Moving Through the Tunnel of Emotion

Learning to hold space for difficult emotions in myself and others

Hello friends and readers,

As I write this, it is Halloween morning. My kids have spent most of October getting into the spirit; Sage by bringing us her costume to put on her most days, and Declan by putting out little decorations and carving pumpkins (which we grew ourselves this year!) I find Declan’s anticipation amusing given that we only end up trick or treating around the block before he’s cold and bored, but I try to share in his enthusiasm anyway.

Declan as a 🦇 and Sage as a 🐱

For the past three years, however, this day has been a reminder of something a lot less joyful for me. It brings me back to 2020, our first Halloween of Covid. I remember washing dishes, listening to music, and generally having a nice afternoon getting ready for the evening, when I started having a panic attack. It came out of nowhere, lasted for hours, and was unlike anything I had ever experienced before; I sincerely thought I was dying. I tried going for a walk, talking to my sister, doing some stretches—nothing helped. And everyday for the next 6 months or so, I had daily panic attacks, as well as constant anxiety about when I would have the next one.

I spent a lot of time fighting the anxiety in my body. It felt awful. Not only that, I was nannying with Declan a few days a week and just starting my early learning and childcare certificate. Some days I would lay on the floor while the toddlers played around me, just trying to breathe and tell myself I wasn’t dying. Nighttime was the worst, especially in the space between waking and sleeping—a few times, I felt like I was losing touch with reality.

It was wild.

Then, there came a shift in the early spring for a couple reasons—one reason being that I unintentionally changed my diet, which led to the discovery that I likely was experiencing leaky gut symptoms that contributed to my mental health struggles, and the other came when I was too tired to fight the panic anymore.

I don’t think I’m alone when I say that the last thing I want to do when I’m having uncomfortable thoughts and emotions is to allow them to remain in my body. No, I would much rather fight those feelings to the death than make space for them. But the funny thing that happens when I do is that it sticks around, just under the surface of my consciousness, waiting for it’s next moment to reappear, often worse then before. Apparently there’s a name for this: the rebound effect.

It became clear that fighting wasn’t working, wasn’t making me feel any better, so I told myself I would just sit there and feel it instead. I dropped my shoulders and breathed out a sigh of resignation, ready for the panic to take over. I didn’t expect what happened next—the panic just kind of dissolved. As soon as I allowed that feeling to exist within me without pushing it out, as soon as I relaxed into it and told myself I was strong enough to handle it, it lasted for a short time and then it was gone.

When a child experiences big emotions, people often say things like, “Calm down,” “It’s not that bad; you’re fine,” or even “Stop crying or I’ll give you something to cry about!” What I’m beginning to realize is that, while these phrases feel invalidating and dismissive, they have positive intentions. We see that a child is struggling in some way and we want them to feel better. We know firsthand how hard it can be to have troubling thoughts and feelings move around our body, causing yucky swirls of sensations that we desperately wish would go away. But, as studies of the rebound effect have shown, just because we can force them down for a time, they always come back.

When I first started practicing allowing these difficult thoughts and feelings to take up space in me, it seemed like the most unnatural thing to do. Why would I welcome such discomfort? How is this good for me? And yet, I’ve been able to handle it every single time. I also generally spend less time ruminating over circumstances I wish were different and more time in a problem-solving headspace—moving through the tunnel of emotions¹ means I’m less likely to wander around in the dark, jumpy and fearful of every perceived noise and bump. I’m far from perfect, of course, but the more I practice, the quicker my body eases into the process.²

Naturally, it’s begun trickling down into caring for children. When I see that a child is coming up to a meltdown, I take big breaths for them, rub their back if they let me, and wait it out. In the beginning, it felt weird to not do anything other than sit with them and hold space for their tears, their wails, their anger and frustrations. I would try to offer help by telling them to take big breaths or starting the problem solving process, but I was met with resistance. I quickly learned that I really don’t need to say anything other than “I’m here. I know this feels hard. You’ve got this.”

Because, you know what?

Their feelings always come to an end at some point, even though I don’t do anything to “fix” it. My presence is enough to be a guiding light at the end of their tunnel. Children are still embodied enough to move through it if we hold space for them, and, ultimately, if we trust that they can handle it. This has been true for every single child that I’ve worked with—even the ones that others accuse of being “too emotional.” It may be new and uncomfortable for them at first, but they quickly adjust when they trust that I won’t punish or correct them when the big feelings take over.

I truthfully haven’t met many adults that learned solid emotional regulation skills from their caregivers in childhood. When I do, it feels like I’ve just discovered a unicorn, and I wonder what that life must be like. Even so, most of the adults I know still believe in the importance of increasing their own emotional intelligence so that they can pass it on to their children. Doing the work while simultaneously trying to give our children something we never had is the most beautiful, brave thing I can think of. If you don’t believe you can handle it, I’m here holding space and taking deep breathes for you; I trust that you’ve got this.

If you’re not a unicorn with amazing emotional regulation skills, share how you’re learning it for yourself and how your passing on your wisdom to the children you love in the comments.

1. Emily and Amelia Nagoski wrote a book called Burnout, and have talked about it on several podcasts, which is where I found this language. Highly recommend looking into it.

2.

Andrea Gibson

wrote about their experience of this in one of their newsletters, and it really resonated with me. You might have to pay to read it, but the free stuff is still worth subscribing to.