First, a long, avoidant preamble.

Back in my corporate days, before the advent of Priya Parker and her “magical questions,” I had three ready responses for that moment at the beginning of a full-day meeting, workshop, summit, or on-site when the very chipper facilitator at the front of the room would beam at everyone and say, “And now, I’d like to go around the room and ask each of you to share one fun fact about yourself!” Or, she might say, “Share something about yourself that most people don’t know!”

I was never quite satisfied with any of my go-to responses, but I never bothered to come up with something more interesting, entertaining, or impressive—the trifecta of unspoken criteria. There are bonus points for how unrehearsed your “fun fact” sounds. Also, no one wants to be like the senior partner who drones on about some highly personal and/or highly unrelatable anecdote, completely oblivious to how the facilitator has frozen her smiling face while clearly calculating whether to step in and cut him off “in the interest of time.” Also, some readers may remember how I hated my voice. Going for short and sweet was great for me. Also, in full disclosure, my life has not been full of adventures that can be easily mined for icebreaker activities.

I’m sure you are now dying to know my three fun facts in rotation, now retired, effective immediately. One, I have perfect pitch (although it’s grown a little less perfect with age). Two, I once had blue streaks in my hair. Three, I used to have a pet bird.

An adorable, sweet peach-faced lovebird named Lime, to be precise. A lovebird is a kind of pocket-sized parrot, so I feel fully seen by what Mark Twain wrote about people like me: “She was not quite what you would call refined. She was not quite what you would call unrefined. She was the kind of person that keeps a parrot.”

For many years, Lime lived illegally with me in college dorm rooms, summer sublets, and apartment rentals. (I was highly obedient to all sorts of rules and regulations otherwise in life, so I scandalized myself even then.) Her happy place was snuggled just inside the front of my shirt, looking out. The small hook of her small but mighty hookbill would conveniently hook over the neckline of whatever top I was wearing to keep her head up. (I do remember a few awkward occasions when I wore a turtleneck; her whole body squeezed against my throat, her head surfacing just under my chin.) The poking of her front-facing talons against the shirt fabric supported her upright position. There she would nestle for hours on end, absent-mindedly grinding her beak from time to time when she was sleepy.

All of that is the preamble to this: last Friday, I was reflecting on how easy it is for me to internally “go numb” when I feel stressed or at risk of being overwhelmed—by something in the news, by a hard parenting moment, by stirrings of grief, sorrow, or rage. It’s a mental and bodily shutdown, where I try to power off my own nervous system and restart in some sort of shell-mode where I am here, but far away.

I’ve done this a lot, ever since I was little, I thought.

And with that thought, I began to cry.

The tears surprised me, and I wasn’t ready. I know by now that whenever I can cry, I should. I could, so I did. But I didn’t know what the tears were about or where they came from or what they were expressing, and somehow it felt more important than usual to figure out all of the above, at once. I became aware of a distinct sensation in my head that felt like fluttering. Then, more like flapping. Like a trapped bird, frantic, with nowhere to go. I felt I was starting to panic. What to do with this bird??

Lime died 12 years ago, but I suddenly remembered her. The feel of her smooth, soft feathers under my palm. The way her trusting little bird body gave way slightly with each tender downstroke of my hand. The absurd weightlessness of her little bird bones juxtaposed with an outsized ferocity of spirit and unabashed attachment. The way she closed her eyes with pleasure while being petted, and then tilted her head to ask for a neck scratch.

I imagined tentatively patting, then tenderly petting the bird trapped in my head, and feeling its smooth, soft feathers. It was now nestled close to my heart, where Lime used to nestle.

Above, all was still.

I won’t bore you with all the ways in which I then played with and extended the metaphor of the bird, the obvious cage of my own mind, the structures I put in there (for the bird), the necessary drop-cloth, etc., etc. Yes, the metaphor “worked” for me. But more than that, I am marveling that the language and imagery of my own body felt like a kind of saving grace when I chose to stay with, and within, it.

There is a listening to our own interior lives and bodies that we so often forget or ignore. There is an entire fantastical interior realm to explore. When clients are willing (and only if they feel safe doing so), I’ve guided them on brief excursions, just to see what’s there. There’s always something unexpected to encounter: a hollow egg-shaped shell, a secret glass box, a restless dragon, a bird in the head.

And that’s just the beginning.