How to Trust Yourself: Three Embodied Ways to Begin Again

What if self-trust isn’t logical, but instinctual, like writing a living field guide, one note at a time?

Photo by Geranimo on Unsplash

Why do I always assume that if I let myself feel all the grief, I’ll never stop? Because that’s not what happens. What happens is that the more you feel, the more you live.

~ Shiela Heti

When I was a young girl, I spent a lot of time in other people’s homes, as a babysitter, a tutor, a caretaker of their pets and plants. Sometimes I got paid, sometimes I didn’t, and often I was alone for days on end.

I was scared to touch their furniture or their electronics—their remotes, their stereos, their records. I was scared to open their refrigerators, scared to touch their food, scared to sit on their couches or lie on their beds.

I learned to sit on the floor in the middle of rooms and stare at windows and walls until they felt familiar enough to exhale.

I feared I would never have a place of my own. It seemed impossible that I might one day belong somewhere, to something, to someone. Or even that I might belong to myself. I longed for something I could soften into, something familiar enough to trust. But I didn’t know intimacy then. Not with a home. Not with my body. Not even with my breath.

In the family I was born into, my parents believed their children would be cared for by the grace of God. That meant surrendering us to the collective, not out of malice, but out of doctrine. Not every family in the cult lived this way, but as third-generation members, my siblings and I were seen more as shared responsibility than children in need of mothering. Though “belonging” might not be the right word. We weren’t held. We were handed off.

I dreamt of my mother last night, and I kept asking her to look at me. Please look at me mama, I want to make this right between us. Look at me.

In the morning, I looked in the mirror, and I saw myself, and I saw her.

Who am I, and what is my work in the world?

One of the hardest things about leaving a high-control group is learning to see yourself, to know yourself, to trust yourself. The kind of knowing that lives in the body. The kind that holds, even when nothing feels clear.

I’ve found guides in books, in wild animals, and in the quiet voices of plants. Each speaks a different language. Learning to hear them is like learning to track. I don’t always see the full shape, but I notice the patterns.

And I keep following the signs.

I still remember the ache of sitting in someone else’s silence, trying not to need too much.

Maybe you do too.

Many of us are still holding our breath in borrowed spaces.

Maybe we were all raised in high-control groups of one kind of another. If you struggle with self-trust, here are some practices that may help you find your own wild path:

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Practice

1. Intuition — The Deep Yes / No
Language: Sensation, imagery, flashes of knowing
Often felt in: Gut, heart, womb, solar plexus

Try this:
– Before making a decision, pause and ask: If I didn’t have to explain this to anyone, what feels right?
– Start with small choices: what to eat, when to rest, who to call.
– Notice the difference between fear (tight, cloudy, compulsive) and intuition (quiet, clear, steady, even when inconvenient).

Clue you’re hearing it: It doesn’t argue. It just knows.

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2. Values — The Inner Fire That Knows Who You Are
Language: Clarity, conviction, heartbreak
Often felt in: Chest, throat, spine

Try this:
– Recall a time you felt proud of how you showed up, even if it was hard. What value were you honoring?
– Make a short list of core values (e.g., honesty, beauty, sovereignty, intimacy). Keep them where you can see them.
– Ask: Is this aligned with my values—or am I betraying them to keep the peace?

Clue you’re hearing it: You feel more like yourself—even if it costs you comfort.

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3. Nervous System — The Animal That Lives in You
Language: Tension, breath, tightness, openness
Often felt in: Jaw, shoulders, gut, hands

Try this:
– Learn your signals: What does safe feel like? What do fawn, freeze, flight, and fight feel like?
– Down-regulate with: long exhales, shaking, walking, singing, orienting (naming what’s around you).
– Ask: Is this a no—or is my body dysregulated? Is this person unsafe, or just unfamiliar?

Clue you’re hearing it: You feel more grounded and responsive—not reactive.

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When all three are aligned, that’s your deep truth. When one is off, slow down.
It’s not failure, it’s information.

What do you need right now to fully exhale?

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Writing Ritual: Permission to Not Know

When: Morning or twilight
Where: Somewhere quiet—by a window, tree, or sliver of light
Length: 20–30 minutes

Ritual:
– Light a candle or open a window. Let something breathe.
– Sit with this question:
 Who am I when I’m not answering to anyone else’s version of me?
– Set a timer for 15 minutes.
Let yourself write not to answer, but to notice. Let it be incomplete, raw, fragmentary. Interruptions are allowed. So is beauty.

Let the page be messy. Let it contradict what you believed yesterday.

Let it speak not from your role, but from your becoming.