The House That Stays
Tapping to Heal the Deep-Seated Fear of Abandonment
With Insights from Daniel J. Siegel, MD, Interpersonal Neurobiology Pioneer
Act I – The Fracture
The sound of the zipper was worse than the silence. It moved slow, deliberate, teeth closing one after another until her chest clenched in time with it.
Her partner didn’t slam things. That would’ve been easier. At least then the noise would match the rupture.
Instead, there was only the soft scrape of a suitcase across the hardwood, the muted shuffle of socks on floorboards, and the careful click of the latch on the front door.
And then — nothing.
She stood in the middle of the kitchen with two mugs of coffee, both going cold. Steam had stopped curling from the rims; the smell had gone from warm and grounding to something flat and bitter. She looked at his cup and thought, He’s gone, but what she felt was They’re gone.
Because suddenly it wasn’t just him leaving — it was her father’s back disappearing down the driveway, her mother’s voice going sharp and distant, the birthday party where no one showed. It was every exit, every absence, layered and pounding in her chest like footsteps on an empty stairwell.
Her throat tightened. Her skin prickled hot. She could hear her heartbeat in her ears, and underneath it — a voice from somewhere deep: No one stays.
Her hands were shaking when she remembered something she’d read — about tapping. She didn’t know if she believed in it, but she needed something to anchor her.
She pressed the side of her hand against her thigh and began tapping with her fingertips, whispering so quietly it was almost breath:
Karate Chop Point (Setup)
“Even though I feel like I’m eight years old again, I’m still here.”
“Even though part of me believes no one stays, I’m willing to stay for myself.”
“Even though my chest feels like it’s caving in, I’m breathing.”
She moved her fingers to the inside of her eyebrow.
Tap. “This aching in my chest.”
Side of eye. Tap. “The sound of him leaving.”
Under eye. Tap. “Feels like my whole body’s bracing.”
Under nose. Tap. “Afraid I’ll be left forever.”
Chin. Tap. “Memories I didn’t ask for flooding in.”
Collarbone. Tap. “It’s so hard to feel lovable right now.”
Under arm. Tap. “Letting some of this pain move.”
Top of head. Tap. “Letting myself feel, so maybe I can heal.”
She didn’t feel better — not really. But she felt slightly less gone, and that was enough to sit down at the kitchen table instead of pacing until her legs gave out.
Act II – The Spiral
The first night, she didn’t sleep. The second, she drifted in and out, waking with a start each time the apartment creaked. By the third night, exhaustion dulled the panic but didn’t erase it.
She thought she was fine until the grocery store. She’d walked past the bread aisle and suddenly remembered being twelve, following her mother in silence as she threw a single loaf into the cart. No small talk. No smile. Just the quiet efficiency of someone too tired to connect.
Her throat tightened again. She left the store without buying anything.
That night, scrolling through her phone for distraction, she saw his profile picture still there — smiling, eyes she thought she knew — and felt the air leave her lungs.
She crawled into bed and started tapping again, this time without thinking about form.
Karate Chop Point (Setup)
“Even though it feels like no one chooses me, I’m here.”
“Even though I want to run from this feeling, I’m willing to notice it.”
“Even though part of me thinks I’m unlovable, I’m open to seeing that differently.”
Eyebrow. “This ache in my chest.”
Side of eye. “This knot in my stomach.”
Under eye. “That look on his face as he walked away.”
Under nose. “The way it feels just like Dad leaving.”
Chin. “Afraid to trust anyone.”
Collarbone. “Afraid if I open up, I’ll be hurt again.”
Under arm. “Releasing a little of this fear.”
Top of head. “Letting my body know I’m safe right now.”
The tapping didn’t erase the pain, but it loosened it. Like untying the first knot in a rope that had been pulling at her ribs for years.
The days blurred.
A text from a friend, late in coming, set her heart racing. She almost deleted the message without reading it, convinced it was a goodbye — but it wasn’t. Still, the spike of fear lingered.
She caught herself avoiding invitations, letting calls go to voicemail. It was safer not to expect anyone.
One night, she sat on the floor of her shower, water pounding over her head, and noticed — really noticed — the sensation of her chest tightening before she even read a text. She recognized the fear before the thought — a skill she’d read about but never named aloud.
She turned off the water, wrapped herself in a towel, and tapped through the tremors.
Karate Chop Point (Setup)
“Even though part of me is still waiting for them to leave, I can notice this without shame.”
“Even though I’ve built my life around avoiding this feeling, I’m willing to feel it safely.”
“Even though I hate that I’m here again, I can be kind to myself.”
Eyebrow. “This fear that comes before the facts.”
Side of eye. “The story my body tells before my mind can catch up.”
Under eye. “That same old script of loss.”
Under nose. “It feels older than me.”
Chin. “Maybe it started before I could speak.”
Collarbone. “It’s okay to notice without fixing it all at once.”
Under arm. “Breath by breath, tap by tap.”
Top of head. “Choosing to be here with myself.”
One evening, she sat across from her friend Mara at a small café. Mara reached out, covering her hand — warm, steady.
“Hey,” she said, voice low. “Let’s try this together.”
The words broke something open. She felt both eight and thirty-five, wanted to run and to stay all at once.
Mara guided her through another tapping round right there at the table. They spoke so softly the clink of spoons drowned them out.
Karate Chop Point (Setup)
“Even though I’m afraid to let someone see how bad it is, I choose to feel safe right now.”
“Even though letting people close feels dangerous, I’m willing to try.”
“Even though trusting again feels impossible, I want to believe it’s possible.”
They tapped through the points together, Mara’s voice like an anchor. Each tap felt like a knock on a locked door inside her chest — a door that maybe, just maybe, could open.
Act III – The Shift
Healing didn’t come like a sunrise. There was no sudden light flooding the room, no instant transformation. It came in quiet ways: a morning when she woke and didn’t check her phone immediately; an afternoon when she said yes to coffee without worrying the person would cancel; a night when she cried, tapped, and fell asleep without the ache filling her whole body.
Then came the test.
Her phone buzzed. It was a message from a new friend — Hey, I can’t make it tonight. She felt the spike. The old script started: They’re pulling away. You said something wrong. They don’t want you.
But this time, she caught it.
She sat down, placed her feet flat on the floor, and tapped.
Karate Chop Point (Setup)
“Even though I feel that old panic rising, I’m safe right now.”
“Even though part of me thinks this means I’ll be alone forever, I choose to see this as just one moment.”
“Even though my body remembers every goodbye, I can give it a new memory.”
Eyebrow. “This tightness in my chest.”
Side of eye. “The way my stomach drops.”
Under eye. “It feels so old.”
Under nose. “But I’m here now.”
Chin. “This is one canceled plan, not the end of the world.”
Collarbone. “I can survive this moment.”
Under arm. “I can even be kind to myself in it.”
Top of head. “Choosing trust, even if it’s just in me.”
When she opened her eyes, her breath was steady. She replied: No worries. Let’s reschedule. And she meant it.
A week later, she sat in her kitchen — same table, same coffee mug — but the air felt different. Lighter. Not because the fear was gone, but because she had learned how to meet it.
Outside, the day was pale gold. Inside, the house felt less like an empty space and more like something that could hold her.
She tapped once, gently, over her heart.
I’m still here.
