Disarming Ourselves: On Listening, Armouring, and the Courage to Be Real
Inspired by Stanley Keleman’s “Patterns of Distress”
“I am much more careful to listen, to consider choices, to pause and let things sink in before I respond with my ‘can do’ attitude. My thinking no longer has to be ‘right.’ I no longer force an idea out but attempt to get it out on its own time.”
—Stanley Keleman, Patterns of Distress
Some words stay with you—not because they offer instant solutions, but because they help you see something you’ve been feeling for a long time without fully understanding. That’s how I felt reading this passage from Stanley Keleman’s Patterns of Distress.
Keleman, a pioneer in somatic psychology, invites us to reflect not just on how we think, but how we embody our lives. He reveals how our body—our posture, breath, muscular tone—often reflects the unconscious ways we try to protect ourselves from the unpredictability of the world.
And in doing so, he opens the door to a deeply human truth: we are all, in some way, armoured.
The Habit of Armouring
We all learn, in different ways, to tense up in response to stress, discomfort, or emotional exposure. For some, this looks like holding their breath. For others, it’s stiffening the shoulders, clenching the jaw, locking the knees, or forcing a smile. These physical gestures often go unnoticed, but they are real. They are the body’s language of self-protection.
Keleman calls this armouring: the habitual tightening or bracing of the body to cope with the challenges of being alive in a complex world.
Sometimes, this armour keeps us safe. It helps us survive. But over time, it can become an unconscious barrier between ourselves and the very life we wish to live. We carry ourselves through the world like we’re expecting to be judged, rejected, or hurt. And without realizing it, we stop breathing fully—not just with our lungs, but with our presence.
The World Isn’t as We Presumed
One of the most striking lines in Keleman’s reflection is:
“This is accompanied with the thought that ‘I have to watch out’ or that ‘the world is not organised as I presumed.’”
There’s a quiet grief in that realization—that the world isn’t as safe, fair, or predictable as we imagined it to be. Maybe it hits us after a traumatic event, a betrayal, a loss, or simply the slow accumulation of adult disappointments. At some point, many of us come to understand: we can’t always control what happens to us, and we may not always perform or cope as expected.
That’s a humbling truth. But it can also be liberating.
Because when we stop trying to force ourselves to be perfect, composed, or endlessly capable, we may find something softer underneath—something more human. And with that comes compassion: both for ourselves, and for others who are also carrying invisible weight.
The Speed of Speaking, The Slowness of Listening
In the fast-paced world we live in, where instant messaging, quick replies, and hot takes dominate communication, true listening is becoming rare. We are often preparing our responses while the other person is still speaking. We speak to fill silences, to avoid awkwardness, or to prove our worth.
But how often do we pause?
How often do we actually let the other person sink in before we respond?
There’s a kind of urgency to be seen as competent, articulate, insightful, or just agreeable. And while that isn’t inherently wrong, it can also be a form of self-protection. We perform our thoughts rather than expressing them. We answer quickly so that no one notices how unsure or vulnerable we feel.
Listening—true listening—requires us to slow down and risk not knowing for a moment. It asks us to set aside our need to be impressive or in control and to simply be present.
The Courage to Be Unarmoured
It takes a certain bravery to meet the world without a mask. To allow ourselves to be quiet in a conversation. To admit we don’t have the answer. To speak from our own time, rather than rushing to meet the tempo of the moment.
This kind of courage is not loud or heroic. It’s quiet and persistent. It shows up in small acts:
- Pausing before you speak.
- Allowing yourself to breathe fully before entering a meeting.
- Noticing that your jaw is tight and gently softening it.
- Asking someone how they are, and actually listening to their answer without mentally preparing a reply.
- Saying, “I’m not sure,” or “Let me think about that,” rather than forcing an answer.
These moments may seem minor, but they are powerful acts of disarmament. They signal to your nervous system—and to the people around you—that it’s okay to show up as you are.
Gentle Reflection as a Path to Change
Keleman’s insight isn’t about shame or self-correction. It’s about noticing. Becoming gently curious about how we move through the world. After a social interaction or a stressful moment, you might ask yourself:
- How did I hold my body?
- What was I trying to protect or prove?
- Did I allow myself to breathe?
- Did I speak from habit, or from meaning?
- How could I respond differently next time—more gently, more authentically, more slowly?
These are not self-critical questions. They are invitations. Invitations to return to yourself. To experiment with new ways of being. To shift from reaction to reflection. From performance to presence.
The Pleasure of Real Connection
Something beautiful happens when we begin to disarm ourselves: we open the possibility for real connection.
Not just with others, but with ourselves.
When we drop the need to appear strong, smart, nice, or interesting, we make room for realness. And ironically, it’s in this realness that others often feel most drawn to us. Because they, too, are tired of pretending. They, too, want to breathe.
Even mundane conversations can feel nourishing when they’re grounded in presence. You don’t have to impress or entertain. You simply need to be there, listening and responding in your own time.
And when you do speak, you may find that your words carry more weight. Not because they are perfect, but because they are honest.
A Way to Live, Not Just a Way to Communicate
This reflection isn’t only about how we talk and listen. It’s about how we live.
To listen deeply—to others, to your body, to your inner life—is to engage with the world on different terms. It means being willing to live more slowly, more responsively, and more in tune with what matters.
It means choosing presence over performance.
Substance over speed.
Curiosity over control.
And in that space, life often begins to feel fuller. Not necessarily easier, but richer, more textured, more real.
Final Thoughts: The Gentle Path
If there’s one thing I take from Keleman’s work, it’s this:
We don’t have to force our way into life.
We can let life come out of us, in its own time.
It may be uncomfortable at first—this slower, more open way
of being. But discomfort isn’t always a problem. Sometimes, it’s a sign that
we’re growing. That we’re stepping out of the tight spaces we’ve lived in for
too long.
So perhaps the real work isn’t to push ourselves harder, or
pretend to be fine.
Perhaps the real work is to listen.
To pause.
To notice.
To breathe.
To ask, gently: How am I showing up in this moment?
And even more gently: How might I soften, just a little?
Because in that softening, we begin to live more truthfully.
And in that truth, we often find—perhaps for the first time—that life is not
just bearable, but pleasurable.