The Safety of Stress: Why Familiar Dysregulation Can Feel Like Home
June 06, 2025
Sometimes the tasks that stress us the most feel oddly familiar — because our nervous system learned to equate uncertainty with danger. But healing means staying with it, and choosing a different response.
I was just trying to fix a curtain rail.
That was the task. Straightforward in theory. But there I was, stress levels through the roof, body buzzing like I was under threat, fumbling with screws and wondering why something so minor felt so overwhelming.
And then it hit me: maybe I don’t get stressed by these tasks just because they’re unfamiliar. Maybe I’m drawn to them because they feel familiar. Not the tasks themselves — but the dysregulation they bring up. The not-knowing. The self-doubt. The shame of getting it wrong.
It’s not that I love the feeling of stress. It’s that part of me is still trying to work something through — something old, something deep.
Childhood didn’t give me room to not know
Growing up, I don’t remember being gently guided through the uncertainty of learning. I don’t remember being told, “It’s okay not to know — let’s figure it out together.”
Instead, I remember the heat of being watched, the sting of being mocked, the unspoken message:
“You’re only safe when you’re certain.”
So I learned to perform. To hide my vulnerability. To act like I knew what I was doing — even when I didn’t. Especially when I didn’t.
And now, even though I’m no longer in that environment, my body still flares up in those familiar moments:
- When the drill slips.
- When the screw won’t bite.
- When I pause, unsure what to do next.
That’s when it whispers, Careful. You’re being seen.
But here’s what’s different now
This time, no one is mocking me.
No one is trying to keep me small.
No one is watching for a weakness to exploit.
It’s just me, a curtain rail, and the ghosts of a nervous system that hasn’t yet caught up to the truth.
But I’m staying with it. I’m breathing through it.
I’m choosing to believe that this moment of not knowing is not a threat.
It’s an invitation — to meet myself differently.
Words I say to myself now:
- “This feels familiar, but it’s not dangerous.”
- “No one’s watching me fail. I’m allowed to learn.”
- “I am not small — I’m growing.”
And maybe, just maybe, every screw I drive is an act of rebellion against the shame that once silenced me.
Even if it’s just a curtain rail.