I don’t think I realised how emotionally intense college would be — not because of the course content, but because of what safety does to a system that’s lived in survival for too long.

During my Level 2 and 3 counselling training, I spent most of my time overwhelmed and overstimulated. Anxious before every session. Taking breaks just to breathe. Struggling to show up. Not because I didn’t care — but because I cared so much, and my nervous system didn’t know how to process it.

For the first time in a long time, I was in an environment where people genuinely cared. And instead of that bringing me ease, it brought everything I’d been missing into focus.
It triggered a deep, buried grief.

This is what connection could feel like? This is what I’ve been without?

On my very first day, I had an open conversation with someone who felt emotionally present — and instead of feeling happy, I felt wrecked.
It exposed the absence. The silence. The emptiness I’d lived with.
And every week, showing up to that space reactivated that grief.

It’s taken me almost a year to regulate within it.
To let my body know: this is safe now.
To not crumble from the weight of being seen.

At some point, I noticed myself becoming drawn to someone in the group — someone I liked. And I’ve wondered, was that just me trying to hold onto the emotional safety I felt around her?

Maybe part of it was.
But that doesn’t make it fake.

Because the truth is, I did like her.
She’s a genuinely wonderful person — emotionally intelligent, kind, warm. I wasn’t projecting onto a blank screen.
She’s someone worth liking.
And I don’t regret that I did.

Even now, I’m learning not to overanalyse every feeling. Because if I did, I’d never move. Never connect. Never try.

This whole experience — the emotional overwhelm, the silent grief, the slow regulation — has taught me more than any textbook ever could:

Sometimes safety doesn’t bring peace right away.
Sometimes it opens the floodgates.
Not because something’s wrong — but because we’re finally safe enough to feel what’s been buried all along.

And I’m proud of the me who kept turning up.
Who kept breathing.
Who kept softening, even when it hurt.

Because that’s not collapse.
That’s healing.

Lighthouse in a flood – safety and overwhelm