “What are you protecting me from?” It took sometime for a response to emerge. It didn’t come through words. It was an interesting mixture of flashback scenes from childhood and present moment anxiety. And then the answer came… It was protecting me from receiving too much. That wasn’t expected and it caught me off guard. 

The tears came.

There was a feeling of holding back, like putting on the brakes, in receiving. I could receive in small, calculated, logical amounts, but not large, wild, unexpected amounts. “Don't give me anything too big, because I don't trust myself with that.” And maybe even more than that... I don't trust that the giver won't eventually want something in return. And what if what they want isn't something I'm willing or able to give?

I sat with that for a while. 

More curiosity. How old is this story?

Pretty damn old.

And it's not just one story. It's connected to dozens of stories woven together over a lifetime.

One memory surfaced almost immediately. I'm three or four years old, doing backbends in the living room of the house we lived in before I turned five. My grandfather is sitting in a chair watching me. I think I must have been showing him this new thing I had learned to do.

"That's great, Nicole."

Such simple words. He wasn’t praising me as much as he was just noticing me.

That stayed with me.

Being the fifth of seven children meant much of what I did simply went unnoticed, not because my parents weren't loving people, but because life was busy, loud and full. Looking back, I wonder if my grandfather was one of the first people who made me feel seen for something I had done well.

That memory returns to me every now and then. It always leaves me feeling grateful. Receiving genuine acknowledgment was uncommon enough that my body never forgot it.

As I continued with this inner deep dive into the fabric of me, another realization quietly emerged. I've spent much of my life becoming incredibly good at emotional survival.

Honestly, I think I'd win if Survivor wasn't about jungles, finding food, and sleeping outside.

I'd win Emotional Survivor - the version where you're given occasional eye contact, a few encouraging words here and there, and just enough affection to keep going.

It sounds heartbreaking when I write it. But there's a version of me that became incredibly skilled at living on emotional crumbs.

And after years of talking with women about love, relationships, responsibility, and caregiving, I know I'm not alone. Many of us learned to survive on crumbs. Many of us are still surviving on crumbs.

And where am I in that realization? What part of me continues to agree to function that way? I think that is what surprised me most today. Somewhere along the way, I made an agreement with myself to live life never expecting too much from others - so I wouldn’t owe them too much. I could keep my blanket of protection wrapped tightly around me - so I wouldn’t risk emotional entrapment. 

And it started when I was young. I became the easy-going girl. Then the easy-to-please woman. The one who rarely complained. The one who learned to take care of herself. Total independence meant I was doing it right. Relying on others, meant something was wrong with me.

So just stuff the anxiety, the fear, the desire for connection. Forget it. Take care of yourself. Need less. Expect less. Receive less.

At this point in this process, I could see my mind wanting to unravel all the details, make sense of the story… Rather than trying to think my way through it, I invited my psyche to respond in the language it knows best: symbols.

A sail appeared.

Not the whole boat. Just the sail. It glowed amber orange before deepening into red. It didn't necessarily feel comforting, but it felt alive.

I watched the black blob-shape and the sail move toward one another. As they merged, there was a moment of fire. Burning. Then they both became one black shape. For a moment everything was just black. Quiet darkness.

Then, slowly, the blackness began turning into black sand. Tiny grains. Falling away. Little by little. Until all that remained was the white outline of the sail. The center wasn't white. It wasn't completely clear either. It was transparent. Almost like a thin layer of film.

The sail slowly lifted upright again. I invited it back into my body through my back. As it expanded through my shoulders, arms, hands, neck, into my face, down into my hips, legs, and finally my feet... something inside me relaxed. 

And one word came to me.

Direction.

Not direction that I had to manufacture or force. Simply... direction.

It wasn't until later that I understood why.

A sail doesn't create the wind.
It doesn't decide where the ocean goes.
It simply catches what is already moving.

It responds.

Perhaps that's what I've been trying to learn all along.

Over the last year I've made some enormous changes in my life. I stepped out of my marriage. I stepped away from twenty years of teaching piano. Both had felt deeply dissonant long before I had words for why that was. Staying no longer felt like growth. It felt like I was slowly moving away from myself.

But once we leave something that no longer fits, certainty and clear direction don’t magically appear. There is still experimentation. Still wondering. Still trying something, noticing how it feels, adjusting course, and trying again.

I've been asking whether what I'm feeling is fear, as if fear itself could tell me which direction to go. But fear doesn't seem to work that way. I've felt fear when I was moving toward myself, and I've felt fear when I was moving away from myself.

The deeper question, I'm beginning to see, is whether something feels resonant or dissonant. Whether it quietly expands something inside me... or slowly drains me.

Today, I don't know exactly where the wind is taking me. But I notice that I'm more interested in paying attention to the wind than forcing myself to choose a destination.

That feels surprisingly peaceful.

Maybe that's what resonance feels like.

Not certainty.

Not the absence of fear.

Just a quiet willingness to keep moving in the direction that expands something inside us.

I'm curious...

What quietly expands something inside you?