the body keeps the soft stuff too

“The body keeps the score.” Unprocessed moments get tucked into our cells and then later create chronic pain, illness, and ongoing bouts of grief and resentment… or something like that. How delightful. But when we toss around this research and theory, can we also look at its positive flipside?

I’m guessing it’d be pretty hard to justify a budget for studying the way our bodies might also be quietly storing goodness, warmth, and moments of deep safety. Hard to get funding for something that won’t sell a prescription, right?

Lately, though, I’ve been noticing these vague somatic memories surfacing, randomly but persistently. Each time, I’m taken aback by the warmth and nuance of the sensation. It’s something I can’t even fully describe in words, no matter how hard I try.

In a time of deep uncertainty around deciding where and what home is, attachment style hiccups, resentment and responsibility.. I started to feel a memory come to the surface. Not just any memory, but a repetitive sensation, a combination of feelings that were familiar to me at a certain point in my life.

I’ve been sitting in memories soaked in my star-projecting, rotating nightlight casting soft, twinkling light on the walls. I’ve been remembering times when my sweet neighbors watched me before they had children of their own. Swirling senses pointing to a time before solid, narrative memory of little me pre-kindergarden. I’ve never consciously remembered this until now- was just told about it in the past.

But the feeling of the memory is of feeling held.

On it’s own, my body is offering me access to something really tender—something rooted in early safety, warmth, and a kind of pre-verbal, somatic knowing. Given everything I’ve been moving through (deepening into my own sovereignty, and questioning the idea of "right" choices), it seems like these memories might be surfacing as a way to remind me of something essential about myself.

My neighbors’ sweetness, nap times, the stars projected— they come together to form a pocket of deep ease and safety that existed for me before I was expected to hold anything myself. Maybe my body is reconnecting me to that sense of being taken care of, especially as I navigate so much uncertainty and self-responsibility right now.

At first, I found this hard to believe. But there’s no logical reason for this sensation to keep coming up. We all know what feeling triggered is like- I’m used to parts of me bringing things to my attention in ways that feel loud, intense, or distressed —nothing like this gentle tugging on the heart. It’s a soft, “hello, look at this.” No racing pulse or urgency- just presence and sentiment. This isn’t a “needing” or a distress signal, but more like a quiet resurfacing of something integral to me. A reminder that care, sweetness, and rest have been part of my story before, and they can be part of it again. Maybe even that they are part of me, not just things I receive from others.

My body isn’t just storing what needs to be healed; it’s storing what has already been whole. Maybe our bodies can—and want to—remind us that we’re wired not just for survival, but for love. And we’ve been keeping score all along.