Rachel, this fascinated me because I have a friend who often has out of body experiences. I usually think of them as a spiritual state of being. But your essay reminded me that many children who were abused sexually and otherwise, often relate that they left their body while the abuse was taking place. As I understand it, this is part of the reason many don't even remember their abuse until later in their life.
In this piece, I love the way the writer tells the story through using first or third person. It must have really brought the impact home while you were reading it. I'm glad she found herself again.
Linda, thank you so much for reading and for such a thoughtful response. I was really struck by what you said about out-of-body experiences being both protective and, in other contexts, spiritual. That overlap feels important and made me curious about what might be happening in the brain during the more positive or transcendent versions of those experiences. While the meaning feels very different, I wonder if some of the underlying processes could overlap in interesting ways. In one case, the nervous system is pulling back to survive something unbearable. In another, it may be loosening because it feels safe enough to do so.
And yes, Offill’s shift between first and third person really stayed with me as a reader. It felt like watching her inner world change on the page. Thank you again for engaging with the piece so thoughtfully.
Rachel, this is fascinating and so well-written as always, but it goes a step further in describing what I’ve experienced and I assume many of us have. I appreciate that you chose this specific topic to write about. The book sounds like a great read. Understanding how we’re wired as humans imo helps with the ability to discern the thing that’s happening as it’s happening. Awareness is key to everything imo. It can’t always happen in the moment. But essays like this one put major life events into perspective which is useful as a tool in the overall endeavor to direct one’s life towards what’s valued, away from what isn’t, i.e., conscious creation.
Wow, thank you, Kathy. I had to sit with this comment for a minute because you expressed this so beautifully. I’m honestly tempted to use it as the “About” page for my Substack now.
I really appreciate how you framed awareness here, especially the idea that it doesn’t always arrive in the moment, but can still shape how we understand our lives after the fact. That feels exactly right to me. I’m so grateful you took the time to read and reflect on the piece so thoughtfully.
I’m glad my reflection resonated. I’ve had a couple of these soul-crushing experiences where detaching was the only option and came automatically. That you’ve put a name to this phenomenon is incredibly useful on multiple levels.
I so enjoy the way you weave the story of this couple with the science/study of how our bodies cope with stressors. "These stressors accrete, fragment by fragment, until the reader feels the slow compression of a life losing air." This is precisely how it happens and it takes a lot of work to get back to where one had begun. This is, as usual, beautifully and expertly written.
Dana, thank you so much. I really appreciated you noticing that line. What you said about the slow, almost imperceptible buildup really captures it, especially how finding your way back takes real work. I’m so grateful you read this so thoughtfully.
What a beautiful piece. Even without having read Ruth Lanius’s work, you make it vivid and deeply felt. I was especially moved by how you frame detachment as mercy—an act of self-preservation rather than failure. There’s no easy self-help moralizing here, just a quiet, profound respect for the miracle of our brains.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. I’m really glad the way detachment was framed resonated with you, and that the science came through as something lived rather than abstract. And no quick self-help solutions here ◡̈ My goal is to sit with these bigger questions and just make some sense of them. I really appreciate you reading so carefully and taking the time to share this.
Thank you, Rachel. This piece is so beautifully written, and so deftly shaped to convey the softened, dimmed experience of dissociation, and then the gently titrated return to embodiment. I have long admired our human capacity for dissociation as one of the kindest and most potently protective strategies of the spirit/mind/body. Hyperarousal is usually the first line of defense, until stimulus intensity rises beyond capacity threshold, and then this analgesic state of dampened sensation and curiously spacious perception takes over, conserving energy and effort until circumstances alter sufficiently for a new impulse toward agency to arise. The biological and spiritual intelligence of this process is profound. Listening to many stories of dissociation, and living through my own, I sense that we are welcomed closer to the ground of Being that separates daily life from dreaming and death, into communion with our roots in the Infinite. As you tell the story, how the wife begins to make the transition to moving the family is unstated, exactly mirroring this subtly potent process of building capacity, the impulse toward meaning, toward relief and pleasure, toward value fulfillment. You are so skillful and discerning in choosing what and how to share with us what you read! I’m so grateful!
Alden, thank you so much for this. I’m really grateful for the way you brought your lived and professional experience into the conversation. You’ve walked alongside so many people through these states, and that perspective adds a kind of grounded authority that I deeply respect.
I agree with you completely about the mercy in this aspect of our biology. Both in my own experience and in everything I’ve read, dissociation feels less like a failure and more like a profound form of care when the system reaches its limits. I so appreciate how you named that intelligence so clearly, both biological and spiritual, without romanticizing it.
I’m really grateful for your generosity as a reader and for the way you continue to enrich my thinking with your insight.
What I love about this essay is how well it conveys the cyclical nature of human embodiment, presence, and awareness. Your story was like one long breath cycle, starting with a deep inhalation, then the expiration of remoteness, drifting away from oneself, then back to a grounded intimacy with personal experience. It reminds me that this pattern is always going on, perhaps on a lesser spectrum, and that there's no need to panic when I feel more apart from myself. There will be a homecoming.
Rick, thank you so much for this. I love the way you described it as a breath cycle. That sense of trust in a return, in a homecoming, is such a quiet kind of wisdom. I’m really grateful you read it this way and took the time to share that reflection.
Rachel this is yet another beautiful piece of writing and one that I'm sure many people can relate to. If spouses or partners allow this dissociation to fester in their relationships, i.e. with tiny annoyances, pet peeves, etc. their bond will slowly disintegrate over time and could very well be the avenue for separation or divorce. This is why honest and candid conversation is so crucial to any relationship...especially when children are involved, the oftentimes innocent victims of their parents/guardians toxic behavior towards one another. This sounds like yet another book that I want to read! Love you sweet daughter!!
Thank you so much, Mom. That really means a lot to me. I appreciate how you named the quieter ways distance can build over time, especially when small things go unspoken. I’m really glad the piece resonated with you, and yes, I think you would love the book. Love you too. 💗
So much insight you have delivered to your readers again, Rachel!
Especially this: "At the same time, the anterior insula grows quieter. This is the region responsible for interoception, the felt sense of being inside a body that is having an experience. Thus the brain dampens the very circuits that would allow a person to know, viscerally, that this is happening to me."
It has happened to me too, yet I never knew the mechanism behind this detrimental process. Thank you for making it so approachable. 💗
Thank you, Brigitte ❤️ I found the anterior insula’s role fascinating too, especially the way it shapes our sense of perspective on our own lives. And thank you again for your help with the first draft and so many others. Your feedback always helps me see more clearly ◡̈
Such a beautifully haunting piece, Rachel. And somehow the concluding lines, ("The grammar of intimacy reasserts itself in fragments, the same way it dissolved. She is not watching from above. She is feeling the cold sting her eyes. She is letting herself be touched. She is here.") may be the most other-worldly of all.
Thank you, Christopher. I really appreciate this, especially coming from you. I’m glad those last lines stood out to you. Thanks so much for reading and for such a thoughtful response.
Rachel, this is such a wonderful overview of how people can simply shut down, by varying degrees, when life gets too stressful. The manner in which Offill *shows* this in an individual is really stunning, and, as always, you unpack her message with depth, precision and empathy.
On a personal note, one of my nicknames when growing up was "Zombie," perhaps due to my tendency to check out in social situations, particularly those involving family. (It was nowhere near the level described by Offill, but I can see a definite parallel.) In fact, when my nieces were very young, they noticed my somewhat spacey behavior and called it "being in LarryLand."
Thank you for reminding me that this behavior was/is a part of human nature, that the person in question is not at fault, and that awareness of this phenomenon can help. Or, if I'm willing to emerge from a "3rd-person fog": *My* behavior, under the circumstances was normal; it wasn't *my* fault; and *I'm* more aware of this, which I appreciate.
Larry, thank you so much for sharing this. I’m really touched by how openly you connected the piece to your own experience. The way you described “LarryLand” feels so human and familiar, especially as a younger self doing what was necessary to get through difficult moments.
I really appreciate what you said about recognizing this kind of checking out as part of human nature rather than a personal failing. Thank you for reading so thoughtfully and for the kind comment.
Rachel, this fascinated me because I have a friend who often has out of body experiences. I usually think of them as a spiritual state of being. But your essay reminded me that many children who were abused sexually and otherwise, often relate that they left their body while the abuse was taking place. As I understand it, this is part of the reason many don't even remember their abuse until later in their life.
In this piece, I love the way the writer tells the story through using first or third person. It must have really brought the impact home while you were reading it. I'm glad she found herself again.
Linda, thank you so much for reading and for such a thoughtful response. I was really struck by what you said about out-of-body experiences being both protective and, in other contexts, spiritual. That overlap feels important and made me curious about what might be happening in the brain during the more positive or transcendent versions of those experiences. While the meaning feels very different, I wonder if some of the underlying processes could overlap in interesting ways. In one case, the nervous system is pulling back to survive something unbearable. In another, it may be loosening because it feels safe enough to do so.
And yes, Offill’s shift between first and third person really stayed with me as a reader. It felt like watching her inner world change on the page. Thank you again for engaging with the piece so thoughtfully.
Rachel, this is fascinating and so well-written as always, but it goes a step further in describing what I’ve experienced and I assume many of us have. I appreciate that you chose this specific topic to write about. The book sounds like a great read. Understanding how we’re wired as humans imo helps with the ability to discern the thing that’s happening as it’s happening. Awareness is key to everything imo. It can’t always happen in the moment. But essays like this one put major life events into perspective which is useful as a tool in the overall endeavor to direct one’s life towards what’s valued, away from what isn’t, i.e., conscious creation.
Wow, thank you, Kathy. I had to sit with this comment for a minute because you expressed this so beautifully. I’m honestly tempted to use it as the “About” page for my Substack now.
I really appreciate how you framed awareness here, especially the idea that it doesn’t always arrive in the moment, but can still shape how we understand our lives after the fact. That feels exactly right to me. I’m so grateful you took the time to read and reflect on the piece so thoughtfully.
I’m glad my reflection resonated. I’ve had a couple of these soul-crushing experiences where detaching was the only option and came automatically. That you’ve put a name to this phenomenon is incredibly useful on multiple levels.
I so enjoy the way you weave the story of this couple with the science/study of how our bodies cope with stressors. "These stressors accrete, fragment by fragment, until the reader feels the slow compression of a life losing air." This is precisely how it happens and it takes a lot of work to get back to where one had begun. This is, as usual, beautifully and expertly written.
Dana, thank you so much. I really appreciated you noticing that line. What you said about the slow, almost imperceptible buildup really captures it, especially how finding your way back takes real work. I’m so grateful you read this so thoughtfully.
What a beautiful piece. Even without having read Ruth Lanius’s work, you make it vivid and deeply felt. I was especially moved by how you frame detachment as mercy—an act of self-preservation rather than failure. There’s no easy self-help moralizing here, just a quiet, profound respect for the miracle of our brains.
Thank you so much, Elizabeth. I’m really glad the way detachment was framed resonated with you, and that the science came through as something lived rather than abstract. And no quick self-help solutions here ◡̈ My goal is to sit with these bigger questions and just make some sense of them. I really appreciate you reading so carefully and taking the time to share this.
Thank you, Rachel. This piece is so beautifully written, and so deftly shaped to convey the softened, dimmed experience of dissociation, and then the gently titrated return to embodiment. I have long admired our human capacity for dissociation as one of the kindest and most potently protective strategies of the spirit/mind/body. Hyperarousal is usually the first line of defense, until stimulus intensity rises beyond capacity threshold, and then this analgesic state of dampened sensation and curiously spacious perception takes over, conserving energy and effort until circumstances alter sufficiently for a new impulse toward agency to arise. The biological and spiritual intelligence of this process is profound. Listening to many stories of dissociation, and living through my own, I sense that we are welcomed closer to the ground of Being that separates daily life from dreaming and death, into communion with our roots in the Infinite. As you tell the story, how the wife begins to make the transition to moving the family is unstated, exactly mirroring this subtly potent process of building capacity, the impulse toward meaning, toward relief and pleasure, toward value fulfillment. You are so skillful and discerning in choosing what and how to share with us what you read! I’m so grateful!
Alden, thank you so much for this. I’m really grateful for the way you brought your lived and professional experience into the conversation. You’ve walked alongside so many people through these states, and that perspective adds a kind of grounded authority that I deeply respect.
I agree with you completely about the mercy in this aspect of our biology. Both in my own experience and in everything I’ve read, dissociation feels less like a failure and more like a profound form of care when the system reaches its limits. I so appreciate how you named that intelligence so clearly, both biological and spiritual, without romanticizing it.
I’m really grateful for your generosity as a reader and for the way you continue to enrich my thinking with your insight.
What I love about this essay is how well it conveys the cyclical nature of human embodiment, presence, and awareness. Your story was like one long breath cycle, starting with a deep inhalation, then the expiration of remoteness, drifting away from oneself, then back to a grounded intimacy with personal experience. It reminds me that this pattern is always going on, perhaps on a lesser spectrum, and that there's no need to panic when I feel more apart from myself. There will be a homecoming.
Rick, thank you so much for this. I love the way you described it as a breath cycle. That sense of trust in a return, in a homecoming, is such a quiet kind of wisdom. I’m really grateful you read it this way and took the time to share that reflection.
I have needed to read this one repeatedly. It's hitting me deep down. Thank you for the good work you're putting out into the world. What a treasure.
This really means a lot coming from you, Susanna. Thank you ◡̈
Rachel this is yet another beautiful piece of writing and one that I'm sure many people can relate to. If spouses or partners allow this dissociation to fester in their relationships, i.e. with tiny annoyances, pet peeves, etc. their bond will slowly disintegrate over time and could very well be the avenue for separation or divorce. This is why honest and candid conversation is so crucial to any relationship...especially when children are involved, the oftentimes innocent victims of their parents/guardians toxic behavior towards one another. This sounds like yet another book that I want to read! Love you sweet daughter!!
Thank you so much, Mom. That really means a lot to me. I appreciate how you named the quieter ways distance can build over time, especially when small things go unspoken. I’m really glad the piece resonated with you, and yes, I think you would love the book. Love you too. 💗
So much insight you have delivered to your readers again, Rachel!
Especially this: "At the same time, the anterior insula grows quieter. This is the region responsible for interoception, the felt sense of being inside a body that is having an experience. Thus the brain dampens the very circuits that would allow a person to know, viscerally, that this is happening to me."
It has happened to me too, yet I never knew the mechanism behind this detrimental process. Thank you for making it so approachable. 💗
Thank you, Brigitte ❤️ I found the anterior insula’s role fascinating too, especially the way it shapes our sense of perspective on our own lives. And thank you again for your help with the first draft and so many others. Your feedback always helps me see more clearly ◡̈
You are welcome. It is always so wonderful to read what you write, Rachel.
How do you find these books? Sounds so good! As always, I love your analysis.
Haha! This was a great and really quick read. And thanks for taking the time to read ◡̈
Such a beautifully haunting piece, Rachel. And somehow the concluding lines, ("The grammar of intimacy reasserts itself in fragments, the same way it dissolved. She is not watching from above. She is feeling the cold sting her eyes. She is letting herself be touched. She is here.") may be the most other-worldly of all.
Thank you, Christopher. I really appreciate this, especially coming from you. I’m glad those last lines stood out to you. Thanks so much for reading and for such a thoughtful response.
Rachel, this is such a wonderful overview of how people can simply shut down, by varying degrees, when life gets too stressful. The manner in which Offill *shows* this in an individual is really stunning, and, as always, you unpack her message with depth, precision and empathy.
On a personal note, one of my nicknames when growing up was "Zombie," perhaps due to my tendency to check out in social situations, particularly those involving family. (It was nowhere near the level described by Offill, but I can see a definite parallel.) In fact, when my nieces were very young, they noticed my somewhat spacey behavior and called it "being in LarryLand."
Thank you for reminding me that this behavior was/is a part of human nature, that the person in question is not at fault, and that awareness of this phenomenon can help. Or, if I'm willing to emerge from a "3rd-person fog": *My* behavior, under the circumstances was normal; it wasn't *my* fault; and *I'm* more aware of this, which I appreciate.
Larry, thank you so much for sharing this. I’m really touched by how openly you connected the piece to your own experience. The way you described “LarryLand” feels so human and familiar, especially as a younger self doing what was necessary to get through difficult moments.
I really appreciate what you said about recognizing this kind of checking out as part of human nature rather than a personal failing. Thank you for reading so thoughtfully and for the kind comment.
Nice --beautifully written piece.
Thank you, Ed ◡̈
Wow! This is so heart-rending, yet hope-filled. Beautifully written.
Thank you so much! It really means a lot that you follow along with my work ◡̈
This was wonderful
Thank you for reading ◡̈
So insightful and beautifully written!
Thank you Suzanne! I really appreciate you taking the time to read and comment.