Every time stress hits, I find myself trapped in the same pattern. Withdrawal, regret, then scrambling to fix everything. It feels automatic, like something bigger than me takes over. I know what’s happening, though knowing doesn’t always stop it. The freeze response kicks in before I even have a chance to argue.
I’ve spent so much time thinking this was laziness, avoidance, or some personal failing. The truth is, it’s a learned response—one that made sense at some point. My nervous system still believes that reaching out is dangerous. That moving forward carries too much risk. That if I wait long enough, the danger will pass. Except, in adulthood, nothing gets better by waiting.
There are younger parts of me that still believe help isn’t coming. They hold old fears, old memories, old pain. Their logic is clear: doing nothing is safer than doing something wrong. They aren’t trying to sabotage me. They are trying to protect me in the only way they know how.
Then there’s another part—the one that says nothing will change, so stop trying. The one that carries the anger, the exhaustion, the hopelessness. I used to think this part was working against me. Now I see that it’s another protector. It is trying to keep me safe from disappointment, from failure, from getting hurt. It thinks the best way to do that is to shut everything down before I can even begin.
Fighting this cycle hasn’t been about forcing myself to take action. That has never worked. The real work has been in slowing down, noticing what’s happening, and giving these parts a voice.
Recognizing the freeze when it starts.
Letting the protector speak instead of shoving it aside.
Allowing the younger parts to be heard, even when it’s uncomfortable.
Taking the smallest possible step forward, even when every part of me wants to disappear.
This process is slow. Messy. Frustrating. There are days when it feels like nothing is changing. Then I look at the bigger picture. I stuck with neuroscience despite this pattern. I advocated for myself in counseling. I started writing things down, letting the younger parts speak in ways they never have before.
That is change. That is movement. Even when it doesn’t feel like enough, it is proof that I am not where I used to be.