The Fear of Taking up Space

This is a continued reflection, really—something I often find myself returning to.

MONTHLY MUSINGS| APRIL 2026

I’ve always been interested in space and environment—how we move within it, how we relate to it, and how much of it we actually allow ourselves to experience.

This month’s musings feel a little different. Usually, this is something I send at the beginning of the month—a kind of welcome into what’s ahead, what’s on offer. But it’s nearing the end, and I’m only just sending it now. Not for any particular reason, other than I’ve found myself in a bit of a pause. A quiet. And that feels quite in line with what I’m exploring here.

In a world that feels like it’s constantly moving, constantly offering more information, more things to take in, I realised I didn’t want to add to that in the usual way this time. It felt more natural to slow down and stay with something, rather than move straight on. So this feels less like an update, and more like something that has been sitting with me.

There’s a moment I keep noticing. It tends to appear just before movement really begins—when something in the body wants to shift or reach, and then doesn’t. Not a full stop, just a slight holding. And it’s rarely because we don’t know what to do. Most of the time, the direction is already there, sensed somewhere quite clearly. It’s more that something interrupts it.

Sometimes that interruption comes from how we think we’ll be seen, or what might come back if we follow that movement through. Other times it’s much quieter than that—a kind of uncertainty, or a subtle need to keep things contained. Nothing dramatic, just enough to hesitate, just enough to not quite follow through.

What’s interesting is how quickly this becomes physical. The space around us can start to feel smaller, as though our attention narrows without us really noticing. We stop taking in what’s around us and instead stay on a kind of internal path. From the outside, it can look composed, but inside there’s often a sense of effort—breath a little tighter, the body holding a little more, movement becoming more measured.

I saw this very clearly when working in end-of-life care. There were times when fear of movement had become so familiar that it gradually led to movement stopping altogether. And without movement, the world itself can begin to feel smaller. As the senses change—sight, hearing, touch—the environment becomes harder to access, less certain, and the body often responds by withdrawing. Movement reduces, range narrows, not always because it has to, but because it no longer feels familiar to go beyond that.

And this isn’t just something that happens later in life. It shows up in quieter ways all the time.

There’s a lot of language used to describe what happens in the body. One phrase that comes up often is reciprocal inhibition—the idea that when one part of the body works, another releases. And yes, that’s something you can feel. But what I keep coming back to is what happens around that moment. Because something can soften, something can open, and still we don’t quite go there. We hover just before it, or pass through it too quickly to really register it.

It feels as though the body isn’t just mechanical—it responds to what feels known, what feels comfortable. Even the systems that regulate tension might be responding not only to stretch or load, but to a sense of “too much”—too unfamiliar, too soon. And so the body pauses. Not as a failure, but as a kind of intelligence. A way of pacing what it’s ready for.

I notice this often in practice. A space appears—something shifts, something softens—and for a moment there is more room. But it doesn’t always feel like somewhere to stay. There’s often a kind of in-between. Not quite where we were, not quite in the new space either. And often, we move away from it quite quickly. Not because we don’t want it, but because it doesn’t yet feel like ours.

So the question becomes less about how to create space, and more about how to stay in it. How that space becomes somewhere we can actually be. It doesn’t feel like something to force. More like something that grows slowly—through returning to it, noticing it again, letting it become familiar over time. Sometimes that’s as simple as letting the eyes move, noticing the room, sensing where you are so it doesn’t feel like an empty drop but something held. Sometimes it’s just not rushing away.

And somewhere in all of this, another question keeps surfacing—how do we inhabit, rather than inhibit?

Inhibition can be very subtle. A slight holding, a narrowing, a tendency to stay within what’s known. Inhabiting feels different. Not bigger, not more forceful—just more present. It might be letting a movement complete itself, allowing the breath to settle, or remaining in something just a little longer than feels immediately comfortable. Over time, what felt unfamiliar can begin to feel accessible.

I see this in class, in those moments where movement could travel further but doesn’t quite. Often it comes back to space—what feels available around you, what you’ve actually registered. When that shifts, movement often does too. And I notice it in clinic through touch, when a body that has been holding begins, slowly, to soften. There’s often a small moment—a breath, a change in quality—and then space appears. Even then, it can take time for that space to feel inhabitable.

I often think about this through the work of Marina Abramović. In The Artist Is Present, first performed at the Museum of Modern Art in 2010—the image at the top of this piece comes from that work—very little happens on the surface. She sits, she stays, she meets whoever comes to sit opposite her. But something shifts, not through action, but through the quality of her presence.

She isn’t trying to take space or assert anything into it. She simply remains. And in that staying, the space begins to change. Time stretches, the distance between people softens or tightens and you begin to feel yourself inside it too. She inhabits the space fully—not hovering, not passing through, just there—and in doing so, the environment seems to organise itself around her.

There’s something in that which feels very familiar. Not as performance, but as a kind of practice. A reminder that space isn’t something we need to claim, but something we meet, and gradually allow ourselves to be within.

And perhaps that’s the work.

Not forcing ourselves to arrive, or to take up more space than feels true, but staying long enough—for the body to recognise what’s already there. To let it land. To let it become somewhere we can be.

Not all at once, but over time.

Not by pushing into it—

but by remaining, until something shifts.