Understanding the Deep Connection Between Physical and Mental Health: A Holistic Approach to Well-being

I didn’t realise I was unwell until I couldn’t get out of bed.

It wasn’t the flu, or anything I could point to with certainty. I just woke up one morning and the weight of everything—emails, appointments, relationships, expectations—pressed down so heavily that even lifting the blanket felt like a negotiation.

It’s strange how long we can live in our own bodies without really listening to them. We learn to push through. We tell ourselves we’re just tired, that we’re being dramatic, that a green smoothie and a yoga class will fix it. But somewhere along the way, we stop hearing the quiet signals that something deeper is off.

This piece isn’t about burnout, though. It’s about what happens when we begin to understand that physical health and mental health aren’t just connected—they’re reflections of the same truth.

The Invisible Dialogue Between Body and Mind

Think about the last time you were really stressed. Did your shoulders tense? Did your digestion shift? Was sleep a distant dream?

Our bodies keep the score, as the psychiatrist Bessel van der Kolk famously wrote. When the mind is overwhelmed, the body whispers. If we ignore it, it starts to shout.

Conversely, our physical habits shape our mental state. A body deprived of sleep or movement begins to warp our emotional landscape. We become more irritable, more anxious, more disconnected from ourselves.

The connection isn’t poetic. It’s physiological. The gut produces about 95% of the body’s serotonin. Chronic inflammation has been linked to depression. Movement increases endorphins. The nervous system doesn’t separate the emotional from the physical—it experiences both at once.

This isn’t just science. It’s a lived experience. And most of us already know it in our bones—we just need permission to believe it.

A Story That Stuck With Me

A few years ago, I interviewed an elder in a small community outside Nairobi. She was in her late seventies, and still walked several kilometres each day to check on her garden and visit neighbours. When I asked her the secret to her longevity, she laughed and said, “I cry when I need to cry. I rest when I am tired. I move when I can. And I never eat while angry.”

I remember writing that down in my notebook. I never eat while angry.

To her, health wasn’t something she compartmentalised. Emotions, food, movement, relationships—it was all one continuous rhythm. There was no separation between body and mind. There was just her, listening.

Why We Learned to Separate Ourselves

In many Western contexts, we’re taught to think of health in silos. Physical health is about cholesterol, heart rate, and gym memberships. Mental health is about therapy, meditation apps, and resilience workshops.

This division doesn’t just come from medicine. It comes from culture. From capitalism. From patriarchy. From colonial ideas of control over the body.

For generations, we’ve been conditioned to view the body as a tool and the mind as its operator. The body must perform; the mind must endure. There’s no room for softness. No space for slowness.

But this way of living is deeply out of sync with how human beings are wired. Our ancestors lived with an intuitive understanding of balance. Healing wasn’t clinical—it was communal, spiritual, sensory.

It still can be.

The Quiet Collapse We Don’t Talk About

You don’t have to be diagnosed with a disorder to be unwell. Sometimes it looks like grinding your teeth every night. Or avoiding your own reflection. Or dreading phone calls with people you love.

Sometimes it’s just a feeling that something is “off.” And because it doesn’t show up on blood tests, we dismiss it.

But those quiet collapses matter. The moments when you can’t feel joy. When your body aches in inexplicable ways. When you’re surviving but not living.

A holistic approach to well-being invites us to take those moments seriously. Not to dramatise them—but to honour them. To get curious about them. To ask not, “What’s wrong with me?” but “What is my body trying to tell me right now?”

Small Shifts, Not Grand Overhauls

Healing doesn’t have to mean quitting your job, moving to the mountains, or spending thousands on retreats. Often, it begins with one brave, mundane act: pausing.

Here are a few practices—offered not as prescriptions, but as possibilities:

• Name what hurts. Write it down. Say it aloud. Sometimes the act of naming brings immense relief. “I feel disconnected.” “I am overwhelmed.” “I am lonely.” Your body will feel the truth of it.

• Ask your body questions. Before a decision, ask: Does this feel like expansion or contraction? Where do I feel it in my body? Listen. Trust the first answer.

• Reclaim rest. Rest is not laziness. It is resistance. In a world that values productivity over presence, choosing rest is revolutionary.

• Practice embodied joy. Dance to one song. Walk barefoot. Cook a meal slowly. Let your body feel pleasure without purpose.

• Be in community. Healing doesn’t happen in isolation. Whether it’s a friend, a therapist, or an online circle—find spaces where you can be seen fully.

These aren’t life hacks. They’re acts of remembering. Remembering that you are a whole person. Not a brain in a body. Not a body without a voice.

Returning to Ourselves

There’s a word in Portuguese—“saudade”—that captures a kind of longing, a nostalgia for something you can’t quite name. Many of us live with a kind of saudade for ourselves. For the version of us that felt light, connected, whole.

But that self isn’t lost. It’s simply buried beneath years of noise, pace, and disconnection.

The journey back is not a straight line. It is slow and often invisible. But each time you pause to check in with your breath, each time you choose presence over perfection, you come a little closer.

At The Pulse, we believe that healing isn’t about achieving balance—it’s about tending to imbalance with compassion. It's about weaving yourself back together, strand by strand.

A Final Word

If you’re reading this and nodding quietly, or feeling the sting of recognition in your chest, know this: You’re not alone. And nothing is broken.

The body remembers. The mind remembers. And both are still speaking to you, even now. Especially now.

Maybe it’s time to start listening.