I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to “take up space.”
It sounds simple — walking down a sidewalk, standing in line, being in a crowd — but for me, it’s never been simple. Even now, in my 60s, I still catch myself shrinking. Moving out of people’s way. Apologizing for existing. It’s maddening to realize how old these patterns are and how deeply they still live in my body.

It’s not about sidewalks, of course. It’s about what happens inside me when I feel like I don’t have the right to be where I am.

That’s the legacy of childhood trauma — the quiet, unseen kind. The kind that doesn’t always come with bruises, but leaves you with the constant feeling that you’re in the way. That you have to manage everyone else’s comfort to stay safe.

The other day, I was walking through a crowded mall with my boyfriend — a shiny, high-end place filled with luxury stores and people who look like they belong there. I could feel that old familiar tension rising in my chest: stay small, stay alert, don’t make a scene.
But this time, instead of pushing it down or trying to “act confident,” I just stayed aware. I noticed the anxiety, the self-monitoring, the little internal negotiations. And I breathed into my belly.

That’s when something clicked — the connection between this “taking up space” struggle and the Daoist principle of wu-wei.

Control, Compensation, and Flow

Wu-wei is often translated as “non-action,” but that’s misleading. It doesn’t mean doing nothing. It means acting without forcing — without resistance, without tension. It’s a way of being in the world that’s responsive, natural, and uncontrived.

But when you’ve grown up having to watch for danger, wu-wei can feel impossible. The body doesn’t trust that life will hold it. Every step, every interaction feels like something that has to be managed. So instead of flow, there’s control.

For me, that control shows up in two directions — either I collapse into inferiority and move out of people’s way, or I overcompensate and become overly assertive, even aggressive. Both are trauma defenses. Both are ways of trying to feel safe.

Neither one is wu-wei.

When I’m hypervigilant, trying to control how I’m seen or make sure no one bumps into me, I’ve already left the flow.
When I over-assert, trying to claim space I’ve spent a lifetime abandoning, I’m still in the same pattern — just flipped to its opposite pole.

The challenge is finding the middle.
Letting myself exist — not by pushing, and not by disappearing — but by allowing.

The Fear Beneath Letting Go

The hard part isn’t understanding this conceptually. It’s feeling what happens when I stop managing everything. There’s a deep, primitive fear that rises up — a fear that if I stop controlling, no one will protect me.

That’s the fear that formed the armor in the first place.
It’s the child’s logic: If I relax, I’ll get hurt.

So the act of letting go feels dangerous, even though it’s exactly what’s needed for healing.

In trauma language, this is where hypervigilance meets surrender.
In Daoist language, it’s where qi learns to settle back into the center — the dantian — instead of scattering outward in constant defense.

When I breathe into my abdomen and feel gravity holding me, it’s not a metaphor. It’s an act of trust.
It’s the body remembering that the Dao — the living flow of life — is part of me. That I don’t have to fight the world or hide from it.

The sidewalk doesn’t need to clear for me.
I’m already part of the flow of people, part of the rhythm of movement.
I belong here, simply because I exist.

Practice: Walking in Wu-Wei

Here’s a simple experiment I’ve been trying.
When I’m walking and feel that old tension rise — that impulse to shrink or to over-assert — I pause for half a breath.

• I feel my feet meeting the ground.
• I sense the weight of my belly, soft but steady.
• I imagine the space around me as something that includes me, not something I have to navigate.
• I whisper inwardly: “The Dao holds me.”

And then I walk on.
Not forcing, not yielding — just moving.

Some days it works for a few seconds. Some days it doesn’t.
But every time I remember to come back to that place, I feel a little more of what wu-wei really means:
effortless presence — not because there’s no effort, but because the effort is no longer resistance.

Closing Reflection

“If I let go of control, who’s going to protect me?”
That’s the real question, isn’t it?

Healing doesn’t mean we stop protecting ourselves; it means we learn to trust that life can hold us, too.
Wu-wei isn’t passivity — it’s alignment.
It’s protection through participation — the kind that arises when body, breath, and awareness are no longer split apart by fear.

Maybe “taking up space” isn’t something to do at all.
Maybe it’s what naturally happens when we stop fighting for permission to exist.