A conversation with compassion
An antidote for when you forget who you really are
Me: Compassion, I sometimes find it hard to access you - as though your warm, reassuring presence disappears into thin air. Where do you go?
Compassion: I am always here. Think of me as your home, your essential nature. I never truly disappear. But sometimes things get in the way.
Me: What kinds of things?
Compassion: It’s not always easy being human. You learn ways to protect yourself from hardship and pain. You develop strategies that help you defend, stay safe, stay connected and stay respected. You build an armour of sorts, made of lots of different pieces. But often this armour, these strategies, rely on self-suppression, self-judgement, self-silencing, avoiding and denying. And slowly, without even realising it, you can become quite unkind to yourself, or closed off to others and the world.
Me: Does this have a name, this armour we build?
Compassion: It has many! Some people call it defences, the ego, survival strategies, protector parts, the adaptive child, inner children, loyal soldiers, complexes, limbic hijack - many names for the same idea. I like to think of it as becoming narrowly identified: you mistake a small, protective part of yourself for the whole of who you are.
Me: When and why does this armour come up?
Compassion: It’s when you feel unsafe or stressed, or like your needs aren’t being met. When your values or something important is being trespassed on, or when you feel at risk of feeling something painful or an emotion that feels too big.
Me: Hmmmm, it doesn’t feel very good when you’re not around though. Why does this armour sometimes hurt? Why, if it’s protecting, can it feel like a prison?
Compassion: You suffer when you forget who you really are.
When you’re in your armour, you’re contracted. You’re in a state of protection, so your heart isn’t fully open to the fullness of life, of others, of yourself. Other people and the world seem less safe, and you’re more likely to see yourself as the problem. Despite it’s best intentions, the armour might start getting in the way of the life and relationships you’re really wanting for yourself.
The armour can create a resistance to your own reality, and that resistance is painful. It can feel as though you're reinforcing an old wound: that these parts of you don't belong here.
Me: So how do you help?
Compassion: I love this question. I’m the quality that welcomes home the parts of you that feel too much, not enough, or unworthy of love. In that way, I’m an essential ingredient in reclaiming your wholeness. I am an antidote to shame, self-judgement, and fragmentation. I am a way back home.
I not only give permission for what’s present - your feelings, your experiences - to simply be here, but I also embrace, nurture and reassure them. No more minimising, suppressing, invalidating or resisting.
And I’m a necessary companion when it comes to trauma. I offer the holding and safety needed for it to begin to be processed, because trauma is a containment issue - it was simply too much and too unsafe for the system at the time.
I also live in the most recently evolved part of the brain - the prefrontal cortex - so when you’re flooded with emotion, and you call on me me, I can begin to offer reassurance, context, and clarity. I help you return to your values, to who you actually are, rather than who fear says you are.
Me: You do so much. So... how do I actually access you during these times?
Compassion: There are many ways! And remember, while compassion is part of your essential nature, it also grows with practice. Like a plant. Whatever you water most will flourish. Spend time with me, and I’ll grow. Spend time in self-judgement, and that will grow too. You’re always walking one path or another.
At its heart, I, compassion, am about being with yourself, especially with your pain. It’s a quality of attention that is warm and accepting. Turning toward what’s here, rather than away from it.
I know that’s not easy, particularly if your feelings have been tagged as too much or dangerous. Compassion is an intentional practice, and a courageous one at that to turn towards and inwards.
Me: Where could I begin?
Compassion: I think a great place to begin is by learning to notice when you're in that armoured, protective place. Recognise it’s happening. What are the signs - in your body? Thoughts? Feelings? And then see if you can allow it so you can get to know it better. And maybe if not that, see if you can allow that you’re not allowing it. Move back as far as you need to just say ‘yes’.
Then, see if you can inquire within, with care and curiosity, for the vulnerability underneath it. The fear. The tenderness. It’s much easier to be compassionate toward the suffering, fear and vulnerability that your defences and protective parts are truly feeling. And from there you can move toward offering kindness, reassurance, forgiveness, care - whatever is needed.
What really helps you to connect to me and remember me is when you notice how you feel after this process. The shift from resisting to allowing. From judging to nurturing. Who are you when you’re no longer seeing yourself, others or the world as bad? Perhaps that’s where you find me most clearly.
Me: This sounds beautiful. But do I have to do it alone?
Compassion: Not at all. If you’ve learned that embracing yourself, your emotions, your inner world hasn’t been safe, then I can feel far out of reach. You might not trust me. That’s completely understandable. Sometimes receiving the compassion of another first gives you the holding you need to soften and feel safe, and to find that same quality within yourself. You don’t have to begin from the inside. Sometimes you enter through a door someone else opens.
Me: Thanks, Compassion. I appreciate getting to know you a bit more.
Compassion: Well, you’re really just getting to know yourself more.
Cultivating a compassionate relationship with self, and building this as an inner resource you can return to again and again, is at the heart of my therapeutic practice. If this resonated and you’d like support in finding your own way back home, I’d love to hear from you.
Take care,
Taylor