The Awakening Moment: When You Choose to Move Forward Subconsciously
Suffering is a strange thing. It shows up differently for everyone. sometimes loud and chaotic, sometimes quietly unbearable. There can be a weird heaviness, an overload of noise, or even a kind of silence that presses on the chest like weight. Only the soul enduring it truly understands the shape of it.
As I lay in bed at my parents’ house—in my old bedroom, surrounded by the comfort of walls that held me through many versions of myself—my mind, almost on cue, begin to replay something sacred: my awakening moment. It feels recent, like something that happened just yesterday. But it’s been nearly half a decade since that internal shift.
I remember it vividly—the swirling thoughts, the emotional noise, the heaviness of everything—and then, a brief moment where all of it went quiet. Not peaceful exactly, just still. After months of deep emotional pain spent in this very bed, something within me moved ever so slightly. It wasn’t dramatic or cinematic. It was subtle and profound. I felt present. And in that moment, something changed.
The First Movement
My first action—my real, intentional first action after months of numbness—was so small it would’ve been invisible to anyone watching. I stepped out of bed and straightened my back. That’s it. I just stood. But inside me, it felt like climbing a mountain.
You see, it wasn’t just symbolic. I was battling severe abdominal pain.pain that kept me hunched over, unable to walk or sit upright for months. No medication helped. And somewhere in my mind, I had formed the belief that I might never move freely again.
So while it may have looked simple on the outside, for me, it was everything. It wasn’t strength that got me there. It wasn’t motivation. It was something quieter—a whisper. That soft, barely-there inner voice that we so often overlook. The one that says, Try again. The one that doesn’t yell, doesn’t force, doesn’t shame. It simply nudges.
The Psychology Behind the Shift
That voice, the quiet one, is not imagined. In psychological terms, it’s often referred to as the internal nurturer or core Self. It’s the part of your psyche that remains intact beneath trauma, heartbreak, and exhaustion. It’s always there—calm, capable, and compassionate.
In Internal Family Systems (IFS) therapy, this Self is considered the center of healing. Beneath all the survival parts—the part that numbs, the part that dissociates, the part that lashes out—is a deeper presence. And when healing begins, it’s not because you “push through.” It’s because you finally hear that voice again.
You stop identifying with the fear. You stop trying to conquer your pain. And you start responding to that quiet part of you that says, You’re still here. You matter. Let’s try again.
Threshold Breakthroughs: When Will Becomes Action
Psychologists often describe moments like mine as threshold breakthroughs—when emotional urgency and physical survival intersect, allowing your brain to override even its deepest protective shutdowns.
I know we’re told the first step is the most difficult. While I do agree with that, I also know that all the steps that follow on this healing journey can be just as difficult. Don’t expect yourself to never lose momentum or never feel the same pain again because you will. We all do. And it’s completely okay.
The only thing to remember is to keep getting back up. keep going. even the tiniest effort counts.
I think back to that day, to when I made the very first conscious move, and to the things that had shaken my core just before it happened. I had been ignoring the soft, gentle voice that spoke to me several times—my core Self. Just like so many of us do. Making excuses. Surrendering to the limiting beliefs I had built in my head.
But on that day I heard it. Clear as ever. Exhausted. Almost mimicking my physical and mental exhaustion. It pierced through me like a sharp pain in my chest. I didn’t understand it in the moment, but reflecting back later, I realized: I was giving up on myself.
And that hurt differently. Because people are obligated to nothing when it comes to another human being—no matter the relationship or the depth of love. Each one of us is carrying our own burdens and struggles.
So this time, I reached out to myself and whispered back, I hear you. I will try. I exhaled with relief. But still, I didn’t physically move.
The Moment My “Why” Became Clear
Now I move forward for and because of myself but I’d be lying if I said I was able to start just for me. Because there was something else that shifted me into action.
My father, a significantly handsome man, who looked at least fifteen years younger than his age the last time I had really looked at him and he suddenly appeared older to me. A few days ago, I really saw him. His wrinkle-free face was now marked with deep lines, and he had lost weight. The pain and helplessness were evident in his voice when he asked, “What can I do to help you, my little girl?”
I just stared at him blankly. We both knew we were doing our best, yet it wasn’t enough.
It was painful to witness. But I also realized that I am so loved. So deeply cared for that my pain was not just mine. my father was living it too and it was now visible on my his face. That realization cracked something open in me.
Our relationship hadn’t always been the easiest. But after that moment, it became the most beautiful one in my life.
A few days later, my parents mistook my stillness and closed eyes for sleep. I peeked a little. My father had settled on the floor beside my bed, elbow propped up, head in his hand. I heard him whisper to my mother:
“Do you think she’s going to survive?”
I heard his voice break. I heard his tears.
And when they left the room, something gnawed at me from within.
I cried quietly. And I heard the whisper again:You have to. For them. For yourself.
It wasn’t hope.
It wasn’t courage.
It was will.
Without thinking, I moved. My feet touched the ground. And I stood.
My body screamed. My pain flared. But I stood anyway.
I walked to the bathroom. I looked in the mirror and after what felt like an eternity. I saw myself.
I noticed the scars from the minor surgery I’d had a few years ago. I noticed how much weight I had lost. How my skin had started sagging in places, how the glow had faded. I ran my hand over those parts of my body, feeling the lost elasticity at just twenty-three years old.
It was a lot to accept.I shed a few tears, but I didn’t look away.Because it was still me. And I owed myself love.
So I gave it. I placed my hand on the mirror, as if making contact with the woman in the reflection who no longer looked like me.
And I smiled at her.
It wasn’t just one thought. Not just one singular moment. It was a collection of them. A realization that if I didn’t make a change. If I didn’t answer the whisper, this internal fading might last forever.
That was my first movement. And the moments that forced me to choose differently this time.
The Quiet Power of Willingness
At the center of it all is willingness.Not certainty. Not clarity. Not even hope.Just the quiet, steady willingness to try again.
To whisper: I’m still here. I still want to live.That is where healing begins.
That is where we begin again.
If You’re Standing at the Edge
If you’re standing at that fragile edge right now. somewhere between hurting and healing, know this:
You don’t have to be ready.
You don’t have to be perfect.
You only have to be willing—and the tiniest effort counts.
That is enough.
That is everything.