What Does It Actually Feel Like to Be Connected to Yourself?

It was about 65 degrees when the dogs and I headed out early in the morning to pick Oregon grapes. The sun was up, but it hadn't reached our side of the hill yet, so it was still cool enough that I wasn't sweating—which I knew wouldn't last long.

My pittie puppy, Athena, stayed pretty close to me while my Cairn terrier, Hades, took off exploring, coming back every so often to check in. The birds were being their usual noisy selves, and with all the smoke in the air, the sun was this strange orange color when I could see it through the trees.

And because this is Montana, I'm looking for berries while also keeping an eye out for bears.

No bears that morning.

Just bear poop.

I'll take it.

Where I pick Oregon grapes is pretty steep. The ground was wet with dew that morning, so you have to pay attention to where you're putting your feet. In some places the hill is steep enough that I can reach straight out and pick berries that normally grow close to the ground.

Picking them takes a little work. You spot a cluster, reach through the bushes and try not to grab a spider along with your berries. The Oregon grape leaves are pokey, so between those, the spiders, the slippery ground and trying to keep my balance, there's plenty to pay attention to.

If I'm already bent down picking a bunch, I'll stay there and look around from that level for the next one. Sometimes you don't see a cluster until you're practically eye level with it.

I also try not to take more than a third of the berries in an area. I want to leave plenty for the animals and enough for the plants to keep doing what they're supposed to do.

That morning it took me about two hours to pick eight cups, which leaves plenty of time for my brain to do what it does best.

Think about everything.

What's on my list today? What didn't I finish yesterday? What needs to be done with the business? What did I forget? What should I be doing instead of wandering around on a hill picking berries?

And probably ten other things that don't need my attention at all.

But somewhere along the way, something changes.

I never notice exactly when it happens.

I'm reaching for berries, watching where I put my feet, listening to the birds and keeping track of the dogs. My hands know what they're doing, my body knows what it's doing, and little by little my brain stops trying to manage everything.

The noise settles.

By the time we're getting toward the top of the hill, my mind is almost silent.

I'm not trying to meditate. I'm not trying to clear my thoughts or solve anything. I'm just picking berries.

As we climb higher, the sun finally starts reaching our side of the hill. With all the smoke, it's orange, and if I look toward it too quickly and then look away, I see little green spots for a while.

When we crest the hill into the meadow, I stop and look around for bears before we move on. That's also one of those moments when I check in with myself. I'm tired, but I feel good. My body has been working hard, but my brain isn't working hard anymore.

Coming back down takes a little more concentration. Wet grass, a steep hill, and dogs who apparently don't understand that walking directly in front of my feet isn't helpful will bring you right back to the present moment. (LOL.)

By the time we get home, we've been gone about two hours. I'm sweaty, my legs know they've had a workout, and I've managed to collect eight cups of Oregon grapes.

But I notice something else.

The brain that left the house going busy, busy, busy is quiet.

I feel peaceful.

Present.

More like myself.

And that's what got me thinking about something I talk about all the time:

What does it actually feel like to be connected to yourself?

In This Article

• When I Don't Feel Like Me

• Connected is Softer

• When Yes is Easier Than No

• Coming Back to Myself

When I'm disconnected from myself, most people probably wouldn't even know it.

I still function. I make dinner, get things done, talk to people and go through my day. If you asked me how I was doing, I'd probably tell you I was fine.

But I don't really feel like me.

Most of the time it happens slowly. The best way I can describe it is like standing in rising water. At first, the water is only around your ankles, so you keep standing there. Then it's at your knees, then your waist, and you still don't move because technically you're still standing.

Eventually, the water closes over you and you disappear.

That's what disconnection can feel like for me.

I get foggy and start operating on autopilot. If someone asks what I want, it's not that I know my answer and ignore it. I don't even bother asking myself the question.

I just agree.

Whatever you want. Sure. That's fine.

You would think this would make me incredibly easy to get along with.

It doesn't. LOL.

My voice gets almost monotone. Things I normally enjoy don't turn out quite right. Dinner doesn't taste as good. I move through the day doing what needs to be done, but I'm not completely there while I'm doing it.

And apparently, even though I'm agreeing with everyone, I give off a very strong Go ahead, ask me for one more thing. I dare you vibe.

The funny part is, I'll probably still say yes if you do.

Sometimes a really stressful situation can flip that switch almost instantly. But usually I don't realize how far I've drifted until I start coming back.

Strangely enough, my sense of humor is usually one of the first things to return.

I'll notice something ridiculous, like getting out of the shower and realizing I've shaved one leg and somehow completely forgotten the other one.

That's usually about the time I start thinking, Okay, what are you doing?

Then an opinion shows up.

Then another.

And eventually I get to:

Okay, this is ridiculous. Wake up.

That's also when I sometimes discover what autopilot Lisa has been agreeing to while I wasn't paying attention.

And occasionally there's a:

Holy crap. What did I agree to?

Then I have to go through all the hassle of fixing something I could have avoided if I'd been present enough to stop and ask myself what I wanted in the first place.

It's much easier to stay connected. LOL.

But I think that's something we miss when we talk about being disconnected from ourselves.

It doesn't always look like falling apart.

Sometimes you look completely fine.

You're working. You're helping people. You're making dinner. You're doing all the things you're supposed to be doing.

You're just not really asking yourself what you think about any of them.

When I Don't Feel Like Me

Connected Feels Softer

I can usually tell when I'm coming back to myself because my body changes before much of anything else does.

I've clenched my teeth since I was a kid, so my jaw is a pretty reliable indicator of what's going on with me. When I'm disconnected or overwhelmed, my teeth are tight, my shoulders creep up, and even the way I move becomes choppy. I go from one thing to the next in starts and stops instead of just moving through my day like a person.

When I'm connected, there's actually space between my teeth. My shoulders drop, I start breathing normally again, and my movements become easier.

Everything feels softer.

Then my opinions start showing up again.

Being connected to myself doesn't mean I suddenly think I'm always right. I'm perfectly capable of listening to what someone else thinks, considering new information and changing my mind.

But there's a big difference between changing my mind and never actually making up my own mind in the first place.

When I'm on autopilot, I agree. When I'm present, I listen.

And sometimes that creates a problem.

Someone will say, “But you said you were okay with this.”

And they're right. I did.

From their perspective, I've suddenly changed my mind with no warning. From mine, I'm finally having an opinion about something I never stopped to think about in the first place.

That's not always easy to explain.

Sometimes I end up defending an opinion that seems to have come out of nowhere to everyone else.

Except it didn't come out of nowhere.

I came back.

I think that's one of the clearest ways I've learned to recognize when I'm connected to myself. It's not that I'm louder or that I suddenly need everyone to agree with me.

I'm just more present.

I can hear what you think without automatically turning it into what I think too. I can listen, consider it and still say, “I see it differently.”

And if you give me information I didn't have before, I might even change my mind.

That's okay too.

Maybe that's what I've misunderstood about self-trust for a long time.

It isn't trusting yourself because you're always right.

It's trusting yourself enough to have an opinion, listen to someone else's, and not lose yourself somewhere in between.

Sometimes I know exactly what I want and still end up agreeing to something else.

For me, it usually happens after I've already given my answer and someone keeps trying to change it.

That's when I start feeling discounted.

There's a part of me thinking, Why did you ask me what I thought if you weren't going to listen to the answer?

Then I get irritated. I explain myself again, they explain their side again, and eventually I reach that place I'm sure some of you know:

Fine. Do it. See what happens.

And for about five minutes, there's actually some relief.

The argument is over.

I don't have to explain myself anymore or keep defending an answer I've already given. Everyone gets to move on.

Except I haven't really moved on.

Once the relief wears off, I'm usually disappointed in myself because I know exactly what happened. I didn't get new information, think about it and decide I'd changed my mind.

I gave up because I was tired of defending myself.

And that's the part I'm paying more attention to now.

Because if the thing I was worried about happens, the five minutes of relief I got from saying yes doesn't help much when I'm dealing with the outcome.

I've done this enough times to realize that staying connected to myself isn't always about figuring out what I want.

Sometimes I already know.

The harder part is believing my answer doesn't have to survive a debate before I'm allowed to keep it.

That doesn't mean no one gets to question me or offer another perspective. Sometimes someone else knows something I don't. Sometimes they see something I've missed. And sometimes, after hearing them, I really do change my mind.

That's different.

There's a difference between changing my mind because I've considered new information and giving up my answer because I'm exhausted from defending it.

I'm getting better at saying:

“I hear what you think, and my answer is still no.”

I don't always do it perfectly.

And the other person doesn't have to like my answer.

But their disappointment doesn't automatically mean my decision is wrong.

Maybe that's another part of what being connected to yourself actually feels like.

You don't have to shut out everyone else's voice.

You don't have to assume yours is always right.

You just don't abandon your own voice because someone else's is louder or more persistent.

A few years ago, one of my husband's friends wanted to put his camper on our property for the summer.

I knew my answer immediately.

No.

I told my husband I thought it would cause problems and possibly ruin the friendship.

Then the reasons started coming.

"It's just the camper. He won't actually be here."

"He really needs the help."

"Remember when people helped us when we needed it?"

The thing is, none of those arguments changed how I felt about it.

I didn't suddenly think putting the camper there was a great idea.

It just became easier to agree than to keep saying no.

So I agreed.

About two weeks after the camper arrived, so did the friend.

Then he started showing up every day.

The whole thing eventually turned into exactly the kind of fiasco I had been worried about, and we're no longer friends.

Now, I could tell that story and say, "See? I should always listen to my intuition because I'm always right."

Except that's not true.

I'm not always right.

None of us are.

What bothers me when I look back isn't that I had predicted what would happen.

It's that I knew what I thought and abandoned my own answer because holding onto it had become uncomfortable.

There's a difference between listening to another person's perspective and giving up your own just to end the conversation.

Self-trust has room for other people's opinions.

It has room for more information.

It even has room for changing your mind.

What it shouldn't require is disappearing from the decision altogether.

I think that's what I'm learning.

Being connected to myself doesn't mean my answer always wins.

It means my answer gets to exist.

And sometimes staying connected to yourself is as simple—and as difficult—as letting your no remain no even when yes would make the conversation easier.

When Yes Is Easier Than No

Coming Back to Myself

For me, coming back usually requires some quiet.

Sometimes I find it picking berries or walking through the woods. Creative work can do it too. I think walking works especially well because there are only so many things I can accomplish on a walk in the woods.

Eventually, I run out of things to do.

Nobody needs an answer. There's nothing to check off, and for a little while I don't have to solve anything.

That's when all those other voices and expectations in my head start to fade enough that I can hear myself again.

I've noticed something interesting about that.

The language in my head actually changes.

When I'm overwhelmed or disconnected, there's a whole lot of you in there.

You should do this.

You need to get that done.

You have to take care of this.

You'd better not forget that.

But when I start coming back to myself, I begin hearing I again.

I think...

I want...

I need...

I really don't want to do that.

That last one can be particularly loud. LOL.

That's usually when I know I'm coming back.

It doesn't mean all the outside voices disappear. Other people still have opinions. My responsibilities are still waiting when I get home, and whatever was on my to-do list didn't magically finish itself while I was wandering around in the woods.

I can just hear myself among all of it again.

And maybe that's one of the reasons I made reconnecting with myself much harder than it actually needed to be.

I thought I needed to figure something out.

I needed to find the answer.

I needed to work harder at listening to my intuition.

Now I think sometimes I just need to get quiet enough to notice what I'm already saying.

Maybe being connected to yourself isn't about shutting out everyone else's voice.

It's being able to hear your own voice in the room too.

I really like this section right here in the article because we've gone from “my answer gets to exist” to how you actually find that answer again.

There's also a phrase in here I think could become a Becoming Sanctuary quote all by itself:

When I'm disconnected, I hear a lot of “you should.” When I come back to myself, I start hearing “I want.”

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