Post 5 – Session 3: The Scholar Who Could Not Rest
An Internal Family Systems (IFS)–inspired digitalfoot project
Curated by: Latasha Pennant | Morgan State University, Urban Educational and Leadership Doctoral Program
Focus: The development of intellectual excellence as protection; embodied responses to early humiliation and pain
Murray, P. (2018). Song in a weary throat: Memoir of an American pilgrimage (V. Schomburg & P. Ware, Eds.). W. W. Norton & Company.
Client: Pauli Murray
Date of Birth: November 20, 1910
Date of Death: July 1, 1985
Therapist: You’ve described being in Aunt Pauline’s class — learning beside older children and excelling quickly. What did that part of you, the learner, feel like?
Client: “I loved being there. I took in everything the older children were learning. Aunt Pauline said I was her experiment — if I could learn her methods, so could the adults she taught at night.”
Therapist: Tell me about school. You mentioned that, even though you loved learning, it wasn’t always safe.
Client: “No, it wasn’t. I remember one teacher who seemed to target the light-skinned girls. There were three of us. I don’t know why she disliked us, but I remember the day she punished me in front of everyone. She struck me. It hurt, but I refused to cry. I wouldn’t give her that satisfaction. Something inside me locked down that day.”
In this session, Pauli reflects on the emergence of her Scholar part — a Manager that used intellect, control, and endurance as shields against pain.
She recalled her early academic acceleration under the guidance of Aunt Pauline, who taught both children and adults in their Durham community. Pauli described being fascinated by the learning process itself, taking in advanced lessons intended for older students. Her aptitude made her a source of pride in the classroom, and Aunt Pauline often referred to her as her “model pupil.”
However, the classroom was not always a safe space. The client described a vivid memory of being punished by a teacher who appeared to single out light-skinned students. She was one of three such girls. Pauli recalled being struck in front of the class and refusing to cry — “something in me refused to break.”
Through body-based inquiry, the therapist helped the client explore what it required — physically, emotionally, and psychologically — to endure that moment. Pauli identified the numbing and tightening sensations that allowed her to withstand physical pain without emotional collapse. This was recognized as a protective dissociative response — the body’s way of ensuring survival when escape or expression is unsafe.
Over time, this part of her internal system grew stronger. It became the Manager who could tolerate extraordinary mental, emotional, and physical pain — but at a cost. The therapist noted that the body cannot sustain constant rigidity without collapse; when endurance reaches its threshold, another part emerges with dorsal energy — a slowing, shutting-down state that may later resemble mood swings or withdrawal.
This session illuminated how Pauli’s parts began organizing around performance and protection: one part holding structure and excellence, another holding exhaustion and despair. Together, they created a survival rhythm that shaped both her genius and her internal conflict.
As I read Pauli’s recollection of that moment — standing before her peers, struck yet refusing to cry — I could feel the stillness move through my own body. Her refusal wasn’t defiance alone; it was a somatic boundary, a declaration that her spirit would not be broken, even if her body trembled.
I imagined the tightening in her chest, the numbing of her limbs, the way her gaze might have fixed forward to steady herself. This was the birth of her Scholar — the one who would endure by knowing, achieving, and controlling what life could not offer freely: safety.
With gentle presence, I sent warmth to that young part — not to undo her strength, but to remind her that strength can soften. She no longer has to hold herself together alone.
The child who refused to cry became the woman who refused to stop learning — both acts of survival, both born from the same quiet fire.
