For most of my life, I thought my body was betraying me.
The racing heart. The shaking hands. The hollow, floating feeling that showed up at the worst possible moments, like I was a ghost watching myself try to function. I’d tell myself, “Calm down. You’re fine.” But my body clearly hadn’t gotten the memo.
When you live with CPTSD, it can feel like your nervous system is out to ruin you. You want to relax, but your body’s still convinced you’re being hunted by a tiger. You want to enjoy a quiet night, and suddenly you’re spiraling because a sound, a smell, or someone’s tone pulled you straight back to the past.
I used to treat those reactions like they were bad behavior, something to suppress, scold, or outsmart. But what I eventually learned: my body wasn’t malfunctioning. It was over-functioning.
It was doing exactly what it learned to do, and that was to protect me.
The Body That Wouldn’t Stop Saving Me
CPTSD wires your body to survive in environments that aren’t safe. When “calm” equals “danger coming soon,” your nervous system becomes a professional early-warning system. Hypervigilance isn’t a flaw; it’s a skill, just one that never got told the war ended.
The problem is, when life finally is safe, your nervous system doesn’t automatically update its software. It keeps scanning for threats and keeps flooding you with adrenaline over harmless things: a text left on read, a partner’s sigh, or a boss’s tone.
What it is, is conditioning.
Learning to Speak ‘Body’
For years, I tried to think my way out of trauma. Logic was my safety blanket: if I could understand it, I could control it.
Sadly though, the body doesn’t speak “logic.”
It speaks through sensations, tension, tightness, nausea, and fatigue. It whispers “not safe” long before your mind catches up.
And because I kept ignoring it, it eventually started yelling.
It wasn’t until I learned about nervous system regulation and started working with my therapist through IFS that I began to see it differently. My body wasn’t the enemy. It was a loyal soldier who hadn’t been told it could rest.
Now when my chest tightens or I feel that buzzing under my skin, I try not to fight it. I just notice it and say, “Hey, I know. You don’t have to protect me right now.”
And sometimes it listens. Sometimes it still ducks for cover. But the conversation itself is healing.
Safety Isn’t a Thought; It’s a Feeling
The biggest shift came when I stopped chasing “calm” as an idea and started treating it as a physical practice.
Calm isn’t something you decide; it’s something you build, slowly, through repetition, like retraining a scared animal to trust your hand again.
Sometimes that looks like:
- Breathing into the tightness instead of ignoring it.
- Taking a walk before replying to a triggering text.
- Letting your shoulders drop when your body braces for danger that isn’t there.
- Or just lying on the floor, hand on your chest, saying, “We’re okay. You made it.”
It’s awkward at first. But over time, your nervous system starts to believe you.
You’re Not Broken, You’re Adaptive
The body that shakes, freezes, and overreacts isn’t betraying you. It’s the same body that carried you through every impossible moment. It didn’t get the luxury of nuance, just the job of keeping you alive.
So no, your nervous system isn’t the enemy. And healing is about retraining it with patience, safety, and compassion.
One day, you’ll notice that the world feels a little softer. Your breath comes easier. The alarms are quieter.
That’s not weakness. That’s what peace feels like when your body finally starts to believe it’s real.
Photo by Antoine Pouligny on Unsplash