Author Archives: Heidi Fischbach

Dear Heidi: connecting with body

Keeping the Peace asks:

“After a massage I feel very connected with my body. Is there anything I can do in between massages to maintain that connection?”

Dear Keeping the Peace,

I love that there are people like you in the world, people who want to feel connected to their bodies.

Connection is about relationship, and since it’s hard to relate to something or someone we don’t notice, that’s where I’ll invite you to start: by noticing.

Practice, whenever and however you can, turning toward, listening, and paying attention to your body.

“But Heidi,” you might be saying, “it’s easy to notice my body when I’m getting a massage, but things are stressful and life is busy off the massage table… Also, I am very easily distracted… And my body often is a source of stress…”

I hear you, Keeping the Peace, and it is exactly there, where you are, that I invite you to start:

Let stress, let discomfort, let disharmony and all the ways those express as tightness and pain in your body be what taps you on the shoulder to notice.

Practically speaking, how to connect with your body

In real life, in the real world, it might play out like this:

The next time you feel that knot creep into your shoulder, that pain settle into your butt, or that ache into your foot, use it as the reminder to turn toward your body and wonder:

How am I?

Let those words hang there for a few beats. Give them a breath, or two, or four.

How am I?

Notice. Don’t hurry to answer. Let the words linger around you like a cartoon bubble.

How am I?

Let your words (or whatever words or way you choose to come in contact with your body) be a soft invitation. You aren’t demanding an answer, you are inviting contact, and waiting and noticing what comes.

How am I?

Notice. There are so many ways to answer that question. The first answer that comes may be wordy, like a kid telling a convoluted story.

How am I?

Notice. Allow your body to answer. Maybe at first it seems like nothing comes or maybe what comes is something very very shy. Notice. And from a place of calm curiosity, watch.

How am I?

Sense down your middle. Invite your throat area, your chest area, your belly area to answer.

How am I?

Keep wondering, keep sensing, keep listening.

Remember your heartfelt intention to connect. You want to know this thing, this collection of cells, this mystery of being — however *you* think of it — that you call “your body.”

Be the space in(to) which your body can answer

Allow your body to tell you whatever, however it is. And keep listening.

The more you listen, the more you will hear. The more you hear, the more you will connect. I promise.

Channel your massage therapist’s table or your massage therapist’s office, if that helps. Channel your very own dear self while receiving a massage. Recall how your breathing, when you are receiving a massage, settles into calm. Be the calm into which anything your body wants to tell you can speak or in some other way be known. Be that calm.

Notice and listen. I think you will be amazed. I always am.

Several years ago I went through a bout of insomnia. Ugh. I kept waking up way before the rest of the world and, try as I might, just couldn’t fall back asleep. Finally it came to me to practice doing onto myself what I do for my clients: to listen, to be with, exactly as it is, whatever might be going on. Those sleepless wee hours of the morning became the tap on my shoulder to stop and listen to my body. I wrote this list-poem during one of those nights:

It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to smooth things out.
It’s hard to listen, to let discomfort be.
It’s hard to listen, to pull up a chair and keep company.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to have an agenda.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to steer things back to before.
It’s hard to listen, to feel it just like it is.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to pretty it up. Or make it worse than it is.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to tell you what to do.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to assume I know what you mean.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easy to jump to conclusions.
It’s hard to listen, it’s hard to realize I don’t know shit.
It’s hard to listen, to feel fragility.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to grip.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to interrupt.
It’s hard to listen, to realize the rain could wash it all away.
It’s hard to listen, and not tell things where to go.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to argue.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to explain.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to pretend.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to justify.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to advocate for the devil.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to defend.
It’s hard to listen, to know that things aren’t mine.
It’s hard to listen, to see people as capable.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to interfere.
It’s hard to listen, it’s easier to be hard.
It’s hard to listen I’m afraid.

Keep the Peace, thank you for being the very first person to “Ask Heidi.” I love your question and I love that you asked.


The Anxiety-Taming Blanket (Part 2)

"The Anxiety-Taming Blanket" series continues... [Last week's introductory post is over here.]

Even though what we most want to be able to do when we feel anxious is to rest and relax, the underlying belief running like a broken record usually sounds like “Something is wrong,” to which our first reaction is to tighten up and get tense.

(For most people, what I just described happens unconsciously. It’s our wiring, so to speak… Until we notice.)

The old-wired response

FIGHT. In fight-mode we scan for what is wrong and then fight whatever we think is to blame. In a more subtle form, the fight-response involves looking for fixes: we take out our metaphorical tool box and start hammering away at what we don’t like. While there’s nothing wrong with fixing and finding solutions, in fight-mode there is an underlying frantic-ness and urgency that propels our actions. Nothing calm and centered about it. And often, rather than bringing relief or rest, the frantic-ness of trying to fix what we think is wrong actually brings more anxiety.

FLIGHT is about running away from what scares us. (It doesn’t matter that we don’t exactly know what the danger even is.) Even though we don’t have to run away from sabre-toothed tigers or wooly mammoths for survival like our ancestors did, the wiring to run away remains. Being in flight-mode in response to anxiety can look like reaching for things to distract ourselves from how we are feeling or from the things we think are related to our anxiety. While our distractions can give some appreciated relief, the relief is often short-lived, and what follows can be a sense of even more restlessness.

FREEZE involves the things we do to numb and anesthetize ourselves from the discomfort of anxiety. It’s the old “If I can’t see you, you can’t see me” thing that little kids do: we hope that if we don’t look, then it won’t be there. Except that it is. And, unfortunately, what we find after coming out of whatever we did to numb is the same, maybe even stronger-than-before, anxiety.

Often we don’t notice we are feeling anxious until we’ve started or are well down the path of tension in a fight, flight or freeze reaction.

Re-wiring the old

Remember your metaphorical magical anxiety-taming blanket from the other day? The one that is the perfect size and the perfect shape for whatever is going on for you, including every single aspect of this anxiety?

Your anxiety-taming blanket is woven out of soft threads of self-compassion. These soft threads are also incredibly strong, but strong in a bendy and supremely adaptable way.

Sitting on the blanket of self-compassion has an uncanny way of softening the tightness that comes from the old-wired fight-flight-freeze.


Self-compassion involves noticing, listening and seeing. With soft eyes.

Self-compassion involves turning toward and being with whatever is happening.

(If the idea of turning toward and being with whatever is happening makes you more anxious, then THAT is where to start: by turning toward and being with the part of you that is scared about what is there. We are where we are and we always start there.)

If right about now you are getting a knot in your stomach at the memory of  your old high school guidance counselor telling you to work on your self-esteem, fear not. Self-compassion is not about self-esteem.

Self-compassion is also not about approving or disapproving of what you find when you turn toward yourself.

Self-compassion is not about agreeing or disagreeing with what is happening. And it certainly is not about trying to make yourself accept what is there. (Although, with self-compassion you may very well find yourself feeling more accepting).

Self-compassion is not about figuring anything out (even though you may find that things do shift and get figured out).

Self-compassion is looking upon yourself and whatever is happening, with kind regard.

It takes practice. Most of us, especially those of us who have struggled mightily with anxiety, aren’t adept at self-compassion when we begin to try. That’s OK. Self-compassion is a quality we can cultivate. Even the very smallest movement toward self-compassion counts greatly.

Cultivating Self-Compassion

Here are some helpful ways to practice self-compassion, especially if you are puzzled about how to go about it:

  1. Bring to mind someone or something that embodies or represents the quality of compassion for you. It could be a teacher, a religious figure, a therapist, a pet… it could even be a stuffed animal. Maybe it’s several people and your dog.

    How would ___ be with you right now?

    See it in your mind’s eye, and feel what happens in your body.

  2. Another way to cultivate self-compassion is to envision someone or something you greatly care about with an uncomplicated, no-questions-asked kind of care. If that person were feeling the anxiety you are feeling, imagine how you would go about showing them compassion:

    How do you look at them? What do you say? What do you not say?

    See it, hear it in your mind’s eye. Feel what it does in your body.


Remember that your blanket has room for everything —including the part of you afraid of all the things on the blanket— and it is woven out of self-compassion. Maybe someone who embodies compassion for you has joined you on the blanket. Maybe the blanket is wrapped around you and that special somebody or something you adore and easily feel compassion.

The mind’s eye can show a powerful movie. Close your eyes and let it roll. And if you want, of course, tell about it in the comment field below.

More soon,


P.S. A little bow of thanks to those I channel for myself these days when I’m having a hard time feeling compassion for myself: Tara Brach, Byron Katie, my barefoot lady (a.k.a, therapist), and Humlum, to name a few. I love having them on my blanket with me.

The Science!

There is a substantive and growing body of research on the effectiveness of self-compassion and mindfulness for anxiety and depression. A quick Google search for “self-compassion and anxiety” will yield vast result. The research done by Kristin Neff and Christopher Germer, among others, is solid and very promising.


An Anxiety-Taming Blanket. For You! (Part 1)

Sometimes things feel like too much. That whole thing about your daughter, for example. Not to mention the new job. And what about the divorce. And now that you think of it, there’s the whole thing about your sister… And your dad’s health…

When anxiety is visiting the house of you, what started as one thing can quickly turn into EV-ree-thing. And quickly everything feels like too much.

Enter, Overwhelm. And then, right on cue, Panic.

Our natural tendency with anxiety (or with anything we experience as unpleasant, really) is to slam the door on it and then try to ignore how it keeps knocking.

Or maybe anxiety has been with you for so long and put you in such hard places that now you are anxious about getting anxious, afraid about when anxiety might come knocking again. In our house-metaphor being afraid of anxiety might look like camping out behind the curtains, every so often peeking out to make sure the coast is clear, but never venturing too far from the curtain and certainly not out and about to enjoy life as you would love to be doing (and as you imagine all those other people who never get anxious are probably doing right this very second, dammit).

Today and over the next week or so, I will be writing to you about a metaphorical magical blanket for anxiety.

Notice that I am not calling this a magical pill for anxiety. First off, I’m not a doctor. Also, no, you will not be swallowing anything and POOF it is gone. What I am is a massage therapist and a guide in something called “Focusing” (a mind-body technique that allows you to listen to your body’s wisdom), who specializes in working with anxiety.

While I will be describing some of the blanket’s qualities, you —just by showing up and reading, by taking what works for you and leaving the rest, and just by imagining and thereby practicing—  will get to be making the anxiety-taming blanket your very own.

Maybe you will spread your blanket in a beautiful meadow of wildflowers somewhere. Maybe you will make a blanket-fort out of it in your imagined or actual bedroom. Maybe you will, in the middle of the night when, yes, anxiety woke you up, make a nest out of your blanket in the tub and give new and dare-I-say innovative(!) meaning to the expression “taking a tub.”

Wherever you end up putting your blanket, however you end up using it, this blanket is perfect for you and whatever is going on with you right here, right now.

You will hear from me in the next day or so, but for now I invite you to have a look at your anxiety-taming blanket as it appears to you right now. The mind’s eye can show a powerful movie. Close your eyes and let it roll. And if you want, of course, tell about it in the comment field below.

More soon,


P.S. I tip my hat and give a bow to my long-time teachers: Barbara McGavin, Ann Weiser Cornell, Tara Brach, Byron Katie, and Gene Gendlin, and my own therapist, to name just a few. And, last but very much not least, Anxiety itself.

Heidi’s Table

2464 Massachusetts Ave. #405
Cambridge, MA 02140


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