The Inward Journey — Returning to Yourself in the Process of Healing

Human beings need connection.

Our relationships with family and friends, a sense of belonging within a community, and the feeling of being understood and connected to others are all important for our emotional and mental wellbeing.

But I believe there are also times in life when, rather than continually reaching outward for connection, we need to turn our attention inwards.

To step back a little from the outside world and listen to what we are truly feeling, what we really want, and what we may need to let go of.

I think of this as the inward journey.

If there is an outward journey through which we discover ourselves through relationships, society and our experiences in the world, there is also an inward journey — one in which we go deeper within ourselves, face what we find there, and gradually rediscover who we are.

We need both.

And particularly during periods of loss, transition or healing, there may be times when this inward journey becomes necessary.

Loss is part of being human

At different stages of life, we may experience loneliness, melancholy, a sense of disconnection, or a feeling that we are no longer rooted where we once were.

Sometimes there is an obvious reason.

The death of someone we love. Losing a parent. Divorce or separation. Children leaving home. The death of a beloved animal. Moving somewhere new. Changing career. Illness. Ageing.

Or simply reaching the end of a particular chapter of life.

At other times, it may be difficult to understand exactly why we feel this way.

These feelings can even arise with changes in the seasons.

Autumn, for example.

The warmth gradually recedes, the days become shorter, the leaves change colour and eventually fall.

Loss and change are everywhere in nature.

And grief itself is not necessarily something pathological.

It is partly because we are able to love and become attached to people, places, experiences and particular stages of our lives that we grieve when they are lost.

Nothing remains exactly as it is forever.

Perhaps our own lives are the clearest reminder of this.

As we grow older, our bodies change. Our vitality changes. Things that were once easy may become more difficult. Illness may enter our lives.

And eventually, without exception, every human life comes to an end.

Of course, most of us want to remain strong, healthy and active for as long as possible.

There is much we can do to care for ourselves throughout life.

Nourishing ourselves well. Moving our bodies. Breathing fresh air. Resting sufficiently. Avoiding excess where possible. Finding a sustainable balance between activity and recovery.

But caring for life does not mean preventing change.

And sometimes, it is because something will not last forever that we begin to understand its value.

When something is close to being lost — or has already gone — we may suddenly realise just how precious it was.

And loss itself can sometimes turn our attention away from the outside world and towards what is happening within us.

Grief, letting go and Metal

In Chinese medicine, autumn belongs to the Metal element and is associated with the Lung and Large Intestine.

One of the important themes traditionally associated with Metal is grief and letting go.

I find the symbolism of Metal particularly beautiful.

Metal can evoke minerals, precious stones, blades, and things that have been refined and polished.

There is an image of gradually stripping away what is unnecessary until something essential remains.

Like uncovering something precious beneath layers of earth and impurities.

This does not mean that grief should be hurried through.

Nor does it mean that we should simply “let go” of people or experiences that mattered deeply to us.

Grief needs its own time.

From a Chinese medicine perspective, the relationship between our emotions and the body is understood as moving in both directions.

A person whose Lung and Large Intestine systems are already out of balance may find grief, loss or letting go particularly difficult to process.

Conversely, during periods of prolonged or intense grief, signs associated with these systems may become more noticeable.

This is not to say that grief directly causes illness in these organs, but rather that Chinese medicine understands emotional and physical patterns as closely interconnected.

And perhaps this is another way of understanding letting go: not as something that should be forced, but as a process that gradually unfolds in its own time.

Sometimes we have to accept that what we have lost cannot return in exactly the same form.

It may be a person.

A relationship.

Our youth.

A former version of ourselves, a home, a career, or the life we once knew.

When one stage comes to an end, space gradually begins to appear for what comes next.

And sometimes, through the process of letting go, what truly matters to us becomes clearer than it was before.

The outward journey and the inward journey

Chinese medicine often understands life through the relationship between movements that may appear opposite, but are complementary.

Activity and rest.

Expansion and contraction.

Moving outward and moving inward.

Day and night.

We need both.

There are periods of life when our movement is predominantly outward.

We meet people, build relationships, work, create, pursue goals and experience the world.

Through our relationships with others, we also discover new aspects of ourselves.

This is, in a sense, the outward journey.

But there is another journey.

The inward journey.

It means becoming quiet enough to notice what is actually happening beneath everything we are doing.

What am I really feeling?

What is working in my life?

What no longer feels right for me?

What am I holding onto simply because it is familiar?

What do I actually want?

And perhaps most importantly:

How much of the life I am living truly feels like my own?

To sit with questions like these, we sometimes need to step back from external stimulation and the voices of other people.

This is why the inward journey may involve periods of solitude.

But being alone is not the purpose.

The purpose is to become quiet enough to return to ourselves.

We gradually move away from ourselves

When we are very young, we tend to express ourselves relatively freely.

We cry when we are unhappy. We reach for what interests us. We reject what we dislike.

We laugh loudly and become absorbed in things without wondering whether they are useful, impressive or socially acceptable.

Then we grow up.

We learn what we “should” and “should not” do.

Family, education, friendships, culture, work, media and the wider society around us all shape us.

This is necessary too.

Becoming part of a community and learning how to live alongside others is part of being human.

And both positive and difficult experiences inevitably become part of who we are.

But along the way, we may also accumulate wounds, expectations, fears and habits.

Emotions we learned not to express.

Needs that were never met.

Potential that was never developed.

Dreams and desires we gradually forgot.

Parts of ourselves that we learned to reject because we believed they were unacceptable.

Some of these things may continue to influence our lives from places we are barely conscious of.

They may affect the relationships we choose.

The work we do.

The way we treat our bodies.

Where we look for comfort or satisfaction.

And even what possibilities we allow ourselves to imagine.

So every now and then, perhaps it is worth asking ourselves:

How much of myself have I forgotten, suppressed or ignored — and replaced with the person I thought I was supposed to be?

Removing what is not truly ours

This brings me back to the image of Metal.

Perhaps finding ourselves is not always about creating a new identity.

Perhaps it is sometimes about gradually removing what we have accumulated that no longer feels true to who we are.

We can begin to look at our lives quietly and carefully.

Did I choose this career because I genuinely wanted it?

Or because it looked respectable to other people, offered financial security, or simply seemed like the sensible thing to do?

Do I dress or change my appearance because I genuinely enjoy it?

Or because I am looking for approval and acceptance from a particular group?

Do the habits I continue to follow still serve me?

Or do I repeat them unconsciously simply because this is how my family has always lived?

Is this decision coming from my own values?

Or from a fear of disappointing someone else?

Of course, there is nothing inherently wrong with being influenced by other people.

We are relational beings.

None of us develops without being influenced by those around us.

The question is whether, among all those other voices, we can still hear our own.

And when we are constantly surrounded by information, stimulation, expectations and opinions, that voice can become very difficult to hear.

Sometimes, therefore, we need to bring our attention back from the outside world and turn it inwards.

Sometimes healing requires an inward journey

Of course, healing sometimes requires practical action.

We may need to stop smoking.

Change the way we eat.

Move our bodies differently.

Leave an environment that no longer suits us.

Change jobs.

Seek appropriate treatment or support.

Establish boundaries.

Step away from a relationship that is causing harm.

There are times when we need to act upon the external world and make real changes to our circumstances.

But action is not the only form of change.

There are also times when, rather than finding another thing to do, we need enough space to notice what is already happening within us.

Time to reflect.

Time to feel emotions we have avoided.

Time to grieve.

Time to listen to the sensations of our body.

Time to recognise what we no longer need.

And time to discover what we might want instead.

This is what I mean by the inward journey.

Sometimes this may require stepping away from crowds and external stimulation and spending some time alone.

But it is not about escaping from life.

It is not about rejecting relationships with other people.

And it certainly does not mean that we should deal with everything by ourselves.

Rather, it is a way of allowing the attention that normally travels outward to return, temporarily, towards ourselves.

Other people can support us enormously.

A friend, partner, practitioner, therapist or teacher may notice something we cannot see ourselves.

They may offer treatment, knowledge, another perspective, or simply their presence.

But nobody else can completely undertake the inward journey for us.

Eventually, there are questions we have to face ourselves.

And perhaps some answers can only be found within.

Outward, and inward

So this is not really a question of whether connection or solitude is more important.

It is about the outward journey and the inward journey.

There are times to move towards people, society, activity and experience.

And there are times to return, in quietness, towards ourselves.

Through one, we discover ourselves in relationship with others.

Through the other, we quieten some of the voices coming from outside and encounter what is within.

Like day and night.

Activity and rest.

Expansion and contraction.

Life contains both movements.

And during periods of loss, transition or healing, there may be times when life naturally draws us inward.

It may not always be comfortable.

There may be sadness.

We may encounter things we would rather not see, or emotions we would rather not feel.

But beneath the layers of what is no longer needed — and perhaps what was never truly ours — we may rediscover something precious.

Not by becoming an entirely new person.

But by returning to the self that was there all along.

Perhaps that is what the inward journey is.