You Can’t Switch Off Containment

On compartmentalisation, connection, and the spaces in between

I came across a comment on LinkedIn recently about bomb disposal training.

It spoke about the need “to compartmentalise. To hide what might be traumatic in order to get the job done.”

And as I read it, I felt a sense of I know this. This is familiar to me.

Those words, to get the job done.

I’ve heard that many times.

“It was just a job, love.”

What… some kind of job.

I am in awe of those who do it. Truly.

To hold that much down, to lock it away and carry on, is incredible to me.

And yet… tangled in that awe is something else.

A quiet curiosity for what had to stay compartmentalised.

I guess the irony is…

maintaining that level of containment takes energy.

It’s not passive, it’s active, ongoing.

And over time, it can become automatic. Like being stuck in autopilot.

Not something you choose in the moment…

but something that’s already there.

And from what I’ve seen, close up,

feeling, deeply, doesn’t go away.

If anything, it can mean there’s even more to hold.

More to manage. More to keep contained. More to lock down.

Like one of those beach balls in a pool, you try to keep pushing it under, only for it to resurface.

And sometimes that pushing down… that seems to come at a cost.

A slight turning away from the things that stir it.

Even, at times, from the people around you.

Not because the care isn’t there…

but because of what it might open. What might surface.

I’ve been thinking about this idea of containment.

About how necessary it is. How skilful. How it allows people to do things most of us couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

And at the same time…

I find myself wondering what happens when that same way of organising yourself doesn’t switch off.

When holding it all in, which makes complete sense in one context, becomes the default in others.

And I’ve seen how this can play out over time.

Not always in obvious ways.

But in the quiet strain it can place on relationships.

In the difficulty of navigating things that don’t respond well to being contained.

I find myself wondering about this too…

about what it might be like to begin, very slowly, to touch the edges of what has felt untouchable.

Not all at once. Not forced.

Just a gentle turning towards.

Because perhaps, as we become more familiar with what we’ve learned to contain or move away from…

something else becomes available too.

A wider range.

Not just the difficult or painful…

but the quieter, more tender parts of being human.

The ones that don’t respond to being held down

but to being met.

I don’t think this is about getting rid of containment.

It’s necessary. It saves lives. It allows people to do what needs to be done.

But I find myself wondering about the spaces where something else is needed.

Where holding it all in isn’t the only option.

Where there might be room, slowly, carefully, for things to be felt as they are.

Not all at once. Not forced.

Just perhaps allowing the ball in the pool to gently rise… and float on the surface.

Allowing it to stay. Be seen.

But not held quite so tightly either.

Not instead of strength…

but alongside it.

It doesn’t have to be one or the other.

Perhaps there’s something in that space…

that allows for both.