Self-Awareness, Give or Take 37% (or) A Platypus Walks Into Therapy…
I’m no gossip, and golly gee, do I have something to tell you about myself…
“I am wildly self-aware and forget I have a body about 37% of the time.”
“I feel everything, and sometimes can’t name what I’m feeling.”
“I’m sarcastic and gullible.”
I mean, let’s be real—that is a terrible combination. So I giggle… and a platypus comes to mind.
Welcome to my brain.
Neurodivergent by design—which, in practice, means paradoxes galore. Binaries rarely hold up for me. I live in the “both/and” space. And self-awareness? Sure, I’m self-aware—but that’s not a clear, linear thing.
Let me start here: I have an intense interoceptive sensitivity—basically, I feel what’s happening inside my body most of the time. My heart rate, gut twists, muscle tightness, temperature shifts, hormone fluctuations, ear tightness (have you ever stretched your ears?! Ohmugawd)… fun, right?
These internal signals come in loud and layered—and sometimes soft and shallow. It’s taken years for me to ‘read’ these signals.
Sometimes they’re helpful. Sometimes they’re chaotic. Sometimes I stand up and yell with irritation because I just. CANNOT. GET. COMFORTABLE. IN. MY. BODY.
Sometimes my whole right side feels like it’s on lockdown.
And I have so much gratitude for this body of mine. I’m healthy. Medically speaking, my numbers look great. Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds and get stronger—but get off my back! 😉
One of the most frustrating parts is that most providers/people I’ve seen don’t understand my pain—or how I describe it. I’ve had to learn how to hear my body and explain its language. And even then, it’s not a dialect I’m always fluent in—or one I can easily translate.
And here’s the paradox: Despite all this internal sensing, all the messages and signals… a former partner once told me I was the most disembodied person they knew.
At the time, it shocked me.
Therapy? Journaling? Literal full-body shutdowns? How could I not be in my body?
But the more I sat with it, the more I understood:
I often scan the room before I scan myself.
I look outward before I turn inward—even when I feel all these things inside.
My first step is to take the temperature outside of me— What are you feeling? What do you need? Am I too much? Too quiet? Too emotional?
Then I can adjust or match. Shrink. Stretch. That’s not necessarily good or bad. It just is. But it’s also a form of disembodiment.
So here I am:
Both highly embodied and deeply disembodied.
Both aware and unaware.
A contradiction.
Enter the platypus.
Why the platypus? I’ve always thought of it as one of God’s / G-d’s / goddess’s jokes. A reflection of their sense of humor. It shouldn’t make sense—and yet it does.
Beaver tail. Duck bill. Cute as heck. Venomous spur. Lays eggs. Come on.
And I relate. On a couple levels. I’m another divine joke: I’m both sarcastic and gullible. I can crack a joke with a totally straight face and then believe you when you say there’s a cheese shortage because the moon was too full.
All of that—the platypus, the softness, the contradiction—it’s part of my neurodesign.
It’s part of my self-awareness. Or unawareness.
It’s messy. It’s funny. It’s frustrating. It’s mine.
So for Self-Awareness Month, I’m not here to offer tips, hacks, or a perfect process.
I’m here to say:
Sometimes self-awareness looks like a stomach ache you can’t explain.
Sometimes it looks like painting a platypus because you aren’t sure where to put your energy.
Sometimes it’s realizing you’re both the joke and the masterpiece.
I’m no gossip, and golly gee, do I have something to tell you about myself…
“I am wildly self-aware and forget I have a body about 37% of the time.”
“I feel everything, and sometimes can’t name what I’m feeling.”
“I’m sarcastic and gullible.”
I mean, let’s be real—that is a terrible combination. So I giggle… and a platypus comes to mind.
Welcome to my brain.
Neurodivergent by design—which, in practice, means paradoxes galore. Binaries rarely hold up for me. I live in the “both/and” space. And self-awareness? Sure, I’m self-aware—but that’s not a clear, linear thing.
Let me start here: I have an intense interoceptive sensitivity—basically, I feel what’s happening inside my body most of the time. My heart rate, gut twists, muscle tightness, temperature shifts, hormone fluctuations, ear tightness (have you ever stretched your ears?! Ohmugawd)… fun, right?
These internal signals come in loud and layered—and sometimes soft and shallow. It’s taken years for me to ‘read’ these signals.
Sometimes they’re helpful. Sometimes they’re chaotic. Sometimes I stand up and yell with irritation because I just. CANNOT. GET. COMFORTABLE. IN. MY. BODY.
Sometimes my whole right side feels like it’s on lockdown.
And I have so much gratitude for this body of mine. I’m healthy. Medically speaking, my numbers look great. Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds and get stronger—but get off my back! 😉
One of the most frustrating parts is that most providers/people I’ve seen don’t understand my pain—or how I describe it. I’ve had to learn how to hear my body and explain its language. And even then, it’s not a dialect I’m always fluent in—or one I can easily translate.
And here’s the paradox: Despite all this internal sensing, all the messages and signals… a former partner once told me I was the most disembodied person they knew.
At the time, it shocked me.
Therapy? Journaling? Literal full-body shutdowns? How could I not be in my body?
But the more I sat with it, the more I understood:
I often scan the room before I scan myself.
I look outward before I turn inward—even when I feel all these things inside.
My first step is to take the temperature outside of me— What are you feeling? What do you need? Am I too much? Too quiet? Too emotional?
Then I can adjust or match. Shrink. Stretch. That’s not necessarily good or bad. It just is. But it’s also a form of disembodiment.
So here I am:
Both highly embodied and deeply disembodied.
Both aware and unaware.
A contradiction.
Enter the platypus.
Why the platypus? I’ve always thought of it as one of God’s / G-d’s / goddess’s jokes. A reflection of their sense of humor. It shouldn’t make sense—and yet it does.
Beaver tail. Duck bill. Cute as heck. Venomous spur. Lays eggs. Come on.
And I relate. On a couple levels. I’m another divine joke: I’m both sarcastic and gullible. I can crack a joke with a totally straight face and then believe you when you say there’s a cheese shortage because the moon was too full.
All of that—the platypus, the softness, the contradiction—it’s part of my neurodesign.
It’s part of my self-awareness. Or unawareness.
It’s messy. It’s funny. It’s frustrating. It’s mine.
So for Self-Awareness Month, I’m not here to offer tips, hacks, or a perfect process.
I’m here to say:
Sometimes self-awareness looks like a stomach ache you can’t explain.
Sometimes it looks like painting a platypus because you aren’t sure where to put your energy.
Sometimes it’s realizing you’re both the joke and the masterpiece.
“Self-Awareness, Give or Take 37%”
“A Platypus Walks Into Therapy”
I’m no gossip, and golly gee, do I have something to tell you about myself…
“I am wildly self-aware and forget I have a body about 37% of the time.”
“I feel everything, and sometimes can’t name what I’m feeling.”
“I’m sarcastic and gullible.”
I mean, let’s be real—that is a terrible combination. So I giggle… and a platypus comes to mind.
Welcome to my brain.
Neurodivergent by design—which, in practice, means paradoxes galore. Binaries rarely hold up for me. I live in the “both/and” space. And self-awareness? Sure, I’m self-aware—but that’s not a clear, linear thing.
Let me start here: I have an intense interoceptive sensitivity—basically, I feel what’s happening inside my body most of the time. My heart rate, gut twists, muscle tightness, temperature shifts, hormone fluctuations, ear tightness (have you ever stretched your ears?! Ohmugawd)… fun, right?
These internal signals come in loud and layered—and sometimes soft and shallow. It’s taken years for me to ‘read’ these signals.
Sometimes they’re helpful. Sometimes they’re chaotic. Sometimes I stand up and yell with irritation because I just. CANNOT. GET. COMFORTABLE. IN. MY. BODY.
Sometimes my whole right side feels like it’s on lockdown.
And I have so much gratitude for this body of mine. I’m healthy. Medically speaking, my numbers look great. Sure, I could stand to lose a few pounds and get stronger—but get off my back! 😉
One of the most frustrating parts is that most providers/people I’ve seen don’t understand my pain—or how I describe it. I’ve had to learn how to hear my body and explain its language. And even then, it’s not a dialect I’m always fluent in—or one I can easily translate.
And here’s the paradox: Despite all this internal sensing, all the messages and signals… a former partner once told me I was the most disembodied person they knew.
At the time, it shocked me.
Therapy? Journaling? Literal full-body shutdowns? How could I not be in my body?
But the more I sat with it, the more I understood:
I often scan the room before I scan myself.
I look outward before I turn inward—even when I feel all these things inside.
My first step is to take the temperature outside of me— What are you feeling? What do you need? Am I too much? Too quiet? Too emotional?
Then I can adjust or match. Shrink. Stretch. That’s not necessarily good or bad. It just is. But it’s also a form of disembodiment.
So here I am:
Both highly embodied and deeply disembodied.
Both aware and unaware.
A contradiction.
Enter the platypus.
Why the platypus? I’ve always thought of it as one of God’s / G-d’s / goddess’s jokes. A reflection of their sense of humor. It shouldn’t make sense—and yet it does.
Beaver tail. Duck bill. Cute as heck. Venomous spur. Lays eggs. Come on.
And I relate. On a couple levels. I’m another divine joke: I’m both sarcastic and gullible. I can crack a joke with a totally straight face and then believe you when you say there’s a cheese shortage because the moon was too full.
All of that—the platypus, the softness, the contradiction—it’s part of my neurodesign.
It’s part of my self-awareness. Or unawareness.
It’s messy. It’s funny. It’s frustrating. It’s mine.
So for Self-Awareness Month, I’m not here to offer tips, hacks, or a perfect process.
I’m here to say:
Sometimes self-awareness looks like a stomach ache you can’t explain.
Sometimes it looks like painting a platypus because you aren’t sure where to put your energy.
Sometimes it’s realizing you’re both the joke and the masterpiece.
-Jill Wolf, LCSW (she/they/platypus)
