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Alexithymia and the Audit: From the bricks of clinical labour to the wind of the birch trees

Phased
I’ve been sitting with a specific kind of silence lately, and I wanted to see if it resonates with others. I am 61 now, and since being diagnosed at 58, my audit of the last few years has led me back to a word that feels like a bit of a riddle: Alexithymia.
It’s a strange thing to say you’re beginning to feel a lack of feeling—it’s an oxymoron, I know—but it’s the only way I can describe the quiet weight I’ve carried since childhood.
I spent the weekend just gone working quite hard to architect a different post here, but this time round, I feel the need to try a different approach—one of doing by not doing. I want to start this conversation and then simply leave it running for people to make their own way with it.
For 25 years, I worked as a physiotherapist in high-pressure wards—ICU, stroke rehab, and chronic pain clinics. Looking back, I realise I was absorbing the bricks of other people’s pain and fear every single day while maintaining a professional Windows mask. I used to feel like I was behind a glass sheet—protected, but muted.
I realise now that my Alexithymia wasn’t a lack of feeling; it was a necessary survival strategy. My internal switchboard turned the volume down so far that I stopped feeling the breezes of subtle emotion just to survive the gale of everyone else's dysregulation. I’ve spent decades only noticing the bricks when they hit.
But lately, in this audit, I’m learning to lower that threshold. I had a moment this weekend where I just sat and watched the thin branches of a birch tree moving in the wind. I realised that my best life isn't about being fixed—it’s about thinning the canopy of that old emotional labour so I can finally start living authentically in the moment and feel the wind again.
I intend to use the experiences you share here to help me explore my own healing. If I can join in with the force of six ounces I will, but otherwise, I will let the thread find its own path.
The Question for the Group:

Has anyone else realized their numbness wasn't a flaw, but actually a long-term protection against a world that was just too loud to process? How are you learning to sense the subtle signals of your own life again?
Parents
  • I’ve been sitting with the stories shared here, and it is striking how many of us seem to have built a similar kind of internal sea wall. Whether it was university halls, emergency wards, or just the everyday gales of other people’s dysregulation, it feels like we didn't just mute the sound; we braced our whole bodies against the impact of those incoming bricks.
    Reading about your experiences with early retirement, long walks, and the relief of a quiet office makes me realise that our alexithymia often wasn't an absence—it was a constant, physical holding. When you spend decades braced like that, the nerves eventually forget how to register anything but the pressure.
    For those of you just watching the thread who might feel a bit stuck or "braced" yourself, there is no pressure to find the big words yet. I’m finding that the best loosener isn't a thought, but just noticing one small, steady thing that isn't a brick. For me this afternoon, it was just watching aeroplanes as they flew over where I live—a small, rhythmic signal getting through the wall.
    I’m going to leave the fire going here for a few days to see what else the wind brings in. Thank you for helping me find the edges of my own silence.
Reply
  • I’ve been sitting with the stories shared here, and it is striking how many of us seem to have built a similar kind of internal sea wall. Whether it was university halls, emergency wards, or just the everyday gales of other people’s dysregulation, it feels like we didn't just mute the sound; we braced our whole bodies against the impact of those incoming bricks.
    Reading about your experiences with early retirement, long walks, and the relief of a quiet office makes me realise that our alexithymia often wasn't an absence—it was a constant, physical holding. When you spend decades braced like that, the nerves eventually forget how to register anything but the pressure.
    For those of you just watching the thread who might feel a bit stuck or "braced" yourself, there is no pressure to find the big words yet. I’m finding that the best loosener isn't a thought, but just noticing one small, steady thing that isn't a brick. For me this afternoon, it was just watching aeroplanes as they flew over where I live—a small, rhythmic signal getting through the wall.
    I’m going to leave the fire going here for a few days to see what else the wind brings in. Thank you for helping me find the edges of my own silence.
Children
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