Healing Through Movement: Reconnecting with My Body

For years, I thought healing meant pushing through. More miles. More sweat. More “no pain, no gain.” But my body — living with Crohn’s disease, major surgeries, and pulmonary emboli — had other plans. Every time I pushed, it pushed back harder. Eventually, I learned the lesson I didn’t want to hear: gentleness was the medicine I needed most.

For a long time, I treated my body like a stubborn employee — barking orders and demanding results. When I was exhausted or in pain, I ignored it. When I wanted to keep up appearances, I pushed through. And when chronic illness knocked me down, I got back up too soon, too fast. It was a cycle of boom and bust — energy spikes followed by crashes.

But the deeper truth started much earlier.

In 1996, I survived a massive bilateral pulmonary embolism. One moment I was an athlete, running, moving, alive in my body. The next, I was in a medical coma, waitlisted for a heart–lung transplant if I didn’t improve. I did survive, but fear moved into my body and never left.

No one told me at the time that what I was experiencing was trauma. The doctors didn’t speak about it, my family rarely discussed it, and I had no words for what lingered. But I came out of that hospital with paralyzing fear: terrified to increase my heart rate, convinced that if I pushed too far, I would die.

So I stopped moving. Aside from gentle walking, I avoided exercise. And because movement had always been part of my identity, losing it felt like losing myself. For over 20 years, I lived with undiagnosed PTSD - hypervigilance, dread, panic when my pulse rose, without knowing its name.

Slowly, with help, I inched my way back. A personal trainer worked with me in a way I had never experienced before: watching my heart rate, pausing when it got too high, waiting until it came down before we continued. That was magic. I began to learn something my nervous system had forgotten: when the heart rate rises with activity, it can also come back down with rest.

That shift was healing beyond words. It gave me a bridge back to movement, a sense of safety, and proof that my body could handle more than I feared.

Later, I found restorative yoga — another surprise. I didn’t know how to rest. Stillness made me twitchy and uncomfortable — surely I should be doing something! But restorative yoga taught me the opposite: stillness is doing something. When I propped myself in a gentle fold or melted into a bolster, I felt my body soften in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Muscles released. Breath slowed. Emotions flowed. A nervous system on constant high alert began to downshift.

Then came Hanna Somatics, slow, mindful movements that look like almost nothing from the outside but feel profound inside. These movements gently re-educate the nervous system, teaching chronically contracted muscles to release.

The magic wasn’t in big workouts; it was in subtle, curious exploration. A tiny arch and flatten of the back. A gentle shoulder release. Somatic exercise taught me how to listen, not demand. Bonus - most movements are gentle enough that I can do them even on low energy, high pain days, and can be done in bed! Over time, my legs, back, and core began to feel stronger, not through force, but through cooperation.

Try this mini experiment: Lie on your back with knees bent. Slowly arch your lower back just a little, then gently press it into the floor. Move with as little effort as possible. Notice the difference between the two. Repeat three times, slower each round.

Breath was the other key. I didn’t realize how often I held my breath, bracing against pain, stress, and even joy. My breath was also incredibly shallow and rapid. The inhale was my life, I needed oxygen! Deep breathing was scary, and it was something that took regular practice. Therapeutic breathing, especially the parasympathetic breath, became a reset button for my nervous system.

The parasympathetic breath is simple: inhale through the nose for a count of 4, exhale slowly through the mouth for a count of 6–8. That longer exhale signals safety to the body, activating the parasympathetic nervous system — the “rest and digest” mode. Over time, this simple breath reduced anxiety spikes, calmed pain flares, and gave my body permission to heal.

Try this now: Inhale gently for a count of 4. Exhale slowly, like you’re sighing, for 6–8 counts. Repeat three times. Notice if your shoulders soften or your jaw releases.

Why Gentle Movement Matters with Autoimmune Disease

Living with autoimmune disease taught me that consistency beats intensity every time. Gentle, mindful movement creates sustainable strength, mobility, and regulation. It respects the body’s changing energy levels.

Contrast that with what happens when we push too hard — like HIIT (high-intensity interval training) several times a week. For healthy bodies, it can be invigorating. But for autoimmune bodies, HIIT can flood the system with stress hormones, increase inflammation, and trigger crashes or flares. I’ve been there: the harder I pushed, the longer it took to recover. My body wasn’t getting stronger — it was getting more depleted.

My Movement Today

These days, my practice looks like a patchwork quilt: restorative yoga for rest, somatic exercise for release, gentle core and back work for stability, and breath for regulation. It’s not flashy or Instagram-worthy. Some days, it’s five minutes of windshield wipers and a few deep sighs. But it’s mine. And it’s healing.

Because healing through movement isn’t about punishing the body into submission. It’s about listening, honoring, and partnering with it. It’s about learning that rest is a form of strength, that slower can be deeper, and that gentleness is not weakness — it’s wisdom.

Your invitation: What’s one tiny, gentle movement you can try today — a shoulder roll, a sigh, a stretch — not to fix yourself, but to listen?