The Confession of Emotional Disconnection and Rediscovery at 37
The confession? At 37, I still jump when someone reaches out to give me a hug. Not because I don’t want connection, but because my nervous system literally doesn’t know what to do with it.
Growing up in Melbourne with Justin and Brendan, our house operated on the practical and logical side. Family dinners were debates about politics and ideas, not expressions of warmth. A pat on the back for good grades? That was about as affectionate as it could be. We weren’t unhappy, just…disconnected in that physical and emotional way that makes people human.
Intellectual Understanding vs. Emotional Capacity
For years, I thought I would escape unscathed. I completed my psychology degree at Deakin University, built a career, and even wrote about mindfulness and connection. But here’s the interesting part: intellectual understanding and emotional capacity are two completely different beasts.
When I met my Vietnamese wife in Vietnam, everything changed. She comes from a culture where affection flows as naturally as breathing. Her family hugged each other, touched shoulders while talking, held hands. And there I was, rigid, as if someone had pressed pause on my emotional responses.
Now, with a little girl constantly reaching out to me, eager for hugs and comfort, I’m learning what I should have learned thirty years ago. Some days, receiving her love pure and simple is like trying to catch water with closed fists.
The Invisible Wall: A Barrier Built from Ignorance
You know that feeling when someone compliments you and you immediately turn away or make a joke? It’s the wall. It’s not about anger or resentment. It’s made of ignorance.
When affection wasn’t part of your emotional vocabulary growing up, your brain literally doesn’t develop the neural pathways needed to gently process it. It’s like someone is speaking to you in a language you never learned. You might learn a few words here and there, but fluency? That’s a whole different story.
I spent years studying Buddhism and mindfulness, thinking I was working on presence and awareness. What I was really doing was intellectualizing emotions rather than feeling them. There is a huge difference between understanding that humans need connection and allowing ourselves to receive it.
The wall is not just emotional. It’s physical. The way your body tenses when someone gets too close. Automatic backing off when a conversation becomes too intimate. The subtle art of keeping everyone at a distance while appearing completely open.
Why Receiving is More Difficult Than Giving
Here’s something I discovered while researching my book “The Hidden Secrets of Buddhism: How to Live with Maximum Impact and Minimum Ego”: Giving affection is safer than receiving it.
When you are the giver, you are in control. You decide the intensity, the duration, the direction. But to receive? This requires vulnerability. It requires admitting that you need something from another person. And when you’ve spent decades being self-sufficient, this admission feels like weakness.
Think about it. How many times have you said “I’m fine” when you really weren’t? How often do you solve problems on your own that would be easier with help? This is the legacy of growing up without affection. You become so good at no longer needing it that when it’s offered to you, it seems foreign, almost threatening.
The hardest part is that the people who love you now feel this resistance. My wife would ask me if she had done something wrong when I unconsciously pulled away from a spontaneous hug. How do you explain that it’s not about them at all? That you are fighting against decades of programming that affection is useless, even dangerous?
The Body Keeps the Score
Your body remembers everything, even when your conscious mind has evolved. This is what makes receiving affection so physically uncomfortable for those of us who grew up without it.
When someone touches you affectionately, your nervous system doesn’t know whether to categorize it as safe or threatening. So it does both, leaving you in this weird liminal space where you want connection but feel overwhelmed by it.
I notice it especially with my daughter. When she falls asleep on my chest, there’s that first moment of panic. Not because I don’t love it, but because the weight of that trust and vulnerability is something my body has never learned to comfortably handle. The feeling is both beautiful and terrifying.
Running helped me understand this better. There is something about rhythm and repetition that reflects what affection does to others. It regulates, soothes, connects you to your body in a way that feels safe because you are in complete control.
But true affection isn’t about control. It’s about surrender. And that’s precisely what makes it so difficult to receive when you’ve never learned how.
Learning the Language of Love at 37
So how do you learn to receive affection when you’re already supposed to know how? Start small. Ridiculously small.
I started by not immediately walking away when my wife touched my arm during a conversation. Just stay present with this simple touch for an extra second. Then two seconds. Build tolerance like you would build muscle.
Buddhist practice teaches us beginner’s mind, approaching experiences as if for the first time. This is exactly what receiving affection requires when you learn it late. You must let go of the shame of not knowing and embrace the awkwardness of learning.
Some days I literally have to say to myself, “It’s safe. This is love. You can handle this.” It sounds ridiculous, but this conscious intervention is sometimes the only way to quell automatic resistance.
My wife became my teacher in this area, even though she didn’t sign up for the role. She has learned to announce cuddles every now and then, to move slowly, to not take it personally when I need a moment to adjust. This is also love, this patience in the face of someone’s difficulties in receiving what you are trying to give.
The Unexpected Gift of Starting Late
Would I have preferred to grow up in a more loving home? Of course. But starting this journey at 37 has some strange benefits.
When you learn to receive affection as an adult, you don’t take it for granted. Every hug my daughter gives me is a small miracle. Every spontaneous kiss from my wife is noted, appreciated, felt in a way that might not be true if the affection had always been abundant.
There is also a clarity that comes from conscious learning. I now understand the mechanisms of connection, both intellectual and emotional. I can see where I struggle and why. This awareness, born from my psychology training and years of mindfulness practice, makes the journey less mysterious, although it doesn’t make it easier.
Conclusion
The hardest part is not the childhood we missed. It’s not even the difficulty of learning now. The hardest part is forgiving yourself for struggling with something that seems to come so naturally to others.
But here’s what I’ve learned: It’s never too late to rewire your nervous system for love. It’s never too late to learn the language of affection, even if you’ll speak it with an accent for the rest of your life.
Some days I still flinch. Some days the walls go back up without my permission. But more and more, I am learning to remain open, to receive what is offered to me, to believe that I deserve it.
And maybe that’s the real journey. Not becoming someone who receives affection naturally, but becoming someone who receives it consciously, with gratitude, knowing exactly what a gift is because you remember what life was like without it.
About this article
This article is intended for general information and reflection. It is not intended as medical, mental health, or professional advice. The models described are based on published research and editorial observations, not clinical evaluation. If you experience a serious situation, speak to a qualified professional or local helpline. Editorial policy →
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