A few years ago, around the time of the pandemic, I began to notice a strange sensation in my throat.
It wasn’t painful. It was just… there.
A persistent feeling that something needed to be swallowed even though there was nothing there.
At night it became more noticeable. Lying in bed, I became acutely aware of it. Every swallow seemed incomplete, as if something remained lodged there no matter how many times I tried to clear it.
Naturally, I convinced myself something serious was wrong.
I asked my GP for a referral. I wondered if I had thyroid problems. Vocal cord nodules. Some hidden issue that had quietly developed unnoticed.
Eventually I attended an ENT consultation.
There were scopes and examinations and barium swallow tests.
And eventually, after all of that, I was told I had something called globus pharyngeus.
A stress-related sensation.
Anxiety.
Tension.
The body physically manifesting emotional strain.
I remember feeling relieved and frustrated in equal measure.
Relieved that it wasn’t anything sinister.
Frustrated that there was no neat cure.
The consultant explained that it often appears alongside chronic stress and anxiety. Some research links it to reflux, so there were conversations about medication, but the deeper discussion kept circling back to tension.
Long-held tension.
The kind that quietly embeds itself in the body over years.
I left the appointment thinking about how strange it is that the body eventually begins speaking the things the mind refuses to say aloud.
Because when I look back honestly, I can see I have spent much of my life holding things in.
Holding in fear. Holding in anger. Holding in shame. Holding in uncertainty. Holding in grief. Holding in exhaustion.
Holding myself together.
For years I lived with the constant sense that I needed to manage everything quietly.
Not make a fuss. Not draw attention. Not become too much.
Even my suspicions around being AuDHD remained largely private for decades.
I had known since my teens that I experienced the world differently.
But growing up when I did, difference carried stigma.
And I already felt different enough.
So I learned to mask.
To overcompensate.
To become highly self-aware and hypervigilant.
To perform complete capability.
I became very good at appearing functional while internally carrying enormous amounts of pressure.
I suspect many women of my generation did.
Especially those who learned early that survival depended on adaptability.
The strange thing is that the body keeps score whether we acknowledge it or not.
You can ignore yourself for years.
You can minimise your stress. You can intellectualise your pain. You can stay busy. You can keep going.
But eventually something begins to tighten.
Your shoulders ache constantly. Your jaw clenches. Your sleep changes. Your nervous system stops recognising rest.
And sometimes your body creates a sensation that feels exactly like unspoken words sitting in your throat.
I began therapy again around that time.
Not because I was falling apart dramatically.
Quite the opposite.
Because I realised I had become far too accustomed to functioning while carrying distress.
One of the images I kept returning to in therapy was that of standing at the edge of a precipice.
I wanted desperately to leap forward and finally allow myself to fly.
Yet at the same time, I felt anchored to the ground.
Unable to move.
It struck me eventually how symbolic that was.
A lifetime spent trying to stay safe.
A nervous system conditioned to anticipate instability.
A body carrying vigilance for so long that it no longer knew how to unclench. Just like my butt cheeks. For years I have secretly used that action of clenching and unclenching them as a form of release, often referred to as stimming. You can’t see me do it though, so ha, ha! You didn’t know!
The irony is that from the outside I probably appeared resilient.
Capable. Independent. Strong.
And perhaps I was.
But resilience without release eventually becomes strain.
I’ve know that for a very long time, but hey! What’s a plumber without a leaky tap?! Just because I’m a holistic therapist and workplace wellbeing advocate, minding my clients, doesn’t mean I mind myself properly!
Healing is not becoming a different person.
It is allowing your body to finally stop bracing.
These days the sensation is still there most of the time. I notice it now much more when I’m experiencing a lot of stress, or am surrounded by stress.
But now, instead of immediately panicking, I try to listen. It has become a pretty good barometer for me.
I ask myself what I have not said.
What I have swallowed.
What I am carrying that was never meant to be carried indefinitely.
For years I thought strength meant endurance.
Now I think real strength for me, lies in allowing myself to soften enough to breathe properly again.
WORD COUNT: 808 words
DATE: 8th December 2025
© SineadCKavanagh