The Deficit of Touch: Reclaiming Myself Through Tears and Yoga

The day after I found out – the day after the carefully constructed facade of a twenty-year relationship shattered into a million sharp pieces – I needed something. Anything. I landed on Tantric yoga. Part desperate attempt to recenter, part fragile hope for connection in a world that suddenly felt devoid of it.

Even the sanctuary of the yoga studio began with a stark reminder of my isolation. I sat in the the waiting area for a solid thirty minutes, an invisible newcomer in a space that seemed exclusively for those already coupled, already connected. The silence was heavy, punctuated only by the rustling of mats and hushed conversations I wasn't a part of. It was a familiar feeling: unseen.

The class itself was a challenge, a series of poses that stretched not just my body but also the raw edges of my emotions. Yet, I persevered. I moved, I breathed, I even managed a shaky sort of focus despite the turmoil churning inside. And then came the moment in the slowdown, the instruction to simply hug ourselves.

The wave of relief that washed over me was staggering. It truly felt like coming home after being lost for far too long. In that simple act of self-embrace, the dam finally broke. Tears streamed down my face as the stark realization hit me: my ex hadn't offered a hug in months. And in the lonely aftermath, no one else had either. As someone with sensory needs, as someone who had been feeling profoundly unloved, this lack of physical affection was a gaping wound I hadn't fully acknowledged. Holding myself, finally, opened that wound, releasing a torrent of unspoken grief.

Barely composed, we were then instructed to pair up for an exercise. Predictably, as has been the frustrating pattern of much of my life, I was the odd one out, the singleton in a sea of couples. The instructor, with well-meaning but ultimately isolating intent, paired me with an elderly white gentleman. I know how that sounds, and believe me, I've lived it. There's some invisible magnetism that draws older white men to me; I've long since stopped trying to understand it.

I offered him a tentative smile, trying to be open to the exercise. We were told to simply gaze into each other's eyes, to feel the other person without speaking. In that moment, starved of being truly seen, I hesitated but then leaned into it. And then something unexpected happened. Looking into his kind eyes, I didn't just see a stranger; I felt a genuine sense of his warmth, the love he seemed to hold for the world. It was a bizarrely clear signal for someone like me, someone with AuDHD who often misses these subtle cues entirely.

The thought followed quickly: If he is this loving, surely he can see my pain? Surely this could be a safe space to finally let it out? And so I cried again, a silent release of the anguish that had been building. We weren't allowed to speak, but the tears flowed freely. And then I saw it – that flicker in his eyes. He thought my tears were for him. He believed that his gaze had somehow unlocked my emotions and forged a connection between us.

And in a way, it had. But the connection wasn't to him; it was to myself. It was the permission I finally gave myself to be seen, truly seen, even if only by my own reflection in his eyes. It was about acknowledging my own worthiness of care and comfort.

The moment the exercise ended, a subtle shift occurred. He became a little too familiar, the unspoken understanding of shared vulnerability morphing into an assumption of something more. The wall went up instantly. The vulnerability I had allowed myself vanished, replaced by the familiar urge to escape. True to form, I executed a swift Irish exit as soon as the class ended, the queen of the silent departure retreating back into her own space.

The yoga class was a mixed bag, a microcosm of the journey ahead, I suspect. There was discomfort, a painful reminder of loneliness, but also a crucial breakthrough. I learned that I could, and needed to, provide myself with the touch and compassion I had been missing. And perhaps more importantly, I learned that while opening myself up to be seen is vital, I must remain the ultimate arbiter of who I connect with and on what terms. The journey of reclaiming myself has begun, one tearful yoga session at a time.