The words may limit our understanding: reflexive research, affect and embodied writing

Abstract

Drawing on a reflexive and embodied approach, this article examines the researcher’s narrative inquiry, consisting of the conflicting feelings and messy thoughts that arose through her interviews with adults who had experienced child sexual abuse. The article highlights how embodied writing can enable access to other worlds by activating the physical senses and bringing researchers back to core bodily ways of knowing; these latter may be evoked by preconceptions, entangled discourses and social views and taboos concerning child sexual abuse. The article speaks to the emerging field of Embodied Critical Thinking and the concept of emotional reflexivity in qualitative research on sensitive, challenging and difficult topics.

KEYWORDS:

• Child sexual abuse
• embodied research
• emotions
• reflexivity

Introduction

According to Chadwick (2017), the social sciences have experienced an extensive ‘turn to the text’ since the 1970s – influenced by post-structuralism. In recent decades, the humanities and social sciences have been largely characterised by the dominance of analyses focusing on language, discourse, and narratives. However, though social scientists have long been interested in embodiment, and researchers have been attempting to ‘bring the body back’ (Cameron & McDermott, 2007; Chadwick, 2017; Frank, 1990), the methodological aspects of this remain underexplored. While there are substantial writings relating to the body and social work, the body and psychoanalysis, bodily countertransference in research, trauma and the bodily self, sensory ethnography on bodies and Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of the body, the exploration of these topics remains limited in terms of bridging the gap between theoretical insights and concrete methodological approaches. The emerging field of Embodied Critical Thinking (Schoeller, 2023; Schoeller & Thorgeirsdottir, 2019) has been characterised as ‘the experiential turn’, and this article is positioned within this framework.

To offer further precision and nuance, this article revolves around the exploration of reflexive research using bodily sensations as a lens to comprehensively grasp the intricacies of qualitative data analysis and to attain a more profound understanding of the phenomena under study, specifically within the context of child sexual abuse.

Stepping into the haze – researching taboos and the ‘dark side’ of society

Child sexual abuse (CSA) is viewed as a widespread societal and public health problem worldwide (Purvis & Joyce, 2005). According to the Convention on the Rights of the Child, state parties are obliged to undertake actions to protect the child from all forms of sexual exploitation and sexual abuse (United Nations, 1577), which underlines the necessity of acting upon these issues politically and practically, as well as within research.

Cooper and Lousada (2018) wrote about the Cleveland CSA crisis in the United Kingdom in the late 1980s, exploring the societal and professional capacity to tolerate new ‘dangerous knowledge’ about themselves and their society. The authors argue that, although the crisis resulted in greater societal awareness concerning the high prevalence of sexual abuse, at the time, this awareness raising was a tremendous struggle with no guarantee as to the outcome. Powerful organisations fought hard in the public domain to deny the validity of what was being uncovered. A decade later, in the 1990s, Etherington (2004, 2020) wrote about her research on male victims of CSA, when society was just beginning to acknowledge that females were abused by males: The idea that males could also be victims of sexual abuse – or that females might be perpetrators – was new, however, and in some circles it was unthinkable.

The Norwegian media has brought forth similar cases concerning CSA in Norway – for example, the ‘Alvdal case’ this was a high-profile child abuse scandal in Norway of severe intrafamilial abuse – which challenged the public mindset as part of the ‘dark side’ of society. Many lacked the proper conceptual framework with which to think, on either a personal or societal level. Many also found it difficult to navigate and process the uncomfortable realities of severe abuse that surfaced in the public discourse, as these thoughts posed significant challenges on personal and societal levels (Cooper, 2009).

Aim

While the importance of reflexivity has long been discussed and demonstrated in qualitative research (Berger, 2015; Gergen & Gergen, 1991), the position of the researcher and ‘the body’ remains underexplored, especially the philosophical discussions about epistemology: the body, embodiment, emotions, reflexivity and the construction of knowledge in social work (Berger, 2015; Kacen & Chaitin, 2006). Hence, this article’s aim is to explore the phenomenon of embodied writing, arguing that such approaches may enable access to other worlds by activating the physical senses, in accordance with polyvagal theory. This approach can bring researchers back to core bodily ways of knowing. While this task requires careful consideration, it holds significant implications – especially for other researchers.

Materials and methods

This article builds on a study that employed a qualitative design, consisting of in-depth, retrospective interviews with 14 participants over the age of 18, of whom 2 were men and 12 women. All experienced sexual abuse as children over several years, ranging from the age of 2–15. The perpetrator was their father, uncle, brother, grandfather or foster carer (Herland, 2023a, 2023b, 2024).

In the interviews, I asked questions about their abusive experience, following a semi-structured interview guide that allowed them to speak freely. Each interview lasted approximately two hours. To recruit participants, flyers with information about the project were posted online and in different support centres.

Once each interview was complete, they were transcribed verbatim, identifying information was removed from the transcript and participants were given pseudonyms. The transcripts were later translated into English. For ethical reasons and privacy concerns, the data set cannot be shared.

The participants joined voluntarily, on their own initiative, and could withdraw from the study at any time. No participants withdrew. Moreover, all the participants seemed motivated to contribute, sharing rich descriptions of their experiences and perspectives of child sexual abuse during the interviews and wanting to participate in a second interview. Moreover, they expressed appreciation and conveyed their hope that the study would increase the awareness of child sexual abuse.

Researching child sexual abuse: the whispered insight

Qualitative researchers engaging in work addressing challenging, difficult or sensitive topics are often exposed to participants’ narratives that may be emotionally charged or distressing (Silverio et al., 2022; Watts, 2008). These narratives occasionally rest heavily on a researcher’s conscience or may linger in the mind (Etherington, 2004) – or, following Silverio et al. (2022) ‘the whispered insight that takes the researchers by surprise leaves a tremendous impact’ (p. 6). This phenomenon occurred in the present study. Research on CSA is ethically delicate and methodologically complex and must be approached with great awareness, respect, warmth and sensitivity. For researchers, the most difficult things are not necessarily the morally objectionable or graphic information that is shared as the narratives unfold; these are things for which researchers can prepare themselves (Silverio et al., 2022). In this research, my body was activated as a researcher: I was challenged, trying to maintain an analytical space while processing the pain in these stories.

Embodied writing as an approach and the body – mind phenomenon as a theoretical lens

The practice of embodied writing transcends conventional boundaries, imbuing the art of writing with a profound depth and richness that reflects the intricacies and lived experiences of the body in a transformative manner (Anderson, 2001). The aim of embodied writing is to help us to inhabit a rich, emotional and reflexive world (Yoo, 2021). Embodied writing can enable us to access other worlds by activating our physical senses, bringing us back to our bodies and allowing us to look at those bodies as a way of and an entrance to knowing. Through occupying the experiences of others through our body, it is possible to connect to them on this core level of meaning. Embodied writing furthermore provides us with the words to imagine what another person may be feeling deep within their bodies, as these physical sensations reverberate powerfully with affect (Yoo, 2021).

Ryan-Flood and Gill (2010) argue that, if researchers pay attention to their emotions, they might discover a ‘silence’ that is embedded in the field of qualitative research. I will argue that words may in fact limit our understanding at times, because our physical senses may tell us more, unconsciously, and our bodily response may assist us, following other researchers (Cameron & McDermott, 2007; Pines, 2010). When researchers are influenced by their emotions or bodily sensations, this may also represent an opportunity to expand awareness regarding taboos, cultural norms and social discourses (Herland, 2022).

To capture an experience as it is lived through static, lifeless words is a difficult task. Embodied writers essentially need to craft life into the words that are retained within the lived moment. To do so, they must be profoundly reflexive and attuned to their emotional worlds so that they can pick up on affect-laden encounters, and this might happen through the body (Cameron & McDermott, 2007; Pines, 2010; Wilson, 2015). Researchers have been preoccupied with the body – mind phenomenon for decades. Forty years ago, Kirkeben (2001) claimed that Descartes imagined thinking as an activity separate from the body, and that the effort to understand the mind in general biological terms was outdated as a consequence of Descartes’ dualism. This claim has been reframed as ‘Descartes’ error’ or ‘Damasio’s error’. Engels’ groundbreaking work (1977) on biopsychosocial medicine was concerned with reductionism: the tendency to view complex clinical phenomena as ultimately derived from a single primary cause (e.g. genetics) instead of using a multifactorial frame of reference. Other studies have also acknowledged the long-term psychological and physiological effects of adverse childhood experiences, such as child sexual abuse, that manifest in the body (Felitti, 1991, 2019; Herland, 2023a; Levine, 1997; Porges, 2003; Van der Kolk, 1994). All of these theories that link the body and mind hold value, but one particular contribution aligns quite well with the present study and this article: the polyvagal theory.

Physiological responses – polyvagal theory as a theoretical lens

In brief, the polyvagal theory describes the autonomic nervous system, which is the foundation of our lived experiences (Porges, 2003). The central nervous system responds to signals from both the environment and bodily organs (Porges, 2018). To understand polyvagal theory, it is necessary to understand three contingent elements: first, the relationship between the autonomic state and the defensive state; second, the changes that occurred during cranial evolution in the neural regulation of the autonomic nervous system; and third, how the physiological state enables bodily responses and feelings of safety, optimising social behaviour (Porges, 2018). Individuals’ responses to overwhelming experiences like CSA are often stored in their somatic memory and expressed as changes in their nervous system and as a biological stress response (Porges, 2003). Intense emotions may also cause repressed memories of particular events to be dissociated from one’s consciousness; these may be ‘stored’ as gut sensations (such as anxiety and panic), or as visual images (such as nightmares and flashbacks (Porges, 2018; Van Der Kolk, 2003).

In the present study, the participants narrated about their different bodily responses, and I had to explore my own position as a researcher looking into my own psychological responses. Here, the polyvagal theory proved valuable. By acknowledging the significance of the autonomic nervous system and its influence on emotional and social behaviours, we can better appreciate the complexity of human experiences. I reflected on how the interviews affected me and asked myself why I was affected. Later, I questioned how this impacted the interviews. Working through my bodily responses, I concluded that what I was primarily experiencing was a deep-rooted empathy towards the participants. I came to this conclusion after talking through these issues several times with a close colleague. However, another – new – realisation emerged when I read about cases of abuse in the newspaper and found myself becoming provoked. I felt a strong urge to contribute with conceptualisations around the phenomenon of CSA, but the words felt limiting.

All the emotional and physiological responses that came to the surface when interacting with the interviewees were not just my own individual responses: They were also embedded in a wider collective context and the difficulties of framing these overwhelming CSA realities that were emerging. However, this could not be truly captured by verbal language alone.

My journey

In the following, I will share and explore my reflections as a researcher through my analytical journey of studying the phenomenon of CSA. I will begin with my retrospective reflections of when I first entered the field. My recollections here are as a social worker. I had been working in the Norwegian child welfare services on cases concerning CSA; I remember these cases as the toughest and most emotionally draining. In the office, some social workers preferred not to be given cases with suspicions of CSA – it was unclear why, but they felt uneasy. Others, by contrast, felt like they could make a difference with these cases, displaying an eagerness to help children exposed to CSA; these social workers came forwards when the caseloads were being assigned. I found myself in the latter group, and I remember being occupied with thoughts of wanting to help and rescue children exposed to CSA. I also recall thinking that this was the most challenging part of child welfare casework.

I became further interested in the phenomenon of CSA as part of my doctoral thesis. The project was part of a longitudinal study with 85 participants, interviewed at the ages of 15, 20, 30 and 40 about their life-course transitions (Herland, 2020, 2022; Herland et al., 2015; Herland & Helgeland, 2017). The participants had behaviour problems and had been placed in institutions or foster care by the child welfare services at the age of 15 (Herland, 2020, 2022; Herland et al., 2015; Herland & Helgeland, 2017). Interestingly, those who had experienced CSA did not disclose this information before the age of 40, in the final round of interviews. I wanted to explore this phenomenon: specifically, to critically examine and conceptualise disclosure of CSA.

In this new study, I decided upon narrative inquiry as a suitable methodological approach to researching CSA because of its retrospective nature. This was a new project, and I recruited new participants (i.e. who had not been interviewed in the longitudinal project). It became clear in my analysis of their stories that the participants were drawing on narratives, and these were both culturally and historically specific. By examining these narratives, one may also have the opportunity to grasp discourses that are silenced or dismissed. In addition, we might hear stories of victimhood, resistance or resilience explicitly or implicitly located within these narratives, and we also get profound – and impactful – whispered insights (Etherington, 2020; Silverio et al., 2022).

Developing a bodily narrative inquiry

Through the interview process, I found myself to be immersed with the participants’ history of abuse. My own narrative and embodied inquiry – and, later, embodied writing – started to develop. This approach also offers an opportunity to help fellow researchers and practitioners involved in related topics.

All 14 participants stressed how, when they were growing up, they had thought that those around them could sense that something might have been wrong, but this was never acted upon (Herland, 2023a). I have later questioned whether those around really did know – or perhaps had a gut feeling. Going into the interviews, I prepared myself ethically and attuned, but I immediately experienced strong, deep-seated gut feelings within the interviews. It was foremost unpleasant. Although I had anticipated some sort of disturbance, having had similar experiences with reflexive qualitative research in another project, this was different.

I commenced with traditional analytical work, such as writing notes following each interview, but as the research progressed, I could no longer neglect the pressing bodily disturbance that had arisen. I could feel my anxiety rise during the interviews: When the participants talked about their difficult experiences as children, I felt in my body a forceful gut feeling and my heart pounded; I later learned this was not uncommon among researchers in similar contexts (Wilson, 2015). I felt occasionally nauseated, but mainly my heart raced, and it was as if my gut was telling me something. My nervous system appeared to be activated, following Porges (2003, 2018) theories of the anatomic nervous system. I therefore began empirically exploring these physiological dimensions.

The night following each interview, I would often have nightmares and, when reading through the transcripts, I would become anxious again. My body and mind were evidently working with processing the data. I also suddenly had the excruciating thought: Had I been abused myself and suppressed it? Had I suppressed these experiences growing up and now my body was remembering them and expressing itself? Perhaps my repressed memories were all embodied and not a part of my consciousness – just as a few of the participants had described. Although these thoughts might be unsurprising to trauma therapists, they were new to me as a researcher – and quite disturbing and surprising. Where were these sudden embodied notions and reactions coming from? Perhaps something was suppressed, although probably not abuse, but something else? Or maybe it mirrored something about the experiences of the participants that was familiar, albeit in a slightly different way? I was reflexively aware that I was not as prepared as I thought I was; my sole reliance on words was limiting my intellectual capacity.

Examining the empirical material and the embodied co-construction of knowledge

As noted, I felt strong compassion towards the participants when interviewing them. In retrospect, I think this was deep empathy that was manifested in my body, perhaps as if I was containing their pain when they talked about their childhoods with CSA experiences. Their descriptions were quite vivid, and it was as if I also bodily related to their experiences through my nervous system, in line with polyvagal theory. I furthermore became aware of the importance of addressing issues of retraumatizing factors, foremost towards the participants but also as a researcher.

Analytically, I had to question how these bodily responses affected the interviews – and, later, my analytical progression and writing. In addition to the embodied sensations I experienced, I also had more conscious thoughts, such as almost a resentment towards their perpetrator(s) when they talked about being exposed to such harm as young children. I then reflected around the sensitivity concerning this research topic, such as the taboos related to it. I was surprised by the emotional load and burden that came with it. I wondered whether this had happened to other researchers.

Following Gadd (2004), the process of narration involves emotional labour on the part of both tellers and listeners when conducting qualitative research. During the analytical process, I read through my early fieldnotes along with the interview transcripts. Sometimes, I would relisten to the recorded interviews, and this elicited the same strong, emotional, bodily response I had experienced in the actual interviews. It was as if my nervous system was being activated once again. I repeatedly read through the participants’ narratives, noticing the different events they brought forwards.

The events the participants chose to talk about were likely not randomly selected. Perhaps these events were causing some sort of conflict within them. I asked the participants to tell me about their upbringing, their experiences with abuse, starting whenever they wanted to. I also told them that I would be okay hearing their full stories: Whatever details they disclosed, I would tolerate. I was grateful for how open they all were, and I hoped they felt safe during the interview. I have wondered, in retrospect: Did they notice my disturbance? I have many thoughts around this question. I told them I could ‘stomach’ their full story, which is true – however, these stories did have a tremendous impact. I will argue from an ethical standpoint that an ethical practice is fully enacted in research when these issues are brought to light transparently, as this article attempts to do.

Empirical examples of bodily arousal

Some of the participants spoke with others about the abuse, while other participants had only talked about it with their therapist or people at the support centres. Their recollections had been with them for as long as most of them could remember. However, a few had repressed their memories of the abuse until later in life and had no recollection until they were suddenly haunted by embodied reactions in their thirties. Then, the memories began emerging, and they started remembering the experiences vividly. One of the participants, Nina, told me that a great deal from her childhood memories was blocked, except for the abuse: ‘The things I remember, it really sticks with me’.

Nina talked about being haunted by her memories, both as nightmares and flashbacks, despite the fact that she did not want to think about the abuse. It was as if she did not have a choice, but her body decided for her: or, as if these experiences were stuck within her, and it was hard to escape them. Although she often wanted to ignore the memories because they were so painful, she did not have that option. All but two of the participants voiced similar reflections: Their memories were intensified at certain points in their lives – as nightmares, flashbacks or persistent running thoughts – and were difficult to get rid of. As Simon said, ‘Much of my childhood is very blocked, apart from what has happened to me. I remember nothing else of my childhood’.

Among the participants, having vivid memories of the abuse experiences while not remembering much else from their childhood was common. The two who had suppressed memories of the abuse until later in life were suddenly disturbed by intense, frightening reactions within their bodies. One told me, ‘I felt I was going insane’, when she suddenly began experiencing a flood of emotions; another said, ‘it was like a hurricane flooding in’. I remember these two interviews in particular, as they elicited my strong bodily responses. It was then that I began wondering whether I had suppressed memories from my own childhood, since my body reacted so strongly to what was being described in the interviews. This phenomenon both intrigued and challenged me – on a personal level and as a researcher.

Several of the participants also explained that their memories were captured within their minds and in their bodies and that they could be triggered by embodied sensations, such as certain smells or images (for example, male hands or eating sausage), that intensified their recollections. Their bodies were a central aspect of their knowing. These reflections evoked an uncertainty but also a curiosity in me.

I remember trying to understand how it was to experience abuse as a child and then to live with these experiences growing up, as recollections both in one’s mind and one’s body. How could I grasp this? I questioned whether I, as a researcher, could comprehend this complexity at all, much less write about it. Could I understand these experiences without having experienced child abuse myself? Probably not, but intellectually, I could theorise around it; and furthermore, by coming somewhat near the phenomenon through my nervous system and a bodily response, I could perhaps catch a glimpse of it. By articulating and exploring these issues, I thus found myself researching beneath the surface in an experimental way (Ryan-Flood & Gill, 2010; Schoeller, 2023).

The participants talked about remembering having intense fear while growing up: fear of when the abuse would happen again, of having to deal with the actual abuse and then later of being haunted by it. Sonja explained how her memories became increasingly visual as she grew older. ‘I remember these orange curtains, a small room’. Just by reading this sentence over and over, in the process of analysing it, it felt like I was bodily responding to this fear, as well: experiencing an anxiousness on her behalf (perhaps), when she later explained:

I have memories from my upbringing. That I go to bed, my body is completely exhausted. But then there are parts of me that are so guarded. I feel like I have such moving ears, depending on where I hear footsteps. And then Dad … . I can hear his slippers. And that feeling that you are just breathing quietly, all the time. That you are in a kind of in a battle mode and trying to sleep. And then knowing at the same time it was probably okay tonight. Because there was an assault the night before.

Sonja’s descriptions of this uncertainty were intense to me. What she brought forwards in the interview gave me, as a researcher, a glimpse into her world back then. I could envision her bed, and I also felt anxious – and sad.

I later reflected on these responses, thinking about how my nervous system had picked up this information through our social interaction, in keeping with polyvagal theory. I remember how it hit me bodily when Sonja told me about the events in the interview. She described how she prepared herself. I think it was as though I could feel this tension in my own body, in a way. This gave rise to anxiety: My heart rate was racing, and I felt uneasy. I could relate to her – intellectually and empathetically, but primarily bodily.

Another participant’s stories, Anna’s, stood out as especially moving to me, likely due to the concept of trauma countertransference, which I explore next.

Exploring trauma countertransference: unveiling the complexity of bodily perception

Interest has increased in the concept of countertransference in qualitative research (Holmes, 2014). Trauma countertransference refers to the totality of the unconscious reactions of the therapist (Cavanagh et al., 2015) – or, in this case, the researcher. Here, the focus is shifted from the client/participant onto the therapist/researcher and their own powerful feelings, which can arise when working with different clients (Laine, 2007).

Many of the participants talked about the concept of trauma; indeed, all but two had been diagnosed with complex post-traumatic stress disorder (C-PTSD). Each participant spoke about their difficult experiences, using therapy-informed language. They were in treatment at the time of the interviews and were being followed up by a therapist. Anna talked about the perception of ‘triggers’ and explained how she experienced this:

I’m working a bit on identifying triggers. It can be a smell, but I don’t think about it there and then. So, it can be a smell, a perfume – a male cologne. Then a word can be said … and then I think it is easy for me to go back ‘there’. I have come so far that I can reflect now, so I can think then it was a smell that actually triggered it.

Instead of being overwhelmed, Anna talked about what was triggering her, such as certain smells. She had found a way to identify and understand these processes. The sections of the brain that concern memories and smell are closely connected (Daniels & Vermetten, 2016; Shepherd, 2006), which may help explain this phenomenon. I had experienced this myself: not in terms of abuse but having smelled something that gave rise to a sensation in my body and memories. Once again, I wondered how this was for Anna, having experienced abuse, and how she felt this in her body retrospectively.

Another participant, Lina, explained:

Sometimes I manage to find the trigger when there’s a thing that I can point to. But a trigger can also be a feeling, which suddenly comes up in me. Then it’s a little difficult for me to find my way back to the feeling – because there’s so much chaos inside, I can’t seem to point to the specific feeling.

Hearing Lina talk about these sensations also raised an embodied disturbance in me. I wondered what these sensations must have been like for her – and I wanted to understand. Was my uneasiness rooted in my effort to unconsciously identify with the participants, to experience their discomfort as a form of trauma countertransference? I find myself asking questions rather than finding answers.

Lilly, another participant, explained the intensity of the emotional load within her when she felt activated:

So, I truly feel like I really want that sleeping pill. And I really want two sleeping pills. Because I want to disappear. I want to … . And I think in a way, if I had been in a different environment than the one, I was in, it would have gone badly. If I had moved to another place … . I’m lucky I’m not in a troubled environment. Then I think the road to drugs would have been very short for me.

As Lilly explained it, these triggers or sensations were so painful that she was tempted to sleep to ‘get away from them’ or to take drugs to minimise the pain. Reading her words later, in the analytical phase of the research, I felt sorry for her and unwell: The totality of my unconscious reactions continued.

Lilly followed up her narrative by saying:

But I’m lucky. I have had a therapist who asks me things, who says things to me, and I call if there are things that comes up. And she has really gotten into this with my dissociation… And meets me in this. I think my dissociation is very important. Because I feel like I have child parts or trauma parts in me. I feel like I have a child inside me who is three years old. I feel like I have a child inside me who is eight years old. And I feel that the three-year-old and the eight-year-old, they have not been integrated into me. That they have not grown up… And then I think it’s nice for me that my doctor sees the three-year-old and sees the eight-year-old in me.

In addition to the bodily triggers, Lilly talked about her experiences with dissociation. When she did so, I felt an immense empathy. I wanted to embrace her story and also her ‘inner child’, as she framed it, since she had trusted me with both. I gently asked her: ‘Can you say a little more about that? Does the three-year-old appear in, for example, a conversation with the doctor then?’ Lilly responded:

Yes, the three-year-old appears in conversation with the doctor. Yes. And she, the doctor, she knows me, so she can see it. While other people may not see it. But suddenly then maybe I dangle a little with my legs, for example like a three-year-old might have done. And she meets the three-year-old in the way that she gives me care. And gives me the time. And that way, the three-year-old becomes calm, and my system is calm. I breathe again. The children inside me are very much … searching for adults. Very much searching for a new mom. Very much wanting to be adopted, even though I’m old. Yes. It’s like something inside me longs for a mom. Because my mother let me down. She let me down in relation to my father.

Hearing this then, and reading the transcript later, awoke something in me that I have had a hard time identifying – almost like tears welling up. It has ‘lingered in my mind’ as well as my body. I sensed a discomfort hearing Lilly’s story. The best way to explain it is a deep-rooted inner warmth for her. I also sensed this with the other participants; I quickly grew fond of them. These narrative portraits consisted of emotionally loaded content and, looking back, perhaps a trauma countertransference was occurring: the totality of unconscious, mainly bodily, reactions.

It has been intriguing to embrace the complexities of these realities. While I am likely just scratching the wordless surface, ‘coming near to’ and researching beneath the surface, this has been particularly valuable, because these narratives of CSA manifested themselves predominantly within the body: the participants’ and my own.

Concluding discussion

According to Berger (2015), despite extensive discussions in the literature concerning the importance of reflexivity (including its multidimensional nature, how to achieve it and the effects on research outcomes), the researcher’s position vis-à-vis the researched as it relates to reflexivity and the body is still understudied. Although contemporary philosophy and the cognitive sciences place a significant emphasis on embodiment and situatedness, the practical implications of these concepts for the practice of critical thinking have only recently began to be properly acknowledged and explored (Schoeller, 2023; Schoeller & Thorgeirsdottir, 2019). This article argues that reflexive and embodied writing may assist in accessing ‘other life worlds’ through activating the physical senses, bringing researchers back to core bodily ways of knowing the world (Pink, 2015). A sense of being deeply connected to what is deeply real – which may broaden and expand knowledge – entails tuning in to the experiences of others through one’s body and physical senses (Schoeller, 2023; Yoo, 2021).

The body has long been acknowledged in social work anthropology, psychology and social work, but will only become substantial if acknowledged as part of the research process – something qualitative researchers must do to reveal the totality of their research (Herland, 2023a). The task here is to think with the richness and intricacy that come along with the embodiment of situated knowledge, which could be said to be the basis of the experiential turn (Schoeller & Thorgeirsdottir, 2019).

It has been argued that focusing on embodied reflexivity is also a danger, as acknowledged by Rice (2009): posing a risk of falling victim to the problem of centring the bodily experiences of the researcher and inadvertently marginalising the experiences of participants (Chadwick, 2017). Nevertheless, overlooking these issues that could contribute essential knowledge might paint an incomplete picture, reflexively speaking. In the present study, the main findings did not arise from my own reflexive writing; however, the intrusive ‘gut feelings’ were persisting and thus made relevant in order to be transparent – this piece is thus a contribution to the field of research methodology. Indeed, I argue that embodied knowledge enables the researcher to ‘come near the phenomenon’, as the researcher’s physical senses may enrich the analytical journey of the phenomenon being studied. I posit that it also resonates with our unconscious modes of cognition.

Yoo (2021) states that deep understanding resides in our bodies, and these experiences were an unanticipated – but vital – aspect of this analytical journey. Researchers have pointed out that to understand is to draw the sensations on your skin, in your bones and in the pit of your stomach; it is to feel the pain and suffering of others, as if it is experienced by your own body (Pines, 2010; Wilson, 2015; Yoo, 2021) and this echoes with the research presented here. In line with polyvagal theory, my nervous system was activated, picking up information – the harm – as data. Porges (2003, 2018) argues that humans possess a subconscious scanning system that interprets signs of danger without conscious awareness. This theory is widely regarded as groundbreaking in the realm of understanding how our autonomic nervous system is influenced by interpersonal interactions, unconsciously regulating our fundamental survival responses in the presence of potential environmental threats, one may also say that a countertransference occurred (Holmes, 2014).

In accordance with embodied writing, it has been argued that academic writers are responsible for cultivating embodied ways of knowing by writing reflexively about practices and portraying them in rich sensorial ways (Yoo, 2021). As such, rather than ignoring these physiological responses, I attempted to analyse these issues in an exploratory way (Schoeller, 2023; Schoeller & Thorgeirsdottir, 2019). Looking back, it may be that – following Cooper (2009) – I did not have the proper conceptual framework to capture the reality of the interviews about the unwelcome realities that were emerging. Instead, my body reacted for me, so words became reducing.

Finally, embodied writing calls for an ideological discussion where one might question established knowledge as well as notions of ‘truth’ and objective realities (Etherington, 2020). I have questioned whether the disclosure of CSA is often so delayed because individuals have a hard time accepting that it happened: Language thus becomes limiting when it comes to this phenomenon.

To conclude, highlighting reflexive and embodied aspects of a research process gives access to ‘other worlds’ through the activation of the researcher’s physical senses. I will end with a call to further methodological discussion around qualitative philosophical approaches to qualitative methods. This holds relevance for other researchers studying harm, but also therapeutic professionals involved in research – especially those researching trauma.

Implication for practice

This article has illuminated researchers’ positions when studying CSA that hold significant implications for other researchers, as well as for other professions. As trauma countertransference is a possibility, the need for self-care is crucial because of its potential impact. This underscores the necessity of receiving guidance from colleagues, not only within therapeutic settings, but also in research focused on the study of harm.

Disclosure statement

No potential conflict of interest was reported by the author(s).

Correction Statement

This article has been corrected with minor changes. These changes do not impact the academic content of the article.

Additional information

Funding

The study was funded by VID Specialized University, Faculty of Social Studies.

Notes on contributors

Mari Dalen Herland

Mari Dalen Herland is a lecturer in the Department of Social work at VID Specialized University. Her research interests include children and childhood, social work and child welfare, qualitative research methods and methodology, reflexivity and critical reflection.