You call me in the afternoon to randomly ask if I think that you are the kind of person that cats would like. I call you in the evening to rant about the things that I have been overthinking just a little too much. You tell me about old fears, and you ask me if I think that you are a difficult person to love. I ask if you have remembered to eat your dinner. And you, If I have had my evening cup of tea yet. I ask myself if I want yet another slice of carrot cake.

We laugh.

We laugh at how seriously we are taking this “living thing.” We sigh. We take a breath. All the worry settles into a kind of ease that we have untangled with our clasped hands. We are remembering how to feel, and it’s both exhilarating and terrifying. We are waking up to parts of ourselves that have been dormant for too long. We are relearning the language of our hearts, deciphering the messages our bodies have been trying to send us all along.

I was chatting to my therapist, and it came as no surprise to learn that I am actually pretty horrible at feeling feelings. I have always tricked myself into thinking that I am great at feeling things because I know a lot of words that relate to feeling, but what I am actually doing is rationalising and intellectualising instead of actually feeling.

But today, for instance, I noticed that I have been feeling anxious and agitated, and it’s taken a while for that feeling to settle out of my body. I have been feeling a loneliness that I haven’t entirely understood, and I haven’t been sure how to speak about it without sounding sad. I feel nervous-excited about all of the things that I am trying. I feel impatient on some days. I feel a panic when I don’t have a helpful or an encouraging word to share and have to remind myself: that’s not the point.

What we feel carries so much: our red flags go up to protect us, our excitement nudges us to the aspects of our lives that are beautiful and adventurous, our heartache reminds us to lean in and be tender with ourselves, and our worry shows us what’s important to fight for.

We are remembering how to feel, and in doing so, we’re reclaiming a part of our humanity. We’re allowing ourselves to be vulnerable, and in doing so, we’re creating space for others that says: You’re welcome to feel here. You’re welcome to be here.

We’re learning to listen not just with our minds but with our hearts, and in a world that often feels fragmented and isolated, these shared emotional experiences are bridging the gaps between us.

Yesterday, we could have said, It’s nothing, but today, we’re sitting with the ache and noticing it—not rushing to cover it up. We are remembering how to feel.