Before The Mind, There Was The Body

How Five Developmental Movements Shape Our Emotional Lives

A client sat across from me, blinking back tears as she talking about feeling like a doormat. Her voice soft and unsure, but laced with frustration as she shared “I say yes even when I want to say no. It’s like… I can’t say no.”

She wasn’t talking about one event. There wasn’t a trauma she could name, no defining moment that left her changed. Just a quiet, chronic sense of overextension, a loss of self in the presence of others.

We began with a question that I often return to: “Where do you feel that in your body?”

Her shoulders lifted. Her arms pulled in. Her hands tensed into fists.

Even as she described collapse, her body showed resistance.

This is where her story started. Not in her thoughts, but in her tissue.

We Are, First and Foremost, a Body 

Long before we have a sense of “I”, we have sensation.

Sigmund Freud once wrote that we are “first and foremost a body ego.” The earliest way we come to know ourselves is through movement, touch, pressure, and gravity. And long before we can speak or reason, our bodies are already learning the rhythms of relationship.

Each of us once moved through a sequence of foundational developmental movements: push, reach, grasp, pull, yield. These aren’t just physical milestones. They are the architecture of identity.

In the same way a house needs scaffolding, we need these movements to build our psychological blueprint. When these early experiences are absent, interrupted, or misunderstood, the imprint is often felt not as memory, but as pattern.

A person who can’t say no might never have fully learned how to push. Someone who fears closeness may not have developed trust through yielding. These movements are more than motor skills. They are somatic lessons in how to be a person.

Push: The Birth of Boundaries

The first time a baby pushes away from something—a bottle, a hand, a too-close face—they’re not being rude. They are saying, I know where I begin.

The push is how we first learn boundaries. It teaches the difference between me and you, want and don’t want.

When this movement is interrupted, it can split in two directions.

If pushing is discouraged or punished, we may learn that our boundaries are not welcome. The lesson becomes: my no isn’t allowed. And so, we learn to override it. We stop pushing. We collapse. We accommodate.

Later in life, this can look like people-pleasing, over-accommodation, or dissociation from anger.

An underactive push response might look like chronic people-pleasing, difficulty saying no, or a felt sense of collapse in the face of pressure.

But if pushing is the only way we ever felt heard — if we had to fight to be seen or to protect ourselves — then pushing becomes our default. The lesson becomes: the world won’t listen unless I force it. And so we get really good at pushing. We brace. We attack. We distance.

An overactive push response might look like constant defensiveness, rigidity, aggressive independence, or an inability to tolerate closeness without pushing people away.

In both cases, the push pattern, our No, is no longer a choice. It’s a survival strategy.

If you say yes while your body is screaming no, this is the movement that needs restoring.

Reach: The Risk of Wanting

To reach is to desire.

Babies reach before they grasp. They extend themselves toward the world—a rattle, a face, a sound. Reaching is the first expression of longing. It’s the brave act of saying: I want.

If reaching is met with attunement, we learn that desire is safe.

But like all developmental movements, disruptions can shape us in two ways.

If our reach is met with indifference, inconsistency, or punishment, we may learn that longing is dangerous. We may internalize the message: my wanting is too much or I’m not worthy of what I want. Over time, we stop reaching. We learn to go without, to stop asking.

Adults who struggle to reach often hide their needs. They may downplay their dreams or wait for permission before pursuing what they want. They’re the opposite of needy; they’ve been trained to appear needless. They hold back their reach, not because they don’t want, but because they learned wanting is too vulnerable.

An underactive reach response might look like suppressing wants, struggling to name desires, or disengaging from personal goals. There’s a flattening of appetite—a fear of wanting.

But if our reaching was the only way we received attention—if we had to exaggerate our needs to feel seen—we may learn: I must keep reaching, or I will disappear. And so we reach compulsively, never sure we’ll be met, always hungry.

An overactive reach response could show up as chronic seeking—always chasing something just out of reach. Overextending for love, attention, or approval. A hunger that never quite feels satisfied.

In both cases, the movement becomes distorted, over- or under-expressed in an attempt to get relational needs met.

To reach is to risk. To feel safe doing so is a gift of early, embodied trust.

Grasp: Claiming What Is Ours

Once a baby reaches, they want to hold. Grasping is the act of claiming. It says: I see it, I want it, I can take it.

But what happens if they grasp and are met with shame? Or if what they want is taken away? Or if their grasp is never strong enough?

If grasping is shamed, ignored, or interrupted, the lesson becomes: what I take, I lose. Desire becomes fraught. We let go too soon. We underreach, underclaim, or relinquish what we desire before it even arrives.

An underactive grasp response might look like giving up easily, downplaying achievements, or sabotaging success. The impulse to grasp is dulled or deemed unsafe.

On the other hand, if our early grasping was over-encouraged or made performative—if we were praised only when we achieved, succeeded, or produced—we may learn: I must hold tightly, or it will be taken away. And so we cling. We control. We fear loss at every turn.

An overactive grasp response might include difficulty letting things go, jealousy, clinging, or a fear of losing what one has. Always holding tight, afraid to loosen the grip.

Both patterns reflect a core uncertainty: can I hold what I desire without fear?

Grasping is the movement of self-ownership. Without it, we become passive observers in our own lives.

Pull: Drawing Others Close

To pull is to connect.

When a baby pulls a parent close, it says: I want you near. I need you.

This movement teaches us about intimacy, reciprocity, and closeness. It’s how we learn that connection can be mutual and safe.

But what if closeness was unsafe? What if our caregivers were inconsistent, overwhelming, or unavailable? Or our pulling was met with rejection? Then pulling becomes risky. We may stop trying altogether. The lesson becomes: asking for closeness is dangerous. We may yearn for connection, but have learned to stay guarded, distant, independent.

An underactive pull response may look like emotional distance, fear of intimacy, avoidance of dependence, or a belief that needing others is weak.

Conversely, if pulling is the only way we felt connected—if we had to pull hard to keep others near—we may learn: I have to hold on tight, or they’ll leave. This can become a pattern of overreaching, over-merging, or emotional dependency.

An overactive pull response might show up as enmeshment, over-attachment, or a desperate need for closeness that can overwhelm relationships.

Either way, the natural movement of drawing others close becomes loaded with fear.

Pulling is not weakness. It is the courage to attach.

Yield: Letting Ourselves Be Held

Finally, we come to yield.

To yield is to rest. To let gravity do the work. To surrender our weight into the arms of another, or into the earth itself.

Babies yield when they melt into a parent’s chest. It’s how they learn that support is possible, that the world can hold them.

But if yielding didn’t feels safe? If surrendering into rest was met with neglect, chaos, or threat, the body may learn: letting go is dangerous. We remain braced, vigilant, unable to soften. Adults who never learned to yield often live in states of vigilance. They may feel unsafe relaxing. Letting go feels like falling.

An underactive yield response may look like hyper-independence, chronic tension and bracing, an inability to let go, or fear of vulnerability.

On the other hand, if we were over-held, over-directed, or never encouraged to stand on our own, we may default to collapse. The message becomes: someone else must carry me. And so we yield too much, too soon, without trust in our own strength.

An overactive yield response might show up as collapse, learned helplessness, or a tendency to overly surrender in situations where agency is needed.

Both responses disrupt the balance between agency and support. Yielding becomes either too risky or too reflexive.

To yield is not to give up—it’s to trust that you won’t be dropped.

The Mind-Body Bridge: Why This Matters in Therapy

So many of us arrive in therapy confused by patterns we can’t name. We ask why we can’t set boundaries, express needs, hold joy, trust love, or finally rest.

What if the answer isn’t in the mind, but in the movements we never fully embodied?

This is why somatic therapy matters. It’s why movement, breath, sensation, and presence aren’t “extras” in healing—they are the foundation. Talk therapy alone may not rewire the earliest imprints. But the body can remember. And the body can relearn.

Healing begins where development stopped. Not because we failed, but because something was missed.

And the good news? It’s not too late.

An Invitation: Start Where You Are

Take a moment to reflect:

• • • When do you override your body’s “no”?
    • What desires feel too big to name?
    • Where do you hold back from claiming what you want?
    • Who do you long to pull close, but feel afraid to?
    • Can you soften into support, even just a little?

There is wisdom in your skin, your breath, your bones.

You do not need to remember the story to rewrite the pattern.

Your body already knows the way.