Your Body Is Telling You Something

Listening As Spiritual Practice

Your body is telling you something. Every sensation carries navigational information about your environment—information that, when understood, changes everything about how you live and how you experience Life itself.

Usually you notice sensations after the fact. You notice how you have a headache, backache, stomach trouble, or that your shoulders are up around your ears, or the tightness in your calves when you walk. But your body was talking to you long before that, all during the tightening-up process. Since you weren’t listening, it kept turning up the volume—ratcheting the tension—until you noticed.

It isn’t that your body is trying to punish you, but that it’s trying to get your attention to communicate something to you. Yet you’ve been trained to ignore your body, to “feel the burn” or push through the pain—which is exactly the opposite of how the body operates.

Your whole body is a sophisticated sensory system that perceives energies far beyond what the physical senses can see, hear, feel, smell, or touch. It is wiser and far greater than anything ever said in conventional wisdom about bodies. Your body is not a machine or a computer; it has far greater sensitivity, wisdom, and intelligence than either of those ever could.

Your body tells you when you are in the presence of a lie—from others or from yourself—when other people’s energy and information are clouding your capacities, when you are sensing untrustworthiness, danger, relief, joy, and so much more. But the programming from society is misleading and inaccurate, so no one learns the body’s language and styles of communication.

Every sensation has a message, and every message has a tone. Some whisper, some throb, some expand like light under the skin. When you start to listen instead of analyze, everything shifts—and the conversation begins.

So how do you begin to listen? You start by noticing. Not thinking about what you notice, not explaining it, just noticing. The body’s language isn’t made of words—it’s made of sensation, texture, tone. It speaks through warmth or coolness, through the tightening that says no and the softening that says yes.

At first, you’ll catch it after the fact. You’ll notice—hey, my stomach is upset; I must have a bug. Then, my stomach is upset; it must be something I’ve eaten. Then, my stomach was upset when I was talking to someone last month, then last week, then a few days ago—and eventually you notice as it begins to happen.

That’s becoming aware. Bodies live in time and space, and learning takes time. That’s fluency beginning. You are retraining yourself to listen to the instrument you live in.

Over time, you start to notice sooner—in real time. You’ll feel the moment your stomach contracts in someone’s presence, or when a thought brings heaviness instead of lightness. The conversation with your body becomes continuous, like a friend you had forgotten you could trust.

When you begin to listen this way, everything changes. Decision-making ceases to be a mental argument of pros and cons and becomes a sensory knowing. The body shows you what aligns before the mind can justify it. You start making choices that match your energy instead of fighting against it.

Listening is not analysis; it is attention without agenda. The analyzer wants to label and solve; the body wants to communicate. When you simply attend, the body exhales; the shoulders drop from your ears. The tight places begin to unwind—not because you forced them to, but because they were finally heard.

As you keep noticing, another layer of awareness appears: what’s mine and what’s not.

Not every tension actually belongs to you. The body feels everything—the weather in the room, the moods of others, the unspoken undercurrents. If you grew up amid unhealed adults—addiction, instability, or mental distress—your system learned to translate everyone else’s emotion and pain as a survival strategy. It assumed it was all yours to begin with, or all your responsibility anyway.

When you start to listen, you’ll discover how much of what you feel doesn’t belong to you. That’s not a judgment; it’s an observation. The body is aware by design—receptive, relational, present. It picks up information from the world around you; that sensitivity is part of the human navigational system.

The practice now is to resensitize and learn to notice, “Is this mine?” before you react to it. You may feel a heaviness that suddenly lifts when you ask that question. You may notice tension dissolve the moment you realize it isn’t actually yours. That’s your body releasing what it was carrying on behalf of your survival, taking care of others you know, or of the collective field.

Listening at this level changes your relationship with sensitivity itself. What was annoying becomes vital information for your best navigation. What once felt like overload begins to feel like useful intelligence.

You start to discern texture—your own calm versus someone else’s anxiety, your truth versus another’s projection. The world doesn’t become less intense; you become clearer within it, and therefore more at ease with it all.

Over time, your body becomes your compass again—a trustworthy ally in every environment. It tells you when to rest, when to move, when to speak, when to wait. It tells you what’s aligned, not by reasoning but by resonance.

Your whole system undergoes a nearly effortless recalibration, re-attuning to your true nature. That’s sovereignty, lived through flesh—embodied. Not the mind’s idea of control, but the quiet authority of being at home in your own field.