She had everything. Except the ability to feel it.

I want to tell you about a woman I worked with a few years ago. I'll call her Sarah.

Sarah was a supermodel from the United States. Sharp, intelligent, successful. The kind of woman who walks into a room and everyone notices. From the outside, her life looked like it was working.

But underneath, something wasn't right. And she could feel it.

There was a hardness around her edges. A prickliness that kept people at a distance. Her relationships ran on adrenaline and dopamine, not on depth. She chased validation through her appearance, through attention, through always pushing for more.

And she couldn't feel her losses. Heartbreak, disappointment, grief. It was all there, stacked up somewhere she couldn't reach.

She hadn't cried in years.

Here's the thing. Sarah wasn't broken. She wasn't even unusual. She was living inside a pattern I've seen hundreds of times in 25 years of doing this work.

There are two kinds of trauma that shape us.

The first is the one most people recognise: the things that happened to us that shouldn't have happened. The shock. The violation. The event.

The second is far more common and far more invisible: the things that never happened that should have.

The attunement that wasn't there. The moments when you needed to be felt, and nobody was present enough to feel you. Not dramatic neglect. Not abuse. Just the quiet, day-to-day absence of someone really being with you. Moment by moment. Feeling by feeling.

When that happens, we learn to disconnect from our own feeling experience. There's no one there to meet it, so we stop reaching for it.

But that separation is painful. So over time, something else happens. We disconnect from the disconnect itself. We separate from the pain of being separated.

That's what numbness actually is. Not the absence of feeling. It's a separation from an ongoing background pain that we stopped noticing so long ago, we started calling it "normal."

Sarah's version was supermodelling and adrenalised relationships. Yours might look completely different.

Maybe it's the hyper-independence you wear like a badge of honour, because relying on people never felt safe. Maybe it's staying busy so you never have to slow down and feel what's underneath. Maybe it's reaching for your phone the moment something uncomfortable surfaces. Or craving intimacy but pulling back the moment it gets vulnerable.

The strategies are different. The pattern is the same. We seek intensity because we've lost access to sensitivity.

When Sarah came to sit in circle and experience Heart iQ for the first time, something shifted. Not because anyone told her what was wrong. But because, for the first time, she was being felt. Really felt. In a field of open hearts that could attune to her without needing anything from her.

Her usual strategies didn't work there. The armour, the performance, the attention-seeking. None of it landed the way it always had. And in that gap, something deeper started to come through.

She cried. For the first time in as long as she could remember. And what came after that changed the direction of her whole life.

You need to feel it to heal it. But you don't have to feel it alone.

Next week I'm running a free 3-day live experience on Zoom, The Heart iQ Experience. Three evenings. March 24, 25 and 26 at 8 PM CET / 7 PM UK / 3 PM ET / 12 PM PT.

Over those three sessions, we practise expanding your capacity to stay open. Personally, relationally, and inside a group. Not by pushing harder. By creating enough safety, together, that your nervous system can start to soften on its own.

If something in this post described you more accurately than you'd like to admit, pay attention to that. That recognition is the beginning.