When the Different Parts of Me Begin to Find Each Other

I have spent a long time moving towards becoming myself. I have spoken about it as healing, finding my voice, listening to the wisdom of the body, and welcoming exiled parts home. Now, listening to Janina Fisher’s book about fragmentation and trauma, I have found a new language for this familiar process. It helps me understand experiences I lived with long before I could put them into words.

My understanding of fragmentation comes from living through a profound experience of dissociation. For decades, I experienced myself as almost entirely absent from my body. I have only a handful of memories from much of my childhood. There were feelings, experiences, and stretches of my life that I could not consciously reach, while their influence continued to move through me.

I recognise different parts of myself that can respond to the same situation in very different ways. One longs for connection and wants to be understood, while another is afraid to open up. One becomes angry and wants to defend my boundaries, while another tries to preserve peace by staying silent. I can understand a situation intellectually and still feel panic in my body. The language of parts helps me approach these contradictions with curiosity: what is each part experiencing, what has it been carrying, and what is it trying to protect?

In my experience, something that could not be held within a connected sense of myself remained at a distance. A feeling could belong to me and still feel inaccessible, unfamiliar, or overwhelming when it appeared. It was as though some part of me had remained with an experience while the rest continued living. This is how I understand the inner separation I have felt, and the gradual process of finding my way back into relationship with it.

As a child, I stopped expressing myself. Recovering my voice has been a long process involving much more than speaking. It involves recognising what I truly feel, accepting it within myself, and finding the courage to give my experience a form. This becomes especially difficult when I experience another person as hostile or closed to what I am trying to communicate. In those moments, words can still disappear.

In recent difficult encounters, I have felt fear with an intensity that was hard to understand in the moment. I have begun recognising something familiar in that sudden urge to withdraw, disappear, or escape. Understanding these experiences through the reactivation of earlier trauma has helped me meet myself with more gentleness. I can pause, recognise that something within me is frightened, and listen without immediately demanding that I pull myself together.

At the same time, I want to stay connected to what is actually happening around me. Present difficulties and old fear can exist together. I need space to recognise both so that I can understand myself and make choices that support me now. Listening inwardly also means recognising when I need distance, support, or different surroundings.

Over time, certain memories have begun to return, and feelings and bodily experiences have become accessible in ways they were not before. I have experienced this as an oscillation, a movement between approaching and withdrawing, feeling and becoming distant again. Contact becomes possible, then difficult to sustain, and later something comes close once more. As I find more safety, I notice more room within myself to meet what is approaching. Learning to recognise this rhythm has helped me respect the pace of my own process.

When I say that these parts want to come home, I am speaking from this lived experience. Something that has remained distant enters my awareness, carrying a feeling, an impression, or a memory that asks for a place within my life. Its arrival can be frightening. I can feel the impulse to turn away even as I recognise a longing for connection. Homecoming involves making room for both the experience that is approaching and the part of me that is still afraid to receive it.

Integration in this context means gradually building connections between these different parts. The frightened part needs to be heard, the angry part needs room to express what feels wrong, and the silent part needs understanding for why speaking has been difficult. Even the part that keeps everything at a distance needs gentleness. I want to understand how it has helped me survive, and what would allow it to feel less alone in its responsibility.

This is where integration meets what I call body intelligence. I experience it as the wisdom of the source alive within me, a living intelligence that keeps guiding me towards connection. I have felt its presence long before I had a psychological language for it: through the impulse to move, the arrival of tears, the need for stillness, the longing to speak, and the recognition that certain places and relationships allow me to breathe more freely.

In my spiritual understanding, connection belongs to the natural divine order. We also belong to one another and to the whole of life. Beneath the experience of separation, I feel a continuing movement towards that belonging. Within me, this becomes intimate and tangible as experiences that have remained isolated begin to enter relationship. Fear can be heard, grief can be accompanied, and the part that lost its voice can begin to speak. Through these encounters, more of me becomes available to meet other people and the living world.

I also need other people in this process. Relationships offer different amounts of space for what is still unfolding, and I do not need to share everything everywhere. I long for people close to me who welcome more than a polished version of who I am, people with whom I can search for words at my own pace, be heard, and encounter disagreement while my experience still has room to exist. Reciprocity also means that both people have boundaries and can say when they need time. Connection within myself and connection with others can nourish each other as they grow.

The language of clinical psychology has brought clarity to this journey. It gives structure to experiences I have approached through the body, intuition, and alchemy. Alchemical union is, for me, an image of ways of experiencing that have long been separated beginning to connect: feeling finds words, thought moves closer to the body, and my voice begins to carry what once remained hidden.

When difficult experiences surface, I need time and gentleness. Everything does not need to be opened at once, and every reaction does not need to yield an immediate lesson. I can listen, rest, seek support, and return to it later. Becoming whole takes on a concrete meaning as more of who I am becomes able to participate in my life, with access to my present understanding, my choices, my boundaries, and the care available to me now. In that growing connection, I recognise the wisdom I have been following all along, guiding me into fuller relationship with myself, with others, and with life.

Revealing Venus descent to all, the relational field is under the microsope🔎 The movement that began mid september, is now on the move and reaches it’s midpoint, the moment of clarity 24.10, when Venus changes from morning to evening star.

There is still space for few women in my Venus descent group, if someone feels called to dive deeper into the relational world of everything❤️