There are moments in life when progress does not feel visible. Days in which, despite inner work, reflection, or conscious effort, nothing seems to move on the surface. In those moments, I often return to my past. Not to live there, and not because I am attached to who I was, but because it reminds me of something essential: evolution is rarely linear, and it is almost never obvious from within the present moment.
When I look back, I sometimes barely recognize myself. That distance becomes a quiet confirmation that something has shifted, even if my current perception tells me otherwise. The past, for me, is not a place of residence. It is a reference point. A reminder that change happens slowly, often below the threshold of conscious awareness.
This reflection inevitably brings me back to the body.
For a long time, I believed that understanding was enough. That insight, logic and analysis could resolve everything. That the rational, Cartesian mind could guide the entire process. But both life and science kept showing me something different. What we feel internally and what we experience externally are not separate realms. They are part of the same system.
Neuroscience has made this increasingly clear. The brain does not function independently of the body. The nervous system is a continuous loop of information exchange between the brain, the organs, the muscles and the sensory field. Thoughts are not created in a vacuum; they are shaped by bodily states, hormonal responses and nervous system regulation.
Antonio Damasio’s work showed that emotion and bodily sensation are not obstacles to rationality, but essential components of it. His research demonstrated that people who lose access to bodily emotional signals struggle to make even simple decisions. The body, far from being irrational, provides the grounding that allows the mind to orient itself.
From this perspective, coherence in the body is not about control. It is about alignment. When internal signals are ignored or suppressed, fragmentation appears. When they are listened to, a different quality of presence emerges, one that subtly influences how we perceive and respond to life.
Meditation as listening rather than fixing
Meditation is often presented as a wellness trend, a tool to reduce stress, improve productivity or optimize performance. While these effects may occur, they are not its deepest value. Meditation, for me, has always been an act of reconciliation. A space where I consciously tell my body: I am here. I am listening. I want to know what is happening inside you, even if it scares me.
Fear is almost always part of this process.
The first layer of fear comes from not knowing what we will encounter when we truly listen. Sensations, emotions or memories that were pushed aside for a reason. The second layer comes from not knowing what to do with what arises. The mind wants solutions, explanations, narratives. The body asks for something else: presence, time and safety.
Stephen Porges’ Polyvagal Theory offers a powerful framework to understand this. According to his work, the nervous system constantly evaluates whether we are safe or threatened, and our capacity to reflect, feel and connect depends on this internal sense of safety. Meditation, when approached gently, is not about forcing calm. It is about signaling safety to the nervous system.
Neuroscientific studies show that regular meditative practices can strengthen areas of the brain involved in emotional regulation, such as the prefrontal cortex and the insula, while reducing hyperreactivity in the amygdala. This does not mean difficult emotions disappear. It means we gain more capacity to stay with them without becoming overwhelmed.
For many years, I silenced my body. Not consciously, but consistently. I learned to function, to perform, to move forward without stopping. From a neurobiological perspective, this is a common adaptation. When the nervous system does not feel safe enough to process experience, it prioritizes survival. But survival mode, when prolonged, disconnects us from ourselves.
Listening to the body through meditation is not about fixing what is broken. It is about restoring communication in a system that learned to protect itself by disconnecting.
The body as present moment and as living memory
The body has a dual role that feels essential to acknowledge. On one hand, it anchors us to the present moment. The body does not live in the past or the future. It exists here, in physical space, breathing, sensing, responding. Presence is not an abstract concept; it is a physiological state. The more regulated the nervous system becomes, the more accessible the present moment feels.
On the other hand, the body is also memory.
Bessel van der Kolk’s work on trauma explains how experiences that overwhelm our capacity to cope are often stored somatically rather than narratively. During high-stress events, the brain areas responsible for language and reasoning can go offline, while the body’s survival systems remain active. As a result, the memory of those experiences lives on in sensations, postures, reflexes and emotional responses.
This is why the body remembers what the mind tries to forget. It is why certain situations trigger discomfort without a clear story attached to them. The body has been there before, even if the conscious mind cannot immediately place it.
This understanding changes the way we relate to ourselves. Instead of seeing the body as something to transcend, control or ignore, we begin to recognize it as an intelligent instrument. Even if I believe deeply in something greater than myself, the body remains the medium through which life is experienced. It is through the body that awareness takes form in daily reality.
Listening to the body allows access to the subconscious, not through force, but through relationship. The subconscious does not speak in logic. It speaks in sensation, emotion and repetition. When these signals are acknowledged, internal coherence begins to emerge.
Psychology, neuroscience and contemplative traditions all converge on a similar insight: the inside does not magically control the outside, but it deeply influences how we move through it. When inner signals are integrated rather than silenced, perception shifts, choices change, and new scenarios quietly begin to open.
Sometimes, coherence in the body is not about doing more.
It is about finally listening to what has always been speaking.