Emotional Flashbacks: Understanding the Push and Pull Inside.

We do not often speak to it in today’s world, yet there is an essential dread, a deeply embodied conflict, that lies somewhere within. A push and a pull that holds no words, no language, and certainly no logic. An ungraspable tremor in the soul, a pain without name, an ache that carries a strange and agonising truth.

And yet, this truth is a truth of survival.

Sometimes, when we have lived through relentless fear or pain, especially when the one person who was meant to protect and care for us was also the one who hurt or ignored us, we come to learn the impossible truth: “I need you… but you hurt me.”

This binds us in a terrible knot, not because we are weak, because we were wise enough to survive. We learned how to live inside the “damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

We chose attachment over authenticity.

We bent our Self into the shape most likely to keep us safe.

One part of us became good, kind, careful, hoping to avoid the storm. Another part buried the feelings too dangerous to show – the anger, the grief, the fear. And sometimes, another part simply drifted away – numb, quiet, absent – because feeling too much might have shattered us.

These parts are not mistakes. They are loyal protectors. They did what they had to do. But the thing is… they don’t always know that “back then” is over, and indeed sometimes situations certainly feel the same as back then!

So now, in adult life, a sharp word, a cold glance, a sense of being forgotten, can stir these protective parts. Suddenly, we feel small. Scared. Worthless. Enraged. Panicked. Alarmed and alone. As if the past has poured itself into the present, and we are lost inside it again.

This is what we call an emotional flashback. It is not madness. It is not weakness. It is a deeply embodied memory of alarmed aloneness. It is the body remembering what the mind cannot always name.

It is the past, living through us in the now. The need to be shielded now and in the future. It is the parts of us that still feel unsafe and unprotected.

Sometimes these parts arrive with such force, we don’t even see them coming. Sometimes we don’t know what stirred them. And sometimes, when the pain feels unfathomable and there seems to be no one to turn to, we quietly disappear – into a spaciotemporal void, into the stillness of dissociation.

And that… is okay.

The key now is not to push these parts away, but to come to know them. More importantly still, to come to know your Self – the essence beneath the protection, the You who longs to be seen, heard, understood accepted, valued, and delighted in.

Because no matter how long you’ve been surviving, your Self – that steady, sacred thread of your being – has never left.

It has been lying in wait, yearning to be welcomed.

If you notice these waves rising, the first step is to simply notice. Not to fix. Not to fight. Just to pause, and offer curiosity.

And if the noticing only comes after the wave has crashed – that is okay too. It is the compassionate noticing that matters most of all.

In time, with gentleness and patience, you may begin to connect with these parts. To listen to how they’re trying to protect you. To thank them. And to let them know they are honoured for the protection they offered.

If it feels safe, you might whisper inwardly: “I see you. I know you are trying to protect me. I am here now.”

Perhaps you place a warm hand over your heart, feeling the rhythm of your own aliveness.
Or you give your chest a soft rub.
Or splash cool water on your face to return to the here and now.

These feelings aren’t here to hurt you.
They are echoes of how fiercely you survived.

And slowly, those protectors can begin to trust that you are no longer alone, that you hold the wisdom to discern what is safe, and what is not.

Because you were never meant to do this alone. We are wired for connection, for protection through care. So if you feel alarmed and alone, if it feels like there is no way out, know this: as an adult, it is okay to reach out – to a trusted Other, to a steady hand, to a space where safety can be felt again.

And healing, dear one, is not a straight path.
It is more like the unfurling of a fern in early morning light.
It happens slowly, almost invisibly at times –
but it happens.

Let the parts rest in your care.
Let your Self rise to meet you.
You are already becoming whole.