Your Nervous System Isn’t Broken. It’s Trying to Protect You.

Your Nervous System Isn’t Broken. It’s Trying to Protect You.

The light is coming in sideways this morning.

Not the bright, energetic kind that makes you want to clean your kitchen or start a new routine.
The soft kind. Dust floating in it. The quiet hum of the fridge.
My coffee has gone lukewarm again.

I notice my shoulders before I notice my thoughts.
They’re lifted, tight, hovering somewhere near my ears like they’ve been bracing for impact all night.

This is how I know.
Before the words.
Before the stories.

My body is already talking.

You might recognize this moment, too.

You’re standing at the sink. Or sitting in the car. Or lying awake long after everyone else has gone to sleep.
Your jaw clenched. Breath shallow. Chest buzzing with something you can’t quite name.

You’re exhausted—but wired.
Tired—but unable to truly rest.

And somewhere underneath it all is a quiet, aching question:

Why does this feel so hard when I’m doing everything I’m supposed to?

The Myth That Something Is Wrong With You

So many women come to me carrying this belief like a stone in their pocket.

That their nervous system is malfunctioning.
That their anxiety means weakness.
That their exhaustion is a personal failure.

They whisper it carefully, as if it might shatter if spoken too loudly.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“I shouldn’t feel this way.”
“I have a good life.”

And I watch their bodies while they say it.

The way their shoulders slump with shame.
The way their eyes dart, apologetic, even while they’re hurting.
The way they laugh it off—half joking, half hoping someone will tell them they’re not failing.

Here’s the truth I wish we learned earlier, before we started turning on ourselves:

Your nervous system isn’t broken.

It’s vigilant.
It’s tired.
It’s been working overtime.

And it’s been doing that because it loves you.

Protection Can Look Like Panic

The nervous system doesn’t speak in logic or language.

It speaks in sensation.

A racing heart.
A clenched stomach.
Foggy thinking.
Tears that come out of nowhere.
A sudden urge to snap, to shut down, to escape—even from things you care about.

This isn’t your body betraying you.

This is your body saying:
Something has been too much for too long.

Protection doesn’t always look gentle.

Sometimes it looks like anxiety.
Sometimes it looks like numbness.
Sometimes it looks like irritability, exhaustion, or the deep, bone-heavy tiredness that sleep doesn’t touch.

As a therapist, I’ve learned to listen for this language.

As a mother, I’ve learned it the hard way.

There are days when I move through my house tending to small hands and big feelings, stepping over toys, answering questions, carrying the invisible weight of being the one who remembers everything.

And then suddenly—there it is.

My chest tightens.
My patience thins.
My breath shortens.

Not because I’m failing.
Because my nervous system is waving a small white flag.

When You’ve Been the Reliable One for Too Long

Many of the women reading this are the reliable ones.

The ones who keep things moving.
Who notice what needs doing before anyone asks.
Who hold space for others even when their own cup is cracked and leaking.

You’re good at pushing through.
Good at showing up.
Good at being steady.

Your nervous system learned early that staying alert was safer than resting.
That being prepared was better than being surprised.
That your needs could wait.

And it adapted beautifully.

Too beautifully.

Now, even in moments of quiet, your body stays on watch.

Shoulders lifted.
Mind scanning.
Breath held halfway in.

It’s not because you’re broken.

It’s because your body learned that this was how to keep you going.

Rest Feels Unsafe Before It Feels Healing

Here’s something that doesn’t get said enough:

If you’ve lived in survival mode for a long time, rest can feel threatening.

Slowing down can bring up emotions you’ve been holding at bay.
Stillness can make space for grief, anger, or sadness you didn’t have time for before.

So your nervous system resists.

It nudges you toward scrolling, busywork, mental noise.
It whispers urgency even when nothing is wrong.

Not to punish you—but to protect you from what it thinks might overwhelm you.

Your body isn’t asking you to fix it.

It’s asking you to listen.

Listening Is Not the Same as Forcing Calm

So many approaches to anxiety try to override the body.

Calm down.
Think positive.
Breathe deeper.
Try harder.

But a nervous system shaped by years of responsibility doesn’t soften through force.

It softens through safety.

Through being met instead of managed.
Through curiosity instead of judgment.
Through small moments of noticing without needing to change anything.

Sometimes that looks like placing a hand on your chest and simply feeling your breath move in and out.
Sometimes it looks like naming, quietly, “This makes sense.”
Sometimes it looks like realizing you’re not lazy, dramatic, or failing—you’re regulated for a world that’s asked too much.

A Gentle Check-In (No Fixing Required)

There’s a reason I created a free, two-minute anxiety check-in—not as a diagnosis, not as a label, but as a pause.

A place to say:
This is where I am right now.

No pressure to improve.
No score to pass.
No expectation to be okay.

Just a gentle mirror that reflects your current emotional load and offers supportive tools that meet you there—not five steps ahead.

Sometimes the most healing thing isn’t a solution.

It’s being accurately seen.

You Are Allowed to Stop Arguing With Your Body

Imagine this for a moment.

What if your anxiety wasn’t an enemy?
What if your exhaustion wasn’t a flaw?
What if your nervous system was simply doing its best with the information it was given?

What if, instead of asking, “What’s wrong with me?”
You asked, “What has my body been carrying?”

That shift alone can loosen something.

Not everything.
But enough to breathe a little deeper.
Enough to soften your shoulders by a fraction.
Enough to remind you that you are not alone in this.

Healing Doesn’t Require Urgency

You don’t need to overhaul your life.
You don’t need a perfect routine.
You don’t need to be better by next week.

Your nervous system doesn’t heal through pressure.

It heals through permission.

Permission to rest without earning it.
Permission to feel without fixing.
Permission to move slowly toward safety.

And sometimes that safety begins with a simple truth settling into your bones:

You were never broken.

You were protecting yourself.

And now—gently, gradually—you’re learning you don’t have to do that alone anymore.

Warmly,
Julia