WHAT IS YOUR BODY TRYING TO TELL YOU?

Before we begin—know this: I’m not a therapist. This reading is not a substitute for professional mental health care, trauma healing, or bodywork. This is a spiritual mirror. A tender one. And it holds my most vulnerable channeling for the collective yet.

This isn’t a self-love fluff fest. This is reclamation.Your body has been whispering through pain, shape-shifting through timelines, and holding onto stories you’ve been too scared to speak. Your insecurities? They’re not flaws. They’re portals.Take what resonates. Leave what doesn’t. And if one line hits while another misses? It still means the medicine is meant for you.

There are four piles to choose from. Breathe deep. Pick the one that sees you.And if this reading cracks something open—and you want to go deeper—I offer personal readings. You can find everything in the Velvet offerings page.

And if you want a personal reading tailored to your body, beauty, or becoming—check The Velvet offerings.

When life feels heavy, we reach for more. More information… more structure… more solutions.

But the body doesn’t need more input. It only needs… less noise.

Water has a way of quieting us. Its rhythm slows down something inside.

.

Relatable? : Reblog = 🤍

The experience of passing through an ayahuasca ceremony is always a long journey across several dimensions, yet only a few of them are accessible to our description. One of these dimensions is the bodily one, which receives little attention, both in specialized literature and the books. Here I deliberately attempt to address it using terms drawn from body-oriented psychotherapy—something I did not encounter even once during the entire two years I spent living in the Amazonian selva. Although many curanderos most likely intuitively understand much of what will be described below, it would simply not occur to them to explain it this way, due to cultural differences in how these processes are perceived.

So, if we look at the ayahuasca ceremony through the dimensions of our physical and astral bodies, we will undoubtedly see that the astral body—the body of emotions and dreams—becomes extraordinarily mobile. Of course, it cannot truly leave us, yet at times it does seem to create its own double and travel far beyond the boundaries of the maloca. Considerable attention is given to this in the curanderos’ own descriptions of ceremonies.

What happens to our physical body during the ceremony, however, tends to remain outside the field of careful observation, or else is interpreted superficially. And yet ayahuasca may be the only entheogen that works with such intensity and intimacy upon our most precious vessel.

The human body and its energy holding patterns can be mapped in many ways. Wilhelm Reich did this work long ago, and the seven zones he identified still offer a simple way of understanding muscular armor. Reich described in great detail what blockages in each of these zones signify and how to work with them. These blocks exist, to varying degrees, in every one of us. Moreover, they do not merely restrict us—they also serve an organic protective function, without which we would quite literally collapse at our own feet.

The issue lies elsewhere: these blocks can become excessively rigid, creating imbalance, stagnation, and, as a consequence, a loss of connection with parts of ourselves—and ultimately with the energy of love and the capacity to experience orgasmic pleasure from life itself.

While the medicine works with the body as an integrated whole, it remains valuable to distinguish the specific zones and processes through which it acts, as each person experiences them with varying intensity.

Thus, there are seven possible blocks we carry within ourselves as unconscious ways of regulating sensitivity: the ocular block, the jaw, the throat, the chest, the diaphragm, the abdomen, and the pelvis.

The Ocular Block

The ocular block is associated with an unwillingness to see the truth, a denial of one’s own feelings, and a deep undercurrent of mistrust and control. This block encompasses the area of the eyes, the forehead, the back of the head, and the bridge of the nose. It may manifest as a tense or empty gaze, narrowed and squinting eyes, mental fog, or twitching eyelids.

The most powerful way the ocular block is released is, of course, through tears. During ceremony, they may appear in various combinations together with other releases. But quite often they simply begin to flow on their own. Most commonly this happens at the very beginning of the ceremony (since release always moves from top to bottom). Many years ago, this was my first area of work, and so every one of my ceremonies began with unstoppable crying that was not emotionally grounded in any way. Tears would simply pour from my eyes; there was a slight burning sensation, the sinuses would become congested—but there was neither sorrow nor joy. Pure physiology. And yet after these tears, my eyes felt weightless and more vivid. 

The Jaw Block 

The jaw blocks aggression, strong feelings, requests for help, crying— all unspoken words and emotions that have already been recognized but not voiced. It manifests through a clenched jaw, teeth grinding during sleep, difficulty in self-expression, and various dependencies (food, smoking, and so on). The jaw block is one of the most common, rigid, and painfully resistant to intervention in the body-oriented therapist’s office. It is shaped not only by childhood trauma, but also by cultural and social conditioning. For this reason, almost everyone encounters it during ceremony. The medicine works with this block in a completely different way than therapists do. The lower jaw relaxes to such an extent that it becomes almost impossible to hold it in place. It seems to melt downward from the face, often accompanied by abundant salivation. The jaw block is connected to the pelvic block. As is well known, when lovers kiss, the opening of the mouth is mirrored below, as the pelvic region fills with blood. Accordingly, during ceremony, alongside salivation in the oral cavity, a similar, metaphorical “salivation” often occurs in the sexual organs of women. At first, yawning appears—strong, deep, all-pervading. Then the jaw relaxes, grows heavy, flows downward together with the chin, and becomes generously lubricated with saliva. This may be accompanied by mild or sometimes more pronounced vibrations in the area of the chin or lower lip - a true sign of the jaw block releasing itself.

The Throat Block

If in the jaw we block what we have already consciously recognized but cannot yet articulate, then in the throat block our feelings and emotions have not even reached the level of understanding. As in the previous blocks, anger and protest may become lodged here—but so can love. This block manifests as stiffness in the neck, a suppressed voice, coughing, or the sensation of a lump in the throat.

In traditional body-oriented therapy this block is not given as much attention as, for example, the chest or diaphragmatic blocks. In the shamanic medicine, however, it is of immense importance—along with the “periphery” of this zone, namely, our voice. The throat and neck are among the most delicate and sensitive areas of the body. This zone is the primary conduit of energy from the heart to the head. Here, feelings can become blocked, never reaching the mouth or the eyes—or never finding their way into words or awareness.

During ceremony, this area of the body undergoes a profoundly deep, and often sweet, release. Physiologically, it is experienced as a numbness of the vocal cords, which gradually gives way to a sensation of radiating warmth in the throat area; the cords themselves become hot and unusually elastic. The throat opens and breathes. The vocal range expands by at least an octave and a half. Singing during ceremony brings immense pleasure and takes place through the entire body rather than through the vocal cords alone. Yet it is the throat that conducts this current of energy, having undergone a deep release.

The Chest Block

The chest block is considered one of the most important in any spiritual practice—and rightly so, for it is here that our most powerful generator of electromagnetic energy is localized. It encompasses the chest, shoulders, and shoulder blades. This is where our deepest feelings are held: love, sorrow, trust, intimacy. When this block is constricted, it is felt as heaviness in the chest, emptiness, shallow breathing, and a difficulty with openness at certain moments.

What happens to this zone during ceremony is always an all-encompassing sensory experience—orgasmic in the most cosmic sense of the word. The ribcage burns with such intensity that it feels as though a fire could be lit upon it. Moreover, one can distinctly sense both the force of this burning and its vast reach, stretching far past the boundaries of the maloca.  At the same time, the arms and hands —being the primary periphery of the chest block—also become hot. They literally begin to ring, sensing the etheric energy of space as if almost palpable.

Because energy moves from bottom to top, it is often the release of the heart that amplifies sensations in the upper zones: trembling of the jaw, tears, the fluttering of the eyelids. Here tears always come with deep feelings, and laughter may come too. 

The Diaphragmatic Block

Body-oriented therapists pay particular attention to the next block, known as the diaphragmatic block, which encompasses the solar plexus and the upper ribs.

It conditionally divides the body into two parts—upper and lower—which, in a deeper interpretation, correspond to want and must, the unconscious and the conscious, the animal and the human, pleasure and morality, orgasm and love. Conflict in this zone is ubiquitous for the modern person of Western civilization. It is therefore unsurprising that its release can be particularly difficult, and the body’s most effective instrument for this process is intense vomiting.

Speculations that vomiting during ceremony only serves to cleanse the stomach or expel energetic entities are entirely unfounded. Anyone with experience of ceremonies knows that for some people vomiting is unbearably difficult and brings great torment no matter the length of their prior diet.  All gagging and vomiting reflexes during ceremonies (as well as during subsequent procedures) primarily engage with this very block—the one that allows us to breathe fully, both literally and metaphorically, and to conduct vital force freely through the body. Nine years ago, in my first ceremony, I vomited with fierce, uncontrollable spasms, though my stomach yielded nothing but water. I will never forget that first breath afterward. 

The Abdomen Block

The next block encompasses the abdomen and lower back. Here, impulses of “I want” that rise from the pelvic area can become blocked at the diaphragm. A tense abdomen, a sore lower back, and digestive issues are, among other things, manifestations of blockages in this area. It is not hard to see that spasms of the internal organs and bowel movements during ceremony are not merely processes of physical cleansing—they also reflect the release of this block. This zone can also manifest through an incredible spectrum of bodily sensations in the abdominal region, so intense that they can even provoke anxiety and fear. The abdomen is intimately connected to our sense of basic security.

The Pelvic Block

Finally, the pelvic block encompasses the pelvis, hips, and buttocks. This is where our sexuality, joy, aggression, and vitality are stored. A blocked pelvis may appear as a profound sense of disconnection from the world around you, difficulties with intimacy and orgasm, tension in the pelvic area, cold feet. Many pseudo-adepts of Kundalini yoga believe that activating energy here brings profound liberation. However, as my cherished mystic-philosopher Sri Aurobindo, as well as Reich, emphasized, true release should occur from top to bottom, not the other way around. Otherwise, emotional vortices blocked for years rise from the bottom upward, often producing unpredictable effects: loss of center, and sometimes even a temporary flirtation with madness. During ceremony, the work with the energies of the pelvic block is always felt very intensely. Many participants describe “dancing legs.” Curanderos tend to interpret this mythologically—as the spirit of the medicine dancing—while others prefer a transpersonal perspective, suggesting it resembles a regression to an infantile state, when a baby kicks and wriggles its legs. Without fully endorsing or rejecting either view, I want to stress that this is exactly how the pelvic block begins to release, together with its peripheral zones: the knees and feet. Often, this occurs simultaneously with the release of the jaw. The legs move unpredictably, kicking and trembling in a childlike way, and then begin to flow. The deep muscles of the pelvis seem to smooth out, and a strong warmth is felt in the genital area, sometimes resembling tickling. Occasionally, this is accompanied by all the physiological signs of arousal, including natural wetting in women, yet entirely free from any erotic intention. The tips of the feet seem to receive currents from the center (the pelvis), becoming increasingly sensitive: the release of blocked energy always flows from the center outward to the periphery. Abundant sweating is also very normal while the medicine is active.

The sequence and the intensity with which the blocks in these seven zones are unpacked during ceremony is entirely individual and can vary greatly. Yet it can be said with certainty that in the first ceremonies, everyone experiences their bodily processes as equally challenging. Metaphorically, this work can be imagined as an orgasmic curve—the build-up of tension in a particular zone to a peak, in order to trigger its release. In modern approaches, there are body-oriented therapists who favor a gentler, more gradual engagement with a person’s processes, placing emphasis on conscious choice and self-regulation rather than on energetic release. I have no doubt that, for some, such a paced approach is indeed more suitable—but this is rarely how the medicine works. On the contrary: it offers no mercy, and the ability to remain centered emerges only after the first, essential blocks have been cleared.

Learn more from the book:

Breathing can be hypnosis.

A note before reading: some of these thoughts touch the less-discussed side of hypnosis. Anchor yourself if needed, and proceed at your own pace.

✦ ᛉ ᚨ ᚷ ᛟ ✦

So remember: breathing can be hypnosis. But it can also not be.

And that's okay.

Your mind lives in your body. Always. Hypnosis can quiet the noise, soften the loops, offer a pause — but the mind is still in the body.

So don't fight it. Don't force a rhythm that isn't yours.

Go at your own pace. Follow the instructions only as far as they feel safe, not as far as they say.

With gentle, consistent practice, something shifts. Capacity can grow. Your lungs may learn to expand a little more.

And eventually, the trance you build — the one made of your own accessible sensations — will seep into every cell.

Not like a command, but like oxygen: essential, quiet, and entirely your own.

tw: discussion of diet, health, body image

the first time i ate cheese after ten years of being vegan, i cried.

not because i felt guilty—though that came later, in waves. i cried because my body responded with something i can only describe as relief. a deep, cellular thank-you that i'd spent a decade trying not to hear.

it was autumn 2023 in gothenburg. i'd just finished a half-marathon training run, the kind that leaves your legs trembling and your mind too tired to negotiate with itself. my friend sara brought fresh bread and local cheese to our post-run coffee. she didn't know i was vegan—we'd only recently become close—and i didn't correct her.

i took a bite.

and something in me... settled.

when ideology met the body

i became vegan in 2013. the documentary. the statistics. the images i couldn't unsee. for years, it felt right. i felt lighter, clearer, aligned with something bigger than my own hunger.

my yoga practice deepened. i studied ahimsa—non-harming—and veganism felt like its purest expression. how could i speak of compassion on the mat while participating in suffering off it?

but around 2021, something shifted.

i was training harder. running longer. practicing yoga six days a week. my energy started to feel... fragile. not the good kind of emptiness after meditation, this was depletion.

my hair thinned. my period became irregular. blood tests showed deficiencies that supplements couldn't fix.

my doctor looked at my labs and said gently: "your values are beautiful. but your body is asking for something different."

i didn't want to hear it.

the questions i couldn't ask

for months, i tried everything. more protein powders. different supplements. obsessive meal planning. i read blogs by vegan athletes, convinced that if they could thrive, so could i.

and maybe they could, their bodies are not mine.

during savasana, i would lie still and feel my heartbeat—fast, fluttery, anxious even in rest. my teacher in rishikesh used to say: "the body whispers before it shouts."

mine had been whispering for a while.

the truth is, i was afraid. afraid of judgment from the vegan community i'd been part of for a decade. afraid of hypocrisy. afraid that adding dairy and eggs back would mean i'd failed at something i'd built my identity around.

but there was another fear underneath:

what if my body actually needed this?

the first experiments

i started small.

an egg from sara's neighbor's chickens. hens i could see scratching in the garden outside gothenburg. then yogurt from a local farm where the cows had names and pasture and what looked like... a decent life.

each time, i waited for the guilt to crush me.

instead, i felt steadier.

the fragility in my energy began to fill in, like watercolor soaking into paper.

my runs felt different. not faster necessarily but more sustainable. i wasn't hitting that wall at kilometer fifteen anymore. my teacher sara noticed: "you seem more present lately."

i was.

because i wasn't spending all my energy managing deficiency.

ahimsa toward the self

here's what veganism taught me: to pay attention. to question convenience. to see the beings behind my food.

those lessons didn't disappear when i added eggs and cheese back.

but vegetarianism is teaching me something veganism couldn't: that compassion includes my own body. that ahimsa—non-harming—applies to the woman in the mirror too.

for years, i'd practiced a kind of violence toward myself. not intentionally, i genuinely believed i was doing the right thing. but insisting my body adapt to my ideology, rather than listening to what it needed? that was a form of harm.

in yoga philosophy, there's a concept called svadhyaya—self-study. it asks us to observe ourselves with honesty, not with the answer we want to find.

when i finally practiced real svadhyaya around food, i had to admit: my body was asking for something i'd been refusing to hear.

this doesn't mean veganism is wrong. for many people, it's deeply nourishing—physically, ethically, spiritually.

but for me, at this point in my life, with my body's particular needs and my athletic practice, vegetarianism is the middle path.

the place where my values and my vitality can coexist.

what balance looks like now

these days, my diet is mostly plant-based.

i still eat the lentil soups and vegetable curries and whole grain bowls i loved as a vegan. but i've added back eggs, cheese, and yogurt—always from local sources where i can trace the origin.

i don't eat these foods carelessly. each egg still carries weight, still asks me to be conscious. but that consciousness now includes gratitude toward my own body, not just concern for others.

before a long run: greek yogurt with honey and walnuts. in summer, lingonberries from swedish forests. in winter, frozen blueberries that taste like memory.

after yoga: spanish tortilla—eggs, potatoes, olive oil, salt. eaten warm with a simple salad. my abuela's version had onions, mine doesn't, but the spirit is the same.

weeknight comfort: lentil stew with carrots, celery, cumin, and a soft-boiled egg on top. bread with good butter. sometimes sara joins me and we eat slowly.

recovery bowl: quinoa, roasted vegetables, tahini dressing, and feta from a local farm where the goats have more pasture than the farmers do.

these aren't instagram-perfect meals. they're sustenance, ritual, and self-respect combined into something simple enough to make on a tuesday.

on my kitchen wall, there's a note sara gave me: "compassion that excludes yourself isn't complete."

i read it most mornings, while the coffee brews and luna winds around my ankles.

the practice of non-judgment

the hardest part hasn't been the dietary change.

it's been navigating other people's reactions—and my own internalized judgments.

some of my vegan friends felt betrayed. i understand, i used to think the same way. some asked if i'd "given up." those questions stung because part of me wondered if they were right.

but then i remember what my teacher devendra said in rishikesh: "the practice is not about rules, it's about awareness. can you eat and remain awake? can you make choices from consciousness rather than habit or fear?"

i'm trying to eat from consciousness now.

that means being honest about my body's needs even when they don't match my ideology. it means supporting farms and food systems i believe in. it means respecting that everyone's path with food is different—and that includes my own.

when someone tells me they're vegan, i don't try to convince them otherwise. when someone asks why i'm not vegan anymore, i don't defend unless they're genuinely curious.

this isn't about being right.

it's about being honest.

what the body knows

i still don't know if i made the "right" choice.

some days i wonder if i should have tried harder to stay vegan. other days i know, deeply, that this was the only honest path forward.

what i do know is this:

my body is wiser than my ideology.

learning to listen to it—really listen, not just hear what i want to hear—has been one of the most difficult practices of my life. more challenging than any yoga pose or long-distance run.

the middle path isn't compromise.

it's integration.

it's holding two truths at once: that i care deeply about animal welfare AND that i also have a body with specific needs. that compassion extends outward and inward at the same time. that the most ethical choice might be the one that keeps me healthy enough to show up—for my practice, for my work, for the people i love.

some mornings, when i tie my running shoes and the city is still quiet, i whisper the same intention i learned in india:

lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu—may all beings be happy and free.

and now, finally, i include myself in that prayer.

the vegetarian middle path isn't the loudest path. it doesn't fit neatly into categories or manifestos.

but it's the one where i can breathe.

where my body and my values walk side by side instead of at war.

and for now, that's enough.

What is Integration? The Sacred Art of Becoming Whole Again Integration is the sacred work of making space for all parts of ourselves to come home. It’s the process of absorbing what we’ve experienced—mentally, emotionally, physically, spiritually—so we don’t stay fragmented or stuck in cycles of bypassing. Integration is where the medicine settles in. It’s what happens after the realization, the…