You can read the despair right off her face. The fog of powerlessness is still lingering in her eyes. “I’m stuck,” she says, perched cautiously on the edge of her seat. “I want a new job, I want to move, I want everything to change, but the second I take a step, my body hits the brakes. I just freeze. I’m so frustrated and angry with myself. Why can’t I do this? Why am I so weak!” she cries out.
It’s the classic story of ‘the loop.’ Your head has this brilliant plan, but your nervous system refuses to install the updates. Neurologically speaking, there’s a short circuit. Her body isn’t reacting to her current reality, but to an old code buried deep in her foundation.
“Let’s stop asking ‘why’ and start looking at ‘who’,” I suggest. I ask her to close her eyes. “This freeze, this powerlessness… if it had a shape, a color, what would you see?”
It takes a moment. “Don’t overthink it,” I say, “just go with the first thing that shows up.”
“A thick, grey fog,” she whispers. “It’s cold. I feel frozen to the ground.”
I have her place that fog outside of her body, at a safe distance. Then I ask: “How old does the energy behind that fog feel? Is there a younger version of you in there feeling this way?”
The answer comes instantly. “Six years old. And she’s terrified of making a mistake. If she moves, things go wrong.”
There she is. Her inner child has taken the wheel of her nervous system. To a six-year-old, a big change—a new job, a move—isn’t an adventure; it’s an existential threat. Freezing is her survival strategy. Together, we listen to that child, to the story that needs to be heard.
“We’re not going to leave her alone in that fog,” I say softly. “What powerful symbol, what mythical figure could give this six-year-old the protection she missed back then?”
She’s quiet for a second. Then her face relaxes. “A huge, golden lion. He’s standing right in front of her, between her and the fog. His fur is warm, and he’s licking her face.” She giggles like a little girl being tickled.
I see her breath drop from her chest to her belly. Her shoulders, which were hunched up to her ears, finally settle. This isn’t just fantasy; it’s neurobiology in action. By introducing the lion as a symbol, her subconscious gets the signal that safety has been restored. Her nervous system shifts from ‘code red’ to ‘safe.’
“Feel the lion’s warmth in your body,” I tell her. “The adult in you can go look for that job and pack those bags, while the lion stands guard for the child who’s afraid to move.”
When she opens her eyes, her gaze has shifted. And no, it’s not a quick fix; the ‘loop’ hasn’t vanished, but the foundation is stronger. Sometimes we don’t need a logical explanation; we need a mythical protector to rewrite our old neural pathways. Because in the world of the subconscious, a golden lion is often way more powerful than a well-thought-out action plan.
After she leaves, I have a cup of tea downstairs. ‘How amazing is our body, acting like a time machine that lets us stand beside our younger selves and heal the scratches on our soul, changing our future in the process,’ I muse. Suddenly, I remember how I used to dive into a fantasy world as a little girl whenever there was a fight at home. I was a powerful princess in a draped white silk gown—I was a Steiner school kid, so I didn’t know Disney princesses back then—and I had lions lying at my feet. I could pet them and command them, but they’d tear anyone with bad intentions to shreds. I was untouchable. I let that powerful feeling from back then wash over me.
Apparently, I had completely ‘zoned out’, because I jump out of my skin when my son suddenly appears next to me. I scream so loud I almost drop my tea. “Jesus, Mom!” he says, laughing his head off. “Didn’t you hear me?” I explain that I was a five-year-old princess again in a white gown with a pack of lions protecting me. I want to tell him about the old days, but he cuts me off: “Man, you must’ve taken way too many drugs when you were young.” And then: “I mean, you have a cat army now, but are those two senior cats and Belle with her half-paws really gonna protect you? Keep on dreaming, mother!” And he laughs all the way back upstairs.
I imagine myself as one of those hyperactive manga warriors, using a shield to fend off all the sarcasm from my teenagers. And if I do get hit, I’ll just go ‘Back to the Future’ style and use my time machine to undo the damage.
Well, maybe I did take too many drugs back then…
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