What we leave behind while adapting

The moments during almost every transition when we stop asking ourselves how we are doing and start asking whether we are doing enough.

We wake up thinking about everything that still needs to be figured out. We learn new routines, new expectations, new ways of speaking and belonging. We become more attentive, more efficient, more available. We tell ourselves that this phase will pass, that once things settle down we will rest, reconnect with friends, return to the activities we enjoy, sleep better and breathe more deeply.

Most of us don't notice adaptation while it is happening. We notice what comes with it instead: headaches that appear more often than before, a neck that never seems to soften, growing impatience with small inconveniences, difficulty falling asleep even when we are exhausted, or the feeling that weekends are no longer enough to recover. These experiences do not necessarily mean that something is wrong. They may simply be the body's way of showing how much work it has been doing without our awareness.

We often think of adaptation as a psychological process. We imagine learning a new language, understanding a new workplace, navigating a relationship, becoming a parent, caring for someone who is ill, moving to another country or rebuilding life after a separation. All of these require emotional and cognitive adjustment, but they also ask something of the body.

Every new environment invites us to observe more carefully before acting. We pay closer attention to other people's reactions. We hesitate before speaking. We monitor ourselves. Little by little, our attention turns outward, toward what the situation requires from us. This is how human beings survive change. Without the capacity to adapt, we would struggle to learn, cooperate, belong or rebuild our lives after loss. Adaptation is one of our greatest strengths. But every strength has a cost when, somewhere along the way, we stop noticing ourselves.

Research on life transitions consistently shows that change requires far more than practical adjustments. It involves emotional regulation, uncertainty, identity negotiation and the continuous interpretation of unfamiliar social environments. Studies with young adult immigrants in Québec are particularly interesting because they show that people may appear well adapted while simultaneously experiencing considerable psychological distress. Visible functioning does not always reflect the effort required to sustain it.

This becomes even more understandable when we remember that adaptation doesn’t happen in isolation. Many societies carries expectations that are rarely spoken aloud. We learn what confidence should look like, how emotions should be expressed, what counts as professionalism, when to speak, when to remain silent and even what kind of body appears competent or trustworthy. Most of us spend years learning these rules without realizing that we are learning them. For immigrants, people living between cultures, sexual and gender minorities, or anyone entering an unfamiliar environment, these expectations often overlap, making adaptation considerably more demanding.

What fascinates me is how adaptation gradually shapes not only our routines, but also our bodies, our perception and our sense of self. We adapt to new countries, new families, new relationships, new work and new losses. Life depends on this capacity. Yet adaptations quietly asks another question: what did you have to leave behind in order to keep moving?

Not the obvious things, the house you left, the language you speak less often or the friends you see less. I am thinking about the quieter departures: the opinion you stopped expressing because agreeing seemed easier, the laughter that became more discreet, the curiosity that slowly gave way to efficiency, the pleasure postponed until there would finally be enough time, or the parts of yourself that no longer seemed to fit the place where you were trying to belong.

Most people would not describe these as losses. They would call them adulthood, professionalism, parenthood, immigration or resilience. The body, however, often remembers them differently, because it continues carrying experiences that never found enough space to be fully lived.

From the perspective of body-oriented therapy, adaptation is a continuous conversation between the person and the world around them. A healthy adaptation allows us to respond to what life asks without losing the ability to feel, perceive ourselves and remain present in relationship with ourselves and with others. The body does not have to choose between changing and remaining alive. It is capable of both.

The question is whether those adjustments expand our capacity to live or quietly reduce it. Sometimes the cost is almost invisible. We become highly competent, remarkably resilient and perfectly adapted, yet a little less spontaneous, a little less curious, a little less connected to what once made us feel fully alive. Adaptation becomes costly when belonging to a place, a role or an expectation gradually requires becoming absent from ourselves.

Perhaps this is why I don't see adaptation as something to avoid, but as something to accompany with care. Life will continue asking us to change. The question is whether, while learning to live in a new reality, we can also remain in relationship with the person who is living it.

Written by Juliana Camargo

References

Camargo Junior, J. (2013). Algumas considerações sobre a Arte Org Terapia.

Doucet, L. Cycle du processus de réintégration du soi.

El-Hage, H., & Lee, E. J. (2016). LGBTQ racisés : frontières identitaires et barrières structurelles.

Tardif-Grenier, K., Villatte, A., Goulet, M., & Dupéré, V. (2024). Layers of Diversity: Psychosocial and Academic Adjustment Profiles in Emerging Adult Immigrants.