On Learning to Trust Your
Body's Knowing Again

I'm a yoga and awareness teacher, and the founder of Verisage. This is the final piece in a four-part May series called The Body Knows. If you've been reading along, this is where everything lands. If you're arriving here for the first time, you're welcome exactly as you are.

This is the closing piece of the May series — and before we get into the teaching, I want to name what this month actually held. Because I think when you see it written out, you'll recognise something that didn't have a name until now.

What we've moved through this month — without perhaps naming it explicitly until now — is a complete cycle of mind, body, and spirit alignment. The story engaged the mind. The practice met the body. And what we're arriving at today — trust, intuition, the quiet knowing that lives beneath thought and sensation both — that is the spirit.

Not in a way that requires any particular belief. Just in the sense that there is something in you that knows — that has always known — and that the work of reconnection is, at its deepest level, the work of coming back into relationship with that.

What intuition actually feels like

It doesn't announce itself. It doesn't arrive with certainty or urgency or the clear, decisive feeling we imagine it should have. It arrives quietly. As a slight contraction in the chest when something isn't right. As an inexplicable sense of ease when a decision aligns. As the thing you already knew before you asked anyone else's opinion — the knowing you talked yourself out of, the signal you overrode because it was inconvenient, because the louder voice in your head said to ignore it.

Learning to trust that quiet signal again after a period of sustained override is one of the most delicate things I know. It requires patience. It requires practice. And it requires a particular quality of honesty with yourself — the willingness to notice what you notice, even when what you notice is uncomfortable.

The body is where that knowing lives. Not in the mind, which is brilliant at rationalising. Not in other people's opinions, which are shaped by their own experience. In the body. In the breath that catches. In the shoulders that drop when something finally feels right. In the stomach that tightens before the mind has even processed why.

Safety came first — the body had to feel held before it could open. Sensation came next — you had to learn to hear it before you could trust what it was saying. And now, here at the end of May, we arrive at trust: the quiet practice of letting what you feel in your body actually inform how you live.

Not every decision. Not dramatically. Just — more than before. A little more often. With a little less overriding.

That is enough. That is, in fact, a profound shift.

I'm proud of you for being here. Not because you read four pieces — but because something in you said yes to this. To slowing down. To turning toward your body rather than away from it. To the possibility that healing is not only emotional, and that the path home runs through the physical self you've been living around.

Carry May with you — the permission to arrive, the understanding of what you've been holding, the practice of coming back, and the quiet beginning of trusting what you find when you do.

Your body knows the way home.
You just have to keep following it.