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Slowing Down to Renegotiate Our Adaptive Reflexes

(When analysis becomes a way not to feel)

Introduction

In my practice, I regularly meet people who are highly articulate.

Often very much in their head, they have developed a strong ability to analyze, argue, or tell their story with precision.

But behind this apparent ease, there can sometimes be a deeper mechanism: not feeling.

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When analysis becomes hyperanalysis, a protective strategy

These people often have a highly refined capacity for analysis, sometimes even a remarkable talent for speaking.

But this capacity is not only a resource. It can also be an adaptive response to an environment that, at some point, was not supportive enough or was too overwhelming.

Analysis, speech, or storytelling can then become a way to stay in control, avoid certain sensations, or stay away from internal experiences that feel too intense.

In other words, the mind can sometimes become an excellent protector. It organizes, explains, anticipates, argues. It maintains a form of coherence. But it can also prevent contact with what is happening in the body, in the present moment.

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Slowing down: a delicate intervention

In this context, it can feel surprising, even frustrating, to be interrupted while telling one’s story.

And yet, this is often where another kind of work begins.

I take the time to name what I observe, such as a tendency to return to analysis, and then I explore with the person whether this resonates with them.

Then, I invite them to slow down.

Slowing down does not mean stopping abruptly. It is a gradual process, like a traffic light moving from green to orange, then to red. Each person moves at their own pace, according to what they can tolerate.

As the pace slows, something else can begin to emerge.

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When the body begins to speak

Gradually, when the rhythm changes, bodily manifestations may appear: a wave of heat, blushing, a diffuse sensation, an emotion beginning to take shape.

These signals are often subtle and fleeting. Sometimes it only takes a few seconds before the person returns to analysis or storytelling.

At that moment, the aim is not to force anything. It is rather to accompany what is beginning to emerge, with enough gentleness for the nervous system to remain within a tolerable zone.

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A process that does not rely only on words

It is important to clarify that this work does not rely only on speech.

While language can help create meaning, transformation itself often happens through direct experience.

It may involve simple but precise adjustments: bringing attention to the body, changing the rhythm, orienting toward something more supportive or neutral, or exploring certain internal sensations.

These elements help accompany what is emerging, without forcing, without rushing, and above all without overwhelming.

Rhythm is central. Like a wave that rises and then settles, or like a deep sound gradually moving into the distance.

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Respecting the mechanism while opening space

In these moments, my role is not to prevent the return to analysis.

On the contrary, it is about recognizing this mechanism as a strategy that has been useful. It has often helped the person remain functional, maintain a form of stability, or cope with difficult situations.

But today, this same mechanism may also limit the ability to feel, to be fully present, or to connect with immediate experience.

What once protected us can sometimes become what now prevents us from coming into contact with ourselves.

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A paradox at the heart of therapeutic work

Very often, these people come with a deep desire: to be more present with themselves, more connected to reality.

But this desire is also accompanied by a fear: the fear of being overwhelmed by what might emerge if they truly slowed down.

It is precisely in this delicate space — between the desire to feel and the fear of feeling — that the work can begin.

Renegotiating rather than suppressing

Slowing down, in this context, is not simply a technique.

It is a process that gradually allows certain adaptive responses to be renegotiated.

Not by removing them, but by creating a space in which other forms of experience can become possible.

What transforms us is not only what is understood, but what can be experienced safely, in the present moment.

What if this is precisely what makes you strong?

A question may arise, sometimes without being clearly formulated:

If I slow down… do I risk losing what makes me strong? My ability to analyze, to understand quickly, to express myself with precision?

For some people, these capacities are not simply present. They are particularly developed.

Fast thinking, a refined capacity for analysis, an ability to structure, argue, and put things into words with ease.

But precisely these qualities have often been mobilized very early on, as adaptive responses to an environment where it was necessary to understand, anticipate, or stay in control.

So this is not merely a skill. It is sometimes an organization of the system.

And the question is not whether they will be lost.

The question is: what happens when these capacities are no longer constantly recruited to protect you?

Many people then discover something different:

• thinking that remains just as refined, but less invasive
• speech that becomes calmer and more embodied
• the ability to analyze… without disconnecting from what is felt

In other words, it is not about losing these capacities, but about taking them out of automatic mode.

Moving from a reflex… to a resource.

It is not the power of your mind that creates difficulty, but the fact that it has to remain active all the time.

It is not analysis itself that is the problem, but the fact that you can no longer do without it.

If this resonates with you, you may want to explore these dynamics in a safe and supportive space.