The body as a truth-teller in client work

Over time, I’ve learned that my body often understands a client relationship before my mind does. This is why I started paying attention.

Image: Kira auf der Heide

I tend to go into all new client calls with the same attitude and energy: I’m here to help, to understand, to get a good picture of what is going on, to try to identify problems, and explore potential solutions.

I also do a lot of listening beneath the surface. Sometimes underlying anxieties and uncertainties crop up which are less web design-related and more about what it means to present yourself to the world. Sometimes what someone thinks they need (e.g. a website) and what they end up needing (e.g. clarity in a career pivot) are very different things. And I enjoy thinking alongside people as we make our way through the questions.

But some work leaves me inexplicably tired, foggy, or on edge — even when the conversation is engaging and the person I’m speaking to is genuinely inspiring. I’m left asking the question in these interactions, why does my energy sometimes disappear?

Here is some of what I experience and what it may be teaching me along the way.

Confusion

Confusion often shows up when there’s a lot of talking, but a lack of direction. It shows up when we try to make decisions about how to do something when the purpose behind the task has yet to been determined. We try to put design (e.g. fonts, colours, look and feel) ahead of intention (e.g. three distinct services on offer, named and described). It shows up when the scope of the work is unclear, when decisions are repeatedly deferred, or responsibility is blurred. I notice confusion when reading emails many times over, losing my place mid-sentence, or when my mental sharpness is replaced by a cloudy haze.

When I’m genuinely trying to understand what someone is saying and I hit a wall, it often isn’t just my confusion. It’s the presence of confusion in the room. In those moments, what’s needed isn’t more work, more meetings, or more information, but greater clarity.

For me, confusion is a signal that greater clarity is required. Clarity first. Work will follow.

Low-grade anxiety

Low-grade anxiety feels in my body like the hum of a refrigerator in the background, or a car alarm going off a few streets away: constant and energy-sapping. It rarely announces itself with a sharp, urgent signal. Instead, it wears away at focus and stamina bit by bit. It feels like: a quiet tightening across the neck and shoulders, the sense that I’m holding my breath forgetting to fully exhale; mentally sorting, filing, and rehearsing conversations that haven’t properly ended; a lack of settledness, even during rest; the feeling that something is unfinished; a subtle restlessness in the body — not enough to prompt action, but enough to prevent ease; difficulty fully focusing on the task or moment in front of me, as attention keeps snagging on what’s pending; a background sense of responsibility as though I’m still “on call” even when nothing is actively happening.

This kind of anxiety tends to appear when expectations aren’t named, when work bleeds over the margins, or when I find myself holding more of the system than the client is.

Anxiety here isn’t fear; it’s overload.

Deep tiredness

This kind of tiredness isn’t the “I worked hard” kind, but a tiredness that comes from thinking on someone else’s behalf for too long. I experience it in my body when I feel like I need to lie down, even when I haven’t physically exerted myself. My movements slow, decision-making drags, and my energy feels blocked both in body and mind. Ideas are hard to come by, solutions seem impossible, and any mental work feels exhausting.

As an early warning signal from my body, this deep tiredness indicates that I’ve been carrying too much responsibility for someone else’s system — thinking, deciding, and problem-solving in their place. Sometimes, inadvertently, I become a kind of “human Google” in a client relationship, taking on the burden of knowing and directing. Deep tiredness tells me that tasks or decisions need to be handed back, or that I need to pause and recalibrate before continuing. It’s a cue that the structure of the relationship or the project isn’t sustainable.

Deep tiredness usually signals invisible labour. Either the labour becomes visible and compensated, or the structure changes so I’m no longer carrying what isn’t mine to hold.

Resistance

Resistance in my body feels like stalling. Like a horse being led over a body of water that doesn’t want to go any further. Resistance also requires wisdom. Is it about pushing through a perceived barrier? Perhaps I don’t feel up to the nature of the task, perhaps I feel under-equipped to deal with what is being asked of me. In these instances I can choose courage and move forward, I can identify areas of growth and upskill, I can allow my view of myself to be challenged and meet what is required through a process of growth.

But resistance can also signal something else — a warning. When I find myself pulling back, stopping or stalling it is worth considering that I’m being asked too much. Or I’m being asked for too much in response to too little being offered. Resentment, a close neighbour of resistance, often follows when I charge too little, or promise too much.

Resistance is a form of intelligence. It’s asking me to reevaluate and be clear on what I need to work well.

A bolt of energy

This shows up as a surge of energy, leaning forward into the conversation, sitting on the edge of my seat, bubbling with excitement. It usually happens when it feels like we both get it — and get each other. There’s a sense of mutual understanding, respect, and enthusiasm about working together. Roles are clear, trust is present, and I’m being asked to lead rather than rescue. My system recognises alignment immediately.

As a signal, this bolt of energy tells me that the work is flowing well and that the structure, expectations, and mutual engagement are healthy. It signals that my presence is being used effectively — my expertise is welcomed, boundaries are respected, and the relationship is sustainable.

“Aha” moments

These moments arrive after mulling over a problem or considering a range of options, when a sudden clarity emerges in the conversation. Bodily, it feels like a wave of relief, an exhale, rest without exhaustion. There’s a palpable pause that welcomes shared understanding. We both see the picture of where the project could — and needs to — go. Energy flows naturally because effort is finally directed, purposeful, and meaningful.

As a signal, these moments tell me that the client and I are aligned, that the project’s path is clear, and that my guidance is having impact. They indicate that the conversation and work are productive, structured, and moving forward in a way that sustains energy rather than drains it.

Curiosity

Curiosity in the body feels like a what if? It feels hopeful, light, intriguing, worth investigating. It is both easy and energising. It is open-ended and expansive. Curiosity in the midst of a design process feels like walking along a winding path, where potential alternatives present themselves and its possible to explore possibilities as I go. Curiosity expresses itself in smiles, warmth, animation. Curiosity expands rather than contracts. Curiosity lends itself to generosity and openness.

Curiosity says: There’s something here worth discovering together. It’s a signal that the conditions for good work are present.

Excitement

Mentally, healthy excitement feels spacious and directional. I can think ahead, imagining possibilities, without compulsively planning. The project feels like something I get to work on. Adrenaline, by contrast, is sharp and narrow. Energy shoots upward and is menacing: Don’t drop this. I feel compelled to respond quickly, say yes too fast, or mentally start doing unpaid work. The body is mobilised for threat, not creation.

Healthy excitement says: there’s challenge, but not chaos; learning, but not overwhelm. Healthy excitement coexists with calm. Excitement communicates not just that a project is interesting, but something good can come out of this.

What these bodily cues have taught me

Paying attention to my body has helped me design clearer ways of working — ones that protect my energy and genuinely support my clients. Bodily cues are not obstacles to professionalism; they’re information. They tell me when the container is strong enough to hold good work, and when it isn’t.

Over time, I’ve learned that confusion points to missing structure, anxiety points to unspoken expectations, and deep tiredness often signals invisible labour I’ve quietly taken on. In contrast, curiosity, excitement, and those unmistakable “aha” moments tend to arise when roles are clear, trust is present, and I’m being asked to lead rather than rescue. My body reliably distinguishes between work that is generative and work that is quietly depleting — often long before my mind catches up.

Listening to these signals has changed how I work. It’s pushed me to name scope earlier, to price thinking and advising appropriately, to introduce clearer boundaries around communication, and to offer clients choices about how we work together rather than defaulting to open-ended support. Structure, I’ve learned, isn’t restrictive — it’s what allows creativity, trust, and momentum to emerge.

I’m still deeply motivated by helping people. That hasn’t changed. What has changed is my understanding that how I help matters as much as how much. When my nervous system is supported, I show up clearer, steadier, and more useful. And when the work issely anchored in mutual responsibility, it becomes better for everyone involved.