Living with a reduced connection to my emotions is tough. It doesn’t allow for natural emotional processing, and it leaves me sitting in turmoil I don’t even recognise is happening. How can you process emotions that you can’t see or feel?
But that’s starting to change. After a year of hard work regulating my nervous system, I can finally do an emotion (sort of).
Last weekend I got some big news—something that would make most people cry, shout, scream… feel something. For me, there was nothing. Just the familiar emptiness I carry around every day. But this time, I was ready for it. I knew the emotion would come eventually; it just wouldn’t arrive on schedule like it does for most people.
The Slow Build
Day 1 and 2 were calm. Completely flat. The still seas of serenity.
Day 3 brought irritability.
Day 4 was worse—I was miserable to be around.
And then Day 5 arrived with a burning, clawing sensation in my chest.
Finally. A signal. The emotion was coming, and I needed to grab the opportunity before it vanished again.
My Process for Accessing Emotion
Over the past year, I’ve built a routine that helps create the physical safety my brain needs to let emotions surface. It sounds dramatic, but for those of us with alexithymia, this is real work.
1. Stretching (Resetting the Nervous System)
I do the same simple stretching routine every day. It gives my nervous system predictability and safety. On days when I know I need to process something, this routine becomes the doorway.
A strange but reliable sign that something is shifting?
Yawning. Intense, uncontrollable yawning.
It means my body is moving into a regulated-enough state to connect with my brain.
2. Music + Singing (Emotional Provocation)
Next comes music. Earbuds in, world out. I pick something emotionally heavy and let it fill my head. Radiohead is usually my go-to.
Then I sing. Badly.
Tuneless wailing, muttering, mumbling—it doesn’t matter. The singing opens something up inside me.
3. Rocking (The Gateway to Feeling)
Once I’m lost in the music, the rocking starts.
Sometimes it’s a gentle side-to-side sway.
Sometimes it’s wild, chaotic rocking in a ball on my bed.
The more intense the rocking, the closer the emotion is to surfacing.
When The Emotion Finally Arrives
I always feel it building first: a welling in my chest, rising into my throat. My brain narrates the whole thing with dry commentary, like a wildlife documentary.
“Here she goes, she’s gonna cry! Keep rocking. Keep singing. Don’t stop now—push it out!”
And then it happens.
Tears. Sobbing. Release.
I have no idea what the emotion actually is or what it’s supposed to mean, but I know it’s good to let it go. Five minutes later I feel like I’ve been through a tumble dryer cycle—but it’s over. It’s done.
For people like me with alexithymia, that counts as a major win.
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