The Junction Between Arrogance and Confidence: A Reflection on Inclusion, Integrity, and Lived Experience
I’ve been sitting with something lately.
There’s a subtle but important space—a junction—between confidence and arrogance. Between staying true to a vision and being open to feedback. Between being inclusive and being assumed to be wrong because your approach doesn’t match the mainstream narrative.
I created A Positive Start to do things differently.
Not to rebel.
Not to prove anything.
But because I needed a place where lived experience could lead the way.
Where trauma-informed didn’t mean textbook—but truth.
Where safety wasn’t policy—but practice.
Where those who have always been “too much” or “too sensitive” or “too emotional” finally had a place to belong.
So when someone comes in—often with mainstream training, often well-meaning—and tells me how they would do things differently, it can be a challenge. Not because I’m closed off. But because their assumption is often that I’m wrong. That I haven’t thought it through. That their way is somehow more correct.
And this is where the tension lies.
Am I being protective? Probably.
Do I need to self-reflect? Always.
But am I arrogant? I don’t think so.
I think I’m confident in my why.
And when something is born from lived pain, careful listening, and deep intention—confidence isn’t arrogance.
It’s anchor.
That’s why I want to talk about the word inclusive.
Because sometimes people use it like a badge—without recognising what it truly means.
You can’t say you’re inclusive if you only include voices that sound like yours.
You can’t say you’re trauma-informed if you override someone’s way of working based on lived experience just because it doesn’t fit your framework.
True inclusion means making space for discomfort.
It means challenging the belief that formal training always trumps lived truth.
It means holding the paradox: “I might not understand this approach, but I trust there’s wisdom in it.”
So yes, I’ll keep reflecting.
But I’ll also keep protecting the heart of this work.
Because for people like me—and those I serve—this isn’t a concept. This is survival. This is reclamation. This is a lifeline.
The Rules Keep Changing - Part Two: The Coat
Lena had a coat. A soft, dove-grey one with a silky lining and pockets deep enough for her whole world. It had been a birthday gift—one of the few things that felt like it belonged to her. But even gifts came with invisible rules.
She was only allowed to wear it when her mum said so. Not when Lena wanted to, not when the weather asked for it, not even when the occasion felt special. Only when the timing, mood, and atmosphere aligned in the mysterious, unspoken code of her household.
One Saturday, a friend invited her to the cinema - it was her friends birthday treat. Lena asked her mum—tentatively, gently— could she please go to the cinema and if she could wear her special coat. Her mum said yes. Just don't damage it, she added, without looking up.
And so Lena wore the coat. She sat in the cinema seat, clutching popcorn and trying not to spill a single kernel on the soft grey sleeves. She was careful. Extra careful.
But when she got home, the air had changed.
The door opened like thunder.
"Where have you been, I told you not to touch that coat."
Before Lena could speak—before she could say But you said yes—she felt her mother's hand strike the back of her head. The words thief, disrespectful, disobedient swirled in the kitchen air like smoke.
Lena stood frozen. She wasn't sure anymore. Had she imagined the yes? Did she steal her own coat?
There were no straight lines. No anchor to truth. No mirror in the house reflected her reality back to her.
Just the ever-shifting ground beneath her feet.
And in adulthood...
That coat never left her.
Not really.
It became the tightness in her chest when someone smiled and said, Of course you can—because yes didn't always mean yes.
It became the hesitation in her voice at work, the polite smile, the overthinking after meetings.
It became the invisible rulebook she could never quite learn, the quiet scanning of faces, always wondering: Am I safe here?
In Lena's adult life, she lived gently. Carefully. Don't speak too much. Don't take up too much space. Don't expect too much. Always check for signs, proof, consistency. Without truth, there could be no trust. And without trust—no safety.
But she also began to learn something new.
That straight lines do exist in people. Invisible threads running through some like golden veins—truth, integrity, compassion, empathy. She felt them in conversations that didn't twist. In eyes that stayed kind. In silences that weren't punishments.
Lena felt these things viscerally. Her body knew when someone meant what they said. That kind of truth became her anchor. In the wild ocean of the world, she started to find places where she could land.
What the World Sees
To the outside world, Lena could seem... difficult to read.
Sometimes she was warm and open, full of empathy and insight. Other times she was withdrawn, cautious, or distant. She second-guessed herself often. Declined invitations without clear reason. Took ages to reply to messages. Changed her mind at the last minute.
People sometimes labelled her:
Insecure.
Moody.
Excessively Shy.
Overly sensitive.
Guarded.
Non-committal.
Deceitful.
Unsettled.
Awkward.
Attention Seeking.
But none of that was the truth.
What the world saw were the ripples, not the storm.
They didn't see the child who had learned that "yes" could turn into "no" with no warning.
That connection could be followed by criticism. They didn't understand she was connection seeking as opposed to attention seeking - trying to anchor, trying to find safe ground.
That asking for clarity could result in silence—or punishment.
So Lena tiptoed through adult relationships. Not because she didn't care. But because she cared deeply, and it had never felt safe to show it.
She struggled to make decisions without fear of getting it wrong.
Struggled to believe she was ever enough.
Struggled to trust that kindness didn't come with a cost.
It wasn't that Lena didn't want to commit, speak up, or connect.
It was that her nervous system had been wired for danger, not safety. For mixed signals, not honesty. For guessing games, not open-hearted truth.
And so she moved quietly. Watched everything. Checked and rechecked.
Not because she was weak.
Because once upon a time, she had to.
A Nervous System Lens
When someone grows up in emotional uncertainty—where love feels conditional and truth is unpredictable—their body learns to protect, not relax.
Lena's behaviours weren't signs of weakness, brokenness, or drama. They were signs of a nervous system shaped by dorsal vagal shutdown—what the body does when fight or flight no longer work. A kind of quiet collapse. A going still to stay safe.
Through a dorsal vagal lens, the world looks unsafe. Relationships feel risky. The self feels small, wrong, or invisible. The body may feel heavy, numb, or ashamed. It can seem to others like "moodiness," detachment, or inconsistency—but it's actually a state of freeze.
The body is trying to protect itself from expected harm.
But through a ventral vagal lens—when the nervous system feels safe, connected, and attuned—everything changes.
Through this lens, Lena feels grounded.
She can speak her truth without fear.
She can trust a yes to stay a yes.
She feels connected to herself, others, and the world around her.
She can anchor in empathy, curiosity, and choice.
This is where healing happens.
Not by forcing change—but by restoring a sense of felt safety.
By recognising when her body is speaking from fear, and gently offering it a new experience.
TRUST Framework – A Trauma-Informed Anchor
When someone like Lena has grown up with uncertainty, contradiction, and emotional betrayal, the world can feel unpredictable—even dangerous. The nervous system becomes wired for mistrust. Truth feels slippery. And safety is something you search for, not something you feel.
That's why the TRUST Framework is so powerful. It's not just a model—it's a map for connection and co-regulation. A guide for how to hold space with compassion and clarity when someone's nervous system is stuck in survival.
Each part of the framework speaks directly to what Lena never had—and now deeply needs.
T – Trigger Recognition
"I notice what activates you, and I don't shame you for it."
Learning to recognise when Lena's body is reacting to old danger helps break the cycle of re-enactment and blame.
R – Reassurance
"I'm not going to turn on you. I'll stay steady."
Gentle, consistent words and actions help build a sense of predictability—so Lena can start to trust calm as real.
U – Understanding
"I see beyond the behaviour."
Seeing Lena's hesitation or shutdown not as "moodiness," but as a protective response from long ago.
S – Safety
"I will not use your vulnerability against you."
Safety is both physical and emotional. For Lena, it's about trusting that today's 'yes' won't become tomorrow's 'punishment'.
T – Truth
"You deserve honesty, and your experience matters."
For someone who grew up doubting her own reality, truth is the most powerful gift. It anchors her. It heals her.
The Rules Keep Changing
Imagine you’re nine years old.
You’ve packed your school bag carefully today—not just with books, but with hope. Your friend Lily invited you to her house after school, and this morning—miraculously—your mum said yes.
Not just “we’ll see” or “maybe”—but a real, actual yes. It felt like sunshine. You even smiled.
At school, you tell Lily the good news, and you both make after-school plans like kids do. Easy. Light. No edge to it.
But as the final bell rings, something shifts in your belly. You ignore it. You’ve learned not to trust those feelings. They ruin things. You go to Lily’s house anyway, holding onto the yes like it’s something solid.
The phone rings twenty minutes after you arrive.
You freeze.
You know it’s her. You don’t know how you know—but you do. Something in your chest tightens before the words are even spoken.
Lily’s mum walks in, phone in hand, eyebrows raised.
“Lena, sweetheart… your mum says you need to go home. Right now.”
And just like that, the ground drops out.
You gather your things in silence, cheeks burning. Lily is confused, watching you like you’ve done something wrong. You try to smile. You try to stay small. You try to disappear without disappearing.
The car ride home is silent—until it isn’t.
“Don’t ever do that again.”
“How dare you go off without telling me properly.”
“You didn’t even think, did you?”
You want to scream, You said I could! But your voice gets lost somewhere deep inside your ribs.
That night, you lie in bed staring at the ceiling. You decide something important:
Next time, don’t trust the yes.
Now pause.
How do you think Lena feels?
Not just in her head—but in her body?
Would she tense around kindness? Hold her breath waiting for the turn? Would she double-check every word she hears, every message she receives, searching for what might be hidden underneath?
Would she start to believe the problem is her?
Maybe you’ve been Lena once. Maybe you still are.
This story is for her.
The Early Lessons
Lena stopped asking for things after that.
She learned to say, “It’s okay, I didn’t really want to go anyway.” She stopped bringing permission slips home. Stopped getting excited. Excitement was dangerous. It made the fall worse.
Instead, she became the quiet child. The helpful one. The one who always knew when to vanish from a room just before an argument began. She had a sixth sense for the temperature of the house. A masterful interpreter of sighs, slamming drawers, and the sudden, unnatural calm before the storm.
No one ever told Lena what the rules really were. But she still blamed herself when she broke them.
Adulthood Echoes
Years later, Lena was the kind of person people called “reliable” and “sensitive.” She was the one who noticed when someone in the group was being left out. The one who offered help before it was asked for. The one who always replied with “No worries!” even when she was hurting.
She told herself she liked it that way.
Then she met Elise. The kind of friend who meant it when she said, “Come over any time.” The kind who texted just to check in. Who hugged like she meant it.
Lena wanted to trust it.
And for a while, she did. Until the text came. A short reply to a long message. Something about the tone was… off. No emoji. No warmth. Lena’s heart dropped. She read it five times, then scanned their recent messages. Did she say too much? Was she too much?
That night she didn’t sleep.
The next day, Elise called—cheerful, kind, as if nothing had happened. But Lena had already curled into the old story. You thought it was safe again. You thought wrong.
She began pulling back. Polite, but distant. Elise noticed, but Lena deflected.
“Just busy, that’s all.”
But inside, she was nine years old again. Standing in Lily’s hallway, coat in hand, shame creeping up her spine like cold water.
A Letter Never Sent
One rainy afternoon, Lena sat at her desk, heart heavy. She opened her notebook and, without planning to, began writing a letter.
Not to Elise.
But to the girl in the hallway.
Dear little me,
You didn’t do anything wrong.
You were told it was okay to go. You believed them. You trusted. That is not a failure. That is innocence. That is hope.
You were not wrong to feel excited. You were not wrong to feel safe.
The shame that followed was not yours to carry.
And I am so sorry no one came to tell you that sooner.
She read the letter aloud. Something inside softened. She didn’t magically feel better. But she felt real. Grounded. As if, just maybe, her feelings made sense after all.
The Explanation
If you saw yourself in Lena, you’re not alone.
When love and punishment are tangled in childhood, the nervous system adapts. It learns to mistrust safety. It learns that permission can turn to punishment. That joy must be dulled to avoid disappointment. That trust is risky.
Over time, this creates a survival strategy: stay small, stay careful, stay invisible.
But these strategies—though once protective—can become prisons.
Lena’s story is about more than a girl and a phone call. It’s about how emotional inconsistency quietly rewrites our understanding of the world. And how, years later, we can still live by rules we never agreed to—rules that keep changing.
But here’s the hopeful part:
What was learned in confusion can be unlearned in compassion.
When we begin to notice the pattern, name it, and offer kindness to the part of us still flinching from the past—we begin to rewrite the story. Slowly. Gently. Powerfully.
And maybe, like Lena, we begin to trust again—not the people who harmed us, but ourselves.
I wrote The Rules Keep Changing for anyone who grew up unsure where they stood—whose childhood felt like walking on eggshells. For those who know what it’s like to try to make sense of inconsistent love, to internalise blame, and to carry confusion long into adulthood.
This story is a gentle offering. A way of saying, You were never the problem. Your responses made sense in the world you were raised in. I hope Lena’s journey gives you space to reflect, to soften toward yourself, and to realise—you’re not alone, and your story matters.
What Will Become of Us If We Don’t Wake Up?
I woke suddenly in the early hours, not from a dream I can remember, but with a deep, heavy ache in my chest. Not personal grief — something broader. A sadness that felt collective. A knowing that whispered:
“We must wake up.”
What are we doing to each other?
As humans, we can be so arrogantly certain — clinging to our beliefs, our religions, our opinions — to the point that we silence, intimidate, even destroy those who see things differently. We kill in the name of ideas we can’t prove. We defend our egos at the expense of our humanity.
And for what?
We are standing on a fragile line. Surrounded by potential, yet ruled by fear. Speaking of love, yet acting from pain. What will become of us, truly, if we do not become more conscious?
More self-aware.
More curious.
More honest with ourselves.
We cannot evolve without self-awareness. We cannot heal if we’re too afraid to look within. And we cannot create a future worth living in if we keep mistaking control for truth.
Maybe that’s why I woke up.
Because some part of me, some ancient knowing, knows that the world needs more people who are awake.
If you feel it too — the ache, the heaviness, the call — maybe you’ve been stirred by something deeper. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where our hope lives: in those who feel the weight of the world and choose to rise anyway.
Do you feel it too?
Nervous System Lens
I recently shared a post about being labelled “furthest from the labour market” — a term that, like many labels, carried more weight than just the words themselves.
At the time, I didn’t realise how deeply that label would trigger core beliefs about not being good enough. It’s not just the label, but the emotional charge it brings — it’s an echo of a much older story: You’re not good enough. Never were. Never will be.
What I’ve come to understand is that when your nervous system is stuck in survival mode, your inner critic becomes louder, sharper, and more destructive. From a dorsal vagal state, that critic morphs into something much more sinister: an inner terrorist. It’s relentless — you’re worthless, you’ll never make it, you don’t belong. In this state, the evidence of inadequacy seems to appear everywhere, confirming everything the inner critic says.
But here’s the crucial point — none of this is actually about being “disordered”. It’s about being dysregulated.
When we’re able to shift into a ventral vagal state — a place of calm connection and balance — those destructive inner narratives fade away. What takes their place is a more balanced, compassionate system. Instead of a voice of harsh judgment, I now have an internal compass that calmly assesses every perspective, resolving conflict swiftly and peacefully. In this state, I no longer carry the weight of “not good enough” — I understand that I am enough, and always have been.
This shift isn’t a magic fix. It’s a process of self-regulation and nervous system awareness. It’s about understanding that we aren’t defined by labels or the voices of our inner critics. We are not broken. We are not “furthest from the labour market.” We are simply human, with our own unique needs for safety, connection, and healing.
When we begin to understand and regulate our nervous system, we unlock a profound ability to move beyond those old, destructive stories. We learn that we are capable of far more than we thought, and that the labels we once believed define us don’t have the power to hold us back anymore.
Understanding the different states of the nervous system can significantly impact how we interpret and respond to behaviour- particularly children’s behaviour, especially in settings like schools or during conflict resolution.
When a child is in a ventral vagal state, they are calm, connected, and able to engage in problem-solving. In this state, they can process both positive and negative emotions in a balanced way, which allows them to navigate conflicts with a sense of equilibrium. They’re more open to listening, empathizing, and resolving disputes through communication.
However, when a child shifts into a sympathetic state — the fight-or-flight response — their behaviour often becomes reactive. In this state, they may lash out (fight) or withdraw (flee), unable to engage in rational problem-solving. Their thinking becomes clouded by the urgency of the perceived threat, and the ability to calmly resolve conflicts is compromised. In this moment, the focus is survival — protecting themselves from the emotional or physical distress they’re experiencing.
If the child enters a dorsal vagal state, they may appear withdrawn or shut down. This is the “freeze” response, where they feel overwhelmed by the situation and are unable to respond at all. In this state, negative thoughts dominate, and the child may feel hopeless, powerless, or disconnected from the situation or others.
By recognising these states, we can shift our approach. Instead of viewing a child’s behaviour as “bad” or “disruptive,” we can see it as a response to their nervous system being dysregulated. For example, a child acting out in class might not be “misbehaving,” but instead reacting from a sympathetic state where their stress has triggered a fight-or-flight response. Similarly, a child who is shutting down or withdrawing may be overwhelmed and stuck in a dorsal state.
This understanding allows us to offer more effective and compassionate responses. In conflict resolution, for example, instead of trying to engage when a child is in a sympathetic or dorsal state, we can first help them regulate their nervous system, bring them back to a ventral state, and then address the issue calmly and collaboratively.
When we support children in regulating their nervous system, we can guide them toward healthier responses, fostering better emotional regulation, conflict resolution skills, and ultimately creating a safer, more understanding environment for them to thrive.
In short, the ventral vagal state allows for balance, where both positive and negative can be processed, while the sympathetic state focuses on reacting to perceived threats, and the dorsal vagal state reflects the collapse or shutdown when overwhelmed by negative emotions.
Plot Twist: The Secret of the Hypervigilant Brain
“A brain shaped by years of hypervigilance is finely tuned for survival.
Imagine the power of that same brain when it’s re-trained to scan for connection, opportunity, growth and for good.
The Reticular Activating System doesn’t lose its focus—it simply learns to trust.
When we begin to trust ourselves, our brain becomes our greatest ally.”
— Deborah Crozier
The Reticular Activating System (RAS), located within the brainstem, is a key neurological network responsible for filtering sensory information and directing attention. It determines which environmental stimuli are brought into conscious awareness, significantly influencing what we notice and respond to. In the context of trauma, the RAS becomes attuned to threat and danger, perpetuating a state of hypervigilance. However, post-healing, that same system can be recalibrated to seek cues of safety, connection, and opportunity—a shift supported by both neurobiology and therapeutic practice.
Trauma dysregulates the nervous system, activating the amygdala and sensitising the RAS to detect and prioritise threat. This results in a persistent state of alertness, where perceived danger is filtered through and amplified, often regardless of actual risk.
As noted by van der Kolk (2014), trauma leaves a physiological imprint on the nervous system, particularly affecting areas involved in threat detection and arousal. The RAS, in collaboration with the amygdala and brainstem structures, plays a key role in maintaining hypervigilance.
Because trauma is held in the body, effective healing often begins with bottom-up approaches that address dysregulation at the level of the autonomic nervous system. Somatic interventions (e.g., grounding, breathwork, EFT, movement, sensory awareness) help to regulate physiological arousal, re-establish safety in the body, and quiet the overactive threat detection systems—including the RAS.
Porges’ Polyvagal Theory and the work of practitioners such as Peter Levine (Somatic Experiencing) and Bessel van der Kolk emphasise that bottom-up regulation is foundational in trauma recovery. These methods support the recalibration of the nervous system, gradually shifting the RAS away from a constant threat focus.
Once a level of bodily safety and regulation is achieved, top-down approaches—such as Cognitive Behavioural Therapy (CBT), narrative processing, and cognitive reframing—can become more effective. These interventions allow individuals to reinterpret past experiences, challenge unhelpful beliefs, and develop new cognitive patterns. As beliefs shift and attention is retrained, the RAS adjusts to prioritise different kinds of input, including cues of opportunity, safety, and connection.
Research in neuroplasticity shows that intentional cognitive focus alters neural pathways. Mindfulness-based practices, CBT, and narrative therapies have all demonstrated measurable changes in attentional bias, suggesting that the brain—including the RAS—can be reoriented over time (Siegel, 2012; Davidson & McEwen, 2012).
In conclusion, The Reticular Activating System, once conditioned by trauma to scan for threat, can—through an integrated healing process—be repurposed to identify and prioritise opportunity, connection, and hope. This transformation is supported through a combination of bottom-up (somatic) and top-down (cognitive) approaches that honour the body’s role in storing trauma and the mind’s capacity for reframing and growth. The interplay of these modalities not only restores regulation but also reshapes perception—opening the door for a more empowered and engaged life.
The hypervigilant brain becomes exceptionally finely tuned after years—sometimes decades—of scanning for threat. This constant state of alert trains the Reticular Activating System (RAS) to filter for danger with remarkable precision, often without conscious awareness.
But imagine the potential of that same brain, once healing has taken place—when the nervous system is regulated, and trust in self is restored.
A brain that once scanned for threat can become a brain that scans for opportunity, connection, and meaning.
The RAS doesn’t just protect—it focuses. And once re-trained, it becomes a powerful ally, helping individuals tune in to what truly matters: relationships, purpose, creativity, and safety.
When we begin to trust ourselves again, the brain doesn’t lose its vigilance—it redirects it. The same system that once kept us alive can now help us thrive.
#ReconnectAndRegulate
#STAND #ParentsAsProtectors
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"We Are Energy First"
Humans are often taught to see themselves as solid, physical beings - but at our core, we are made of energy. Every cell in our body carries an electrical charge. Our hearts generate an electromagnetic field. Our brains communicate through electrical impulses. This isn't just spiritual language - it's biology and physics.
Now, where this becomes especially important is in our nervous system.
Our nervous system is like our body's electrical wiring. It doesn't just respond to the world - it constantly reads the environment for safety or threat. That's energy - it's vibration, its sensation, its the subtle shifts we can't always name, but we can definitely feel.
Have you ever walked into a room and sensed the something was off, even though no one said a word?
That's your nervous system picking up on the energy - on tone, posture, expression, tension. We feel each other energetically before anything logical happens.
This isn't just a feeling - it's Neuroception.
Neuroception is the nervous systems way of scanning for cues of safety or danger, without us even realising it. It's how we "just know" when something feels off. Its how children sense tension in a room before anyone speaks. It's why someone's words can say "I'm fine" but their energy says otherwise - and we feel the truth, not the script. You may have heard me say many times before - when we are connected, we Feel the truth viscerally. - that's Neuroception.
This is why healing after trauma can't happen through words alone. The nervous system doesn't speak in language - it speaks in energy, tone, expression and felt safety.
To truly reconnect and regulate, we have to work with our energy system - by becoming more aware of our won nervous system state - the work our attendees have been doing in our reconnect and regulate sessions - getting into the daily habit of measuring SUD levels, recognising when we're in survival modem and by gently returning to a sense of safety.
Because real connection doesn't come from what we say, it comes from the energy we hold.
The Lens that Shapes our Nervous Systems
“We can only see through the lens of our experience.”
– And that lens is shaped by the nervous system.
When someone has predominantly lived in a ventral vagal state — a state of nervous system regulation characterised by safety, connection, and a sense of ease in the world — their worldview is shaped by consistent access to internal and external resources. From this state, logic, reason, and relational clarity come naturally. However, this baseline of safety can make it difficult to truly grasp the inner landscape of someone who has spent significant time in a dorsal vagal state — where the nervous system has shifted into shutdown, disconnection, and a sense of helplessness as a protective response to overwhelm or threat.
Those who have not experienced this dorsal collapse often unconsciously assume that everyone has access to the same cognitive and emotional capacities they do, even during distress. This leads to a kind of perspective bias, where the belief in their own “rational” view becomes fixed, because they have never known the felt reality of trauma shutting down those very faculties. In contrast, individuals who have experienced dorsal states often doubt themselves — not because they are irrational, but because survival responses inhibit full access to logic, confidence, and voice. This internal struggle can make it difficult to assert or even clarify their perspective in the presence of someone firmly rooted in ventral.
What’s often overlooked is that many people in positions of authority — in services, leadership, and systems — have been able to access those roles because their nervous system allowed them to engage in education, employment, and relationships. That access is a privilege of ventral regulation.
This is precisely why curiosity is essential. Without curiosity, what happens instead is dismissal: the person in ventral may confidently reject the views of someone in dorsal, not out of malice, but out of an inability to feel into what the other is navigating. Dismissal then deepens the shutdown response for the person already struggling, reinforcing their self-doubt and widening the disconnect.
True understanding comes from recognising that lived nervous system states shape how we process, perceive, and respond to the world. If we want to build bridges between different experiences, especially in trauma-informed spaces, we must prioritise openness over certainty, and curiosity over correctness.
Instead of disagreeing or correcting, we can ask: “What shaped your view?”
Because until we’ve lived in another’s nervous system, we are only ever seeing through our own lens.
You’re Not The Problem
“You’re not broken.
You’re not failing.
Your nervous system is doing exactly what it was designed to do to keep you safe.”
When trauma happens and escape isn’t possible, the body doesn’t just move on—it adapts for survival. This is the dorsal vagal response, a deep shutdown state that can leave you feeling numb, disconnected, exhausted, or stuck.
For years, I didn’t understand what was happening to me. Every few months, my body would crash. I’d struggle to get out of bed, completely drained—physically, emotionally, mentally. Everything felt heavy, like wading through treacle just to motivate myself.
A black cloud would loom overhead, a constant presence that coloured everything in misery. My thoughts would spiral: What’s the point? Nobody cares. I don’t know why I bother. I felt weak, pathetic, like I was failing. But I wasn’t failing—my body was in survival mode.
When you’ve lived in that state often enough, you start to recognise it in others. I can spot it instantly—the exhaustion in their body language, the posture that slumps in defeat, the words that speak of despair. It’s in the deadness of their eyes—a sign of being completely disconnected from the present moment. They are stuck in the purgatory of dorsal shutdown, where everything feels like it’s just too much to move forward or escape from. Dorsal is the place where life ends. It’s the point where we’ve been so overwhelmed that the system is frozen, unable to go on.
This shutdown response isn’t just personal—it plays out in so many forms of trauma. When a child can’t escape an abusive home, they disconnect to survive. When someone is trapped in poverty, addiction, or domestic violence, the nervous system collapses under the weight of survival.
It happens in:
• Childhood abuse – when a child can’t leave an unsafe home, they disconnect to survive.
• Cycles of poverty – when no matter how hard someone tries, the weight of survival becomes too much.
• Addiction – often a response to numb the pain of unresolved trauma.
• Crime & incarceration – when the nervous system has adapted to survival in an unsafe world - these are just a few examples..
And when mothers are separated from their children, the grief, helplessness, and loss of control can send them into deep dorsal shutdown—numbness, despair, and self-destruction.
It’s difficult to understand the dorsal vagal perspective when you’re in a ventral vagus state, where things feel more connected and regulated. From the outside, what might look like attention-seeking behaviour is often connection-seeking—a desperate attempt to feel safe again. The challenge is, we often don’t have the words to articulate this need. For a long time, I didn’t either.
This is why I became a person-centred therapist—because the core conditions of empathy, unconditional positive regard, and congruence deeply aligned with my own experience of needing a space that felt safe and understanding. It’s these conditions that allow people to heal and reconnect with themselves—something I’ve experienced firsthand.
I’m also sensitive to energy—especially where someone is in their nervous system. When the energy changes, I can feel it. This sensitivity helps me understand where a person is in their journey and meet them exactly where they are, offering support that feels safe and validating.
Understanding dorsal changes everything. It means that what looks like laziness, lack of motivation, or emotional detachment isn’t a character flaw—it’s your body’s way of protecting you. You are not the problem. Your nervous system has been in survival mode.
#TraumaInformed #ReconnectAndRegulate #MentalHealth #SelfCompassion