I’ve been reflecting on an experience from a recent trip to Thailand—my first long-haul flight—and how it’s shaped my understanding of processing, not processing (avoidance), and the relationship between wellness and illness.
Before the journey, I felt a lot of anxiety about the flight. The idea of sitting for such a long time, limited legroom, and being surrounded by people felt overwhelming. On the way there, we had seats with extra legroom and a wall in front of us, which gave a sense of containment and privacy. Even though part of me wanted to distract myself with films, I couldn’t. Instead, I stayed present—though not comfortably so. I moved, I got up, I walked around, and I did meditation after meditation after meditation. It wasn’t easy, but I remained connected to myself throughout the experience. This didn’t feel like an option, it felt like this was all I could do.
When we landed, I experienced the usual intense ear pain, but I was able to manage it. I was exhausted from not sleeping, but after that first night, I felt completely fine again—restored, even.
The journey home was very different.
Although we again had extra legroom, there was no wall in front of us. We were seated next to the toilets, and there was a constant stream of people walking, waiting, standing close—often tripping over my feet. Without consciously realising it, something shifted. I didn’t meditate at all. Instead, I watched film after film after film. This didn’t feel like an option either. It felt like all I could do.
At one point, between films, I suddenly became aware: I’m on a plane. That awareness came with a rush of panic. Rather than staying with it, I quickly returned to distraction—another film, another layer of avoidance.
When we were landing, something else stood out: I had no ear pain. This had never happened before. Despite not moving much, hardly drinking, and feeling physically uncomfortable, I was surprised that I didn’t feel worse.
The next morning, I felt fine. But a few hours later, everything changed.
I became suddenly and intensely unwell—pain, nausea, dizziness. Severe diarrhoea and vomiting followed for two days. I could barely move, think, or speak. Then came vertigo, and shortly after, a painful ear infection.
Of course, it’s easy to explain this away as jet lag or a travel-related illness. But it felt like more than that.
It led me to wonder: What happens when we don’t process an experience in the moment?
On the way out, I stayed present—even though it was difficult. My body moved through the discomfort in real time. On the way back, I didn’t have the same sense of safety or space. There were too many people, too much proximity, too little containment. And so, unconsciously, I disconnected. I dissociated. I avoided.
And my body held it all.
It wasn’t until I was home (safe, still, with space to feel) that everything seemed to catch up. Almost as if my body said, “Now we can process.” And that processing came not through thoughts or emotions, but through illness.
This experience has left me with a few reflections:
- Sometimes, not processing isn’t a conscious choice: it’s an adaptive response to overwhelm.
- The body often carries what the mind cannot hold in the moment.
- When we don’t process something as it happens, it doesn’t disappear: it waits.
- Illness can, at times, be part of the body’s way of processing, releasing, integrating, or making sense of an experience.
And perhaps most importantly:
- Our environments matter. Feeling safe, having space, and maintaining a sense of personal boundary can make the difference between being able to stay present or needing to disconnect.
What I’ve taken forward from this is simple but important for me: I need to prioritise environments that support my capacity to stay present—whether that’s choosing certain seats on a plane or recognising when I need more space and containment.
I’m left wondering how many others have had similar experiences—where the body processes something long after the event itself. Where illness, discomfort, or disorientation might not just be something going wrong, but something moving through.
Not all illness is emotional processing, of course. But sometimes, it might be worth asking: Was there something I didn’t feel safe (or comfortable) to feel or process?
And: Is my body trying to finish something I had to pause?
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