Never
Sometimes
Often
Do you feel too scared, uncomfortable, or unsafe to be physically close to or to physically connect with others?
Never
Sometimes
Often
Do you feel too scared, uncomfortable, or unsafe to be emotionally vulnerable with or close to others?
Never
Sometimes
Often
Do you feel too scared, uncomfortable, or unsafe to give or receive love, often resisting others’ attempts to connect emotionally or show love to you?
Never
Sometimes
Often
Do you feel unable to relax or feel at ease by yourself or become uncomfortable during moments of silence or solitude, like during meditation or when you’re alone?
Never
Sometimes
Often
Add up your answers. The higher your score, the lower your HRV and the more incoherent your heart may be. Continue to extend compassion to yourself whatever your score and consider using this exercise as an opportunity to begin creating change in your body, mind, and heart, change that is possible every moment of every day. Wherever you are on your healing journey, increasing your HRV and heart coherence by developing body and mind consciousness can help you begin to shift out of your conditioned patterns of reactivity, find peace, and better attune to your heart’s messages.
MY JOURNEY TO HEART CONSCIOUSNESS
Like many of you, I didn’t grow up with emotionally attuned parents, which caused me to fearfully disconnect from my heart. Both my parents were second-generation immigrants who grew up in physically and emotionally underresourced environments. Because my mom had largely been ignored by her own father and mother, she remained emotionally underdeveloped as an adult and unable to cope with stress to allow herself the opportunity to authentically connect with others. When my sister experienced a series of health crises as a young child, my parents were overwhelmed and undersupported, especially after their extended family began to distance themselves, either unsure of how to offer support or unwilling to do so. My mother started to shut down emotionally in order to survive the near-constant stress she faced and developed chronic pain and health issues herself. Without the ability to regulate her emotions, she began an endless journey to find ways to relieve her ever-increasing pain.
By the time I was born, both my parents were in their midforties and had been living for decades in bodies that were stuck in a fear-based state of nervous system dysregulation. Driven by deep-rooted fear and prioritizing their own survival, they were unable to truly empathize with me or my emotional world. Without anyone to help me navigate what was happening inside and around me, I grew up feeling constantly unsafe, too. Regularly overwhelmed and dysregulated, I could rarely access the parasympathetic ventral vagal state that we need to feel grounded and peacefully connected to our body and within relationships.
I became the living embodiment of our family’s intergenerationally and epigenetically passed on belief—that the world was scary and lonely place—which came directly from my parents’ and now my own lived experiences. In her early twenties and soon after she left home, my mom learned that her father had died suddenly of a heart attack. That abrupt loss activated her deep-rooted abandonment wound and increased her sense of disconnection from others. Years later, when returning from their honeymoon, my parents saw a car flipping over several times in a serious accident—an image that terrified her and hunted our family’s car rides for years. My dad had been painfully teased as a child and after becoming the victim of identity fraud later in life, he began to assume that everyone was out to swindle or deceive him.
My own experiences reinforced my parents’ expressed worries. Growing up in an area of Philadelphia that wasn’t always safe, I was often awoken by sirens from emergency vehicles responding to crimes and other accidents. In fact, the day I came home from the hospital as a baby, the garage of our city home caught fire after my older brother accidentally struck a spark while restoring an old vehicle. On more than one occasion, I woke up to learn that our family car had been stolen out of the driveway. And, after my next-door neighbor’s house was robbed while she was gardening in her backyard, my parents only increased the frequency with which they reminded me that I was never truly safe, even when inside my own home.
Over time, I rarely felt safe in my body and in the world around me. With what felt like a constant threat of the illness, loss, or death of those on whom I was dependent for survival, I frequently lay in bed at night with fear and feelings of constriction in my chest. Over time, my body began to adopt a hunched-over posture during the day, protecting my vulnerable heart, despite regular reminders by my mom to stand up straight. Before too long, I embodied the LePera family mantra that there was always something to worry about, as I physically looked to be carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. Soon, like both my parents’, my body began to function mostly in survival mode. Constricted by fear and always bracing for the worst, I couldn’t connect with my heart, even if I had known and wanted to. I simply didn’t feel safe being seen or experienced by others, causing me to appear quiet and painfully shy to most of the outside world, hiding under tables when strangers visited or behind my mom’s leg when out in public. To ease my deep-rooted fears, I continued to habitually suck my thumb (as I had in the womb) and bit my nails down to a painful length, despite being regularly teased by my family for doing so.
Throughout my teenage years and into my twenties, my body continued to prioritize my survival over all else. Disconnected from my body and physical heart, I was disconnected from my intuition. After decades of looking to others, I couldn’t make even the smallest decisions in life, like deciding what to eat for lunch or how to fill a free hour of alone time. For so long, I had relied on others for cues as to what was expected of me. I had learned to depend on the validation I received as I tirelessly attempted to avoid disappointing others at all costs. Instinctually believing that my worth was based on how others experienced me, I continued to betray my authentic wants and needs in order to meet the imagined and often unrealistic expectations I placed on myself. Before long, my neurobiologically conditioned role of the Overachiever came so easily that it felt natural, as though it were part of my personality to act in ways that eroded my self-trust and self-esteem. I even obsessed over my performance while doing “enjoyable” things, like an art project, journaling, or picking out my outfit, judging myself for my paint choices, penmanship, or clothes.
At the same time, I genuinely believed that I was following my intuition as I avoided things that made me feel physically uncomfortable. Something else I had learned from my mom, who had come to believe that physical discomfort always signaled that something was wrong. For years, whenever I felt physically uncomfortable, even while exercising or stretching, I assumed that it meant I should stop. It wasn’t until much later in life that I discovered that I almost always felt physically uncomfortable, with near-constant muscle tension and other troublesome sensations related to my body’s chronic stress and nervous system dysregulation. When my heart rate and blood flow increased while I was more intensely exercising, I felt fearful, not empowered, because those sensations were similar to the ones I felt when I had a panic attack—and why, over time, I typically ended up avoiding most forms of even helpful rigorous aerobic exrecise. I stopped doing anything that I wasn’t immediately good at because I couldn’t tolerate the emotional discomfort and frustration that often occurs while learning new things. Though she was well-meaning, my mom’s choice to allow me to avoid uncomfortable activities only enabled me to come up with excuses instead of assisting me to build a much needed tolerance for stress and discomfort.
As I continued to see myself more clearly, I started to realize that I wasn’t necessarily the kind, considerate person I had intuitively believed myself to be, always caring so much about what others thought. After I learned about the power of the human heart, I started to realize that I could never be truly compassionate if I remained closed off from my heart and continued to make choices based on my personal survival. Though, for me, connecting with others on an emotional level felt so unfamiliar and unsafe that I kept my heart cautiously locked away.
Being disconnected from my heart cut me off from my personal hobbies, interests, and even a fulfilling professional path. Though I’d always been a driven person—I knew from a young age that I wanted to be a psychologist—I felt passionless and purposeless. In my twenties, I read a book by Dr. Wayne Dyer, a fellow therapist, in which he described finding his passion and purpose in writing and teaching. When my partner, Lolly, told me that she frequently felt a passionate spark of curiosity and interest regarding certain topics or experiences, I began to think that maybe I hadn’t been born with the “passion gene,” if such a thing existed.
Now I can see that I was so detached from my heart that I was actually shut down to what truly lit me up. When I look back at my childhood, I can feel the spark of passion in a little girl who really enjoyed her dance classes, even though I had quit them, feeling uncomfortable in my body while realizing that I got more validation from other activities. I now see myself, as I see all of us, as a being filled with limitless creativity and a unique purpose who loves to share my thoughts and ideas with those around me. I’m filled with the same spark of passionate creation that makes each of us glow internally.
After my trip to Bali with Lolly, I knew that I had to reconnect with my heart. To do so, I would have to begin to regulate my nervous system; otherwise, I’d be too shut down to connect with anything inside me or anyone around me. Using many of the practices we’ve already covered, I started to soothe my nervous system, helping me feel physically safer. I started to witness my ego story, seeing when and how it colored my emotional experiences and caused my brain to override my heart’s messages. I started to pay conscious attention when I felt compelled to make a decision based on what I thought other people wanted or needed from me. I even turned off the alerts on my phone so that I was less readily available to others or external obligations in general and more available to myself. If someone left me a message and I noticed myself feeling pressured to return the call immediately, I paused to connect with my heart. Doing so helped me shift out of my people-pleasing mode and gave me space to assess what I really wanted or needed in the moment. If I was stressed or overwhelmed, I reminded myself that I didn’t have to return their call that minute; I gave myself permission to say no, take time and space, check in with and regulate myself, and choose when and how to respond. Becoming more conscious and intentional in choosing when and how I would show up for others, I was no longer driven to act in certain ways to maintain my relationships. And, if and when I felt guilty about those new choices, which is natural when we create new boundaries or dynamics within our relationships, I reminded myself that making sure I’m meeting my own needs is the most loving thing I could do for another person.
Recognizing how little tolerance I had for physical stress and emotional discomfort, I began to intentionally expose myself to slightly uncomfortable conditions like doing cold therapy. I started to take quick cold showers or submerge my hands in ice water for a few minutes at a time. When my body resisted the discomfort by constricting my muscles, I breathed slowly and deeply into the tension, teaching my body to feel safe through the stress. With consistent practice over time, I helped train my nervous system to recover more quickly from stress by widening my window of tolerance for both physical and emotional discomfort.
By that time, I had noticed how much I avoided being alone with myself. During my twenties, I had spent little time alone, having lived in crowded cities, with an active social life. I obsessively scheduled how I would spend my free time, keeping myself busy making plans with others. I easily remember the first time I went out to lunch by myself and worked through many different uncomfortable feelings. As I continued to increase my tolerance of discomfort through the daily choices I was making, I made it a priority to begin to carve out moments to sit still, alone.
At first that stillness was hard to tolerate, as it may also be for you: when we’re in survival mode, we feel driven to keep moving as our body’s fight-or-flight response activates—and if we can’t move, we may freeze or shut down, detaching from our physical body so that we don’t feel anything at all.
But if we can learn to take the time and consciously practice sitting still when we’re not stressed, we’ll become better at feeling our emotions rather than fighting, fleeing from, freezing or shutting down to them. Connecting in stillness with our body’s sensations, though perhaps uncomfortable at first, trains our brain to sync with our heart. To rebuild my own heart-brain connection, I made time every day for months to sit still with myself and explore to what my heart was saying, setting a timer on my phone for five minutes and sometimes doing the heart-conscious meditation you’ll learn about here.
Over time, I began to see patterns in my heart’s messages. Certain choices and relationships made my heart feel open and expansive, while others caused it to feel closed and constricted. When I spent time with certain friends, I realized that my heart didn’t feel light and open, so I started to limit the time I put into sustaining those connections. At the same time, I began to hear the difficult messages my heart was sending me about my then wife, which eventually helped me make the tough decision to end our marriage.
I quickly started to notice how little I could tolerate moments of silence with others. In social situations, I’d jump in immediately to fill dead air, sharing surface-level observations or stories. For a long time, that habit had been my way of evading the discomfort I felt while at the same time allowing me to entertain others so they would enjoy their time with me. Becoming more comfortable in my own stillness and silence ended up helping me become more comfortable in stillness and silence with others. Instead of jumping in to fill a pause in a conversation, I practiced allowing myself the time to consider if there was something I really wanted to share, then taking the opportunity to speak from my heart and share deeper emotional experiences rather than entertaining distractions. Today, I continue this practice weekly when I record podcasts, resisting the urge to fill a moment of silence by shifting into “teaching mode,” even though there are admittedly still times when the fear and shame of sharing my more vulnerable personal journey quicken my heart and cause tension in my muscles.
Becoming more connected to my heart changed my professional life as much as it did my personal one. Instead of continuing to see clients clinically, I realized that my real passion was to teach others how to create change and empower themselves on their own healing journeys. I decided to launch my Instagram account, which I initially created as a space to share my personal journey more authentically with others. Being vulnerable on social media wasn’t easy at first, and I can remember many moments when I had to work through my long-lived, often intense discomfort of being seen, especially when learning a new skill, like speaking on camera. Gradually, I’m becoming better able to embrace the process of learning new things. By working through my resistance and choosing my new career path to help guide others, I now feel more professionally passionate and fulfilled than ever before. I enter my flow state more easily, with the environment around me falling out of focus when I start to write, teach, or speak, inspired instead by the deepest sense of inner knowing.
Today, I continue to use my FSJ every morning to remind myself of my daily intention to stay connected to my heart by affirming or writing the following: “I am grounded in peace and loving awareness. My soul is aligned with my intentions and daily choices. Today, I choose to embody love.” I then spend a few more moments in silent reflection while I read from a spiritual or meditation book. I continue to check in with my heart intentionally and frequently throughout the day to embody gratitude, compassion, or love, accessing a state of heart coherence. There are still occasions, of course, when I feel overwhelmed or stressed and my nervous system becomes dysregulated—and that’s to be expected since I’m human. In those moments, I practice calming my body so that I can reconnect with my heart again. When I do so, I feel more at peace and better able to express myself in both my career and my relationships. I feel safer and more secure when I’m away from my partners, knowing that we’re still connected and I’m still loved. And I’m more frequently able to be vulnerable with them, too, sharing what’s in my mind as well as in my heart. I’m finally able to relieve that age-old feeling of being alone in a crowded room.
HASSAN’S JOURNEY TO HEART CONSCIOUSNESS
When Hassan started seeing me as a client, he was anxiously trying to complete a postbaccalaureate in premedicine so that he could apply to medical school, even though he’d struggled to finish his undergraduate degree in biology. The oldest son of first-generation Indian Americans, he’d grown up with parents who had directed everything he was to do, including his future career, telling him that he had to become a doctor to bring pride and financial security to his family.
In addition to feeling daily anxiety over his professional path, Hassan struggled with his identity as a gay man. He felt deeply insecure being openly gay and hid the few short-lived same-sex relationships he had, even from those closest to him. He regularly felt depressed, hopeless, and numb, as though he were simply going through the motions of life. Though he desperately wanted a partner (and career) he loved, he was so detached from his heart, as well as from his body, that he had no idea how to connect with himself, let alone with another person.
Just as in my experience, Hassan’s disconnection from his heart began in childhood. When he was young, his parents were critical of any interests or desires that differed from what they deemed acceptable. He loved making art, drawing in his room, and walking in the woods—not playing outside with friends or reading about biology. When his parents discovered that he was spending a lot of time drawing instead of studying, they accused him of being unmotivated and procrastinating, sometimes even punishing him for wasting hours on what they believed to be a futile hobby. In response, he started to hide his drawing books and not tell his parents about his walks in the woods, eventually hiding the other parts of himself he was afraid they’d shame. The older he got and the more pressure they placed on him, the more he tried to keep himself small and out of the way, hoping to avoid being noticed for his “flaws.”
Over time, Hassan started to embody the Underachiever conditioned self, making himself invisible in his attempt to avoid criticism. Facing a consistent threat of judgment, his nervous system gradually began to shut down, creating the emotional numbness, emptiness, disconnection, and depression he regularly experienced.
Shortly after his tenth birthday, Hassan became consciously aware that he was gay. He didn’t dare tell his family out of fear that they wouldn’t accept him, which caused him to become even more secretive, always shrinking away or trying to remain in the background of family events. Feeling shameful about every aspect of his identity, he started to show even less of himself, believing that who he was at his core—artistic, shy, woodsy, introspective, gay—wasn’t good enough. Protecting himself from the deep-rooted shame he felt about his identity, he became more and more disconnected from himself and his feelings.
Although he was intelligent and a quick learner, Hassan was never able to fully apply himself in school, crippled by feelings of unworthiness, low self-esteem, and self-restraining habits that made him feel safest around his parents. He graduated from high school as a C student, unable to get into the college his parents had wanted him to attend. Going to a state school, Hassan struggled through biology—the major his parents had directed him toward—and was miserable. He had few friends and even fewer romantic partners. The relationships he did have were superficial, as he subconsciously refused to open himself up to others out of fear that they’d see all his flaws and imperfections. He pushed friends and partners away with self-deprecating humor, making himself the butt of jokes to appease the internal voice of criticism that he had developed during his earliest experiences with his parents.
When Hassan first began his healing journey, he felt depressed, unfulfilled, and hopeless, struggling through an intense degree program that he felt compelled to pursue for reasons he couldn’t understand. He was so low-energy that he came across as cold or indifferent, not the sensitive and passionate young man who had existed before years of conditioning that eroded his self-worth.
After Hassan learned about polyvagal theory and the different nervous system states, he began to see how shut down he was. He started to wonder whether his depressive symptoms—apathy, lethargy, low mood—were the physiological signs of parasympathetic dominance caused by a slow heart rate, shallow breathing, sluggish digestion, and low energy production. To stimulate his nervous system, he began to experiment with Wim Hof breathing, cold showers, and vigorous exercise, running sprints at a nearby track. Those activities helped shift his nervous system out of parasympathetic dorsal dominance, boosting his energy and making him feel more awake, motivated, and present.
As he started to feel more alive again, his nervous system began to respond to stressful situations with more flexibility, initiating a fight-or-flight response when appropriate before returning to peace and calm. He began to feel safer in his body, which gave him the ability to witness his ego story—the one telling him to remain isolated and invisible, fearful that exposing his “flaws” would make him unworthy of connection and love. As he grew more confident in himself and his choices, he reminded himself that he was worthy and lovable for being exactly who he was.
