Disengagement

Disengagement: What I Understand Now In loving memory of Sana. Recently, my therapist spoke to me about *disengagement* — the practice of walking away from what disturbs you. Not reacting. Not arguing. Not over-explaining. Simply choosing not to interact with what heightens your anxiety. At first, it sounded almost passive. But the more I practiced it, the more I realized how powerful it is. When I feel anxious and I step back instead of leaning in… when I choose silence instead of reaction… when I refuse to internalize someone else’s tone or opinion… my nervous system settles. My breathing slows. I feel safer inside myself. And then I thought of Sana. She disengaged often. There were moments when she would grow quiet. She would withdraw from conversations that felt overwhelming. She would not argue her point if she sensed judgment. At the time, I sometimes wondered why she seemed distant. Why she appeared uninterested. Why she didn’t defend herself more strongly. Now I understand. It wasn’t indifference. It wasn’t weakness. It was coping. For someone carrying anxiety and depression, constant engagement with the world can feel like standing in a storm without shelter. Disengagement becomes an umbrella. A boundary. A way to protect fragile emotional reserves. It is not shrinking because you lack strength. It is shrinking to survive. It is pulling back into the comforts of what feels manageable — your routine, your safe spaces, your predictable rhythms. It is saying, “This is all I can hold right now,” without apology. Sana was not withdrawing from life. She was conserving energy. There is something deeply misunderstood about people who disengage. The world often values confrontation, boldness, constant participation. But for sensitive souls, stepping away is sometimes the bravest act of self-preservation. I see now how much effort it must have taken for her to navigate spaces that felt too loud, too critical, too overwhelming. I see how disengagement allowed her to keep functioning, to keep showing up where it mattered most. And I am learning to offer myself that same grace. Not every comment deserves a response. Not every conflict deserves my energy. Not every space deserves my presence. Sometimes healing is not about pushing harder. Sometimes it is about stepping back. If there is a lesson Sana continues to teach me, it is this: coping does not always look strong from the outside. Sometimes it looks quiet. Sometimes it looks distant. Sometimes it looks like shrinking. But often, it is simply survival. And survival, in itself, is strength.