Reflections to Spark Your Journey
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This reflection follows an earlier piece, "I'm Not the Strong One Anymore," where I wrote about stepping out of over functioning and choosing nervous system truth later in life. What I didn't yet name there was what happened next.
What changed wasn't the world - it was where my energy went. After I shared I’m Not the Strong One Anymore — and after years of doing the quiet work behind it — something finally became clear to me. Not as a theory. As lived truth. Because I no longer chase after or over-function for people who are unavailable for mutual care — and because I poured that care back into myself instead — I have been cared for by others. I didn’t plan this. I didn’t strategize it. I didn’t demand it. It happened as a result of alignment. What changed wasn’t the world — it was where my energy went For much of my life, I poured care outward:
I thought that was love. Or responsibility. Or maturity. But what it actually did was train my nervous system to reach, not to receive. When I stopped doing that — not angrily, not dramatically, just quietly — something unexpected happened. I became available. Not to everyone. To reciprocity. Care didn’t disappear — it reorganized Care is not lost when you stop giving it away to places where it can’t land. It reorganizes itself. When I stopped chasing:
And people who know how to offer care — without being asked, managed, or rescued — found me. I was invited into homes. I was welcomed, not accommodated. I was taken care of without having to earn it. That was new. And it was unmistakable. The difference between being needed and being welcomed Unavailable people require pursuit. Available people require presence. When I stopped proving, explaining, fixing, and compensating, I crossed a threshold: I moved from being needed to being welcomed. That shift changed everything. This wasn’t luck — it was discernment I didn’t get lucky. I didn’t finally deserve care. I simply stopped subsidizing relationships with my body and nervous system. And what remained were connections built on:
That’s not magical thinking. That’s what happens when extraction ends. The quiet truth I live by now I don’t chase care anymore. I notice where it flows naturally. I accept what’s offered freely. I let what can’t meet me fall away without resentment. And here is the sentence that holds it all: When I stopped chasing care, care found me. That’s not a slogan. That’s my life.
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On breaking cycles, nervous system truth, and choosing self-stewardship
There comes a moment — often later in life — when you realize something quietly radical: You are no longer in crisis. And that does not mean you are available for new crises that aren’t yours. For me, that realization came slowly, after decades of hyper vigilance, responsibility, and emotional labor that was expected but rarely supported. I was often labeled “the strong one.” But the truth is simpler — and more human. I was never the strong one. I was a vulnerable person doing what she had to do to survive. When strength becomes a prison In my family system, strength came with conditions. If you were capable, you weren’t allowed to complain. If you were responsible, you were expected to carry more. At one point, when I tried to express how overwhelmed I felt, my mother said something that lodged itself deep in my nervous system: “Well, just be glad you don’t have to look after anyone else too.” What that taught me was not resilience — it taught me silence. It taught me that my burden only counted if someone else had it worse. That strength canceled out need. That rest had to be earned through comparison. Later, when I shared how much I had responsibly saved for retirement — after supporting myself my entire adult life — my mother reacted with anger and said it was “too much” and that I should stop saving. That moment installed an invisible ceiling. Not financial — emotional. It sent a message my body understood immediately: Expansion is unsafe. Stability will be punished. I didn’t consciously agree with that message — but my nervous system complied. The double bind many women live in Here’s a truth we don’t talk about enough: In earlier generations, middle-class women were expected to provide emotional and domestic labor because they were financially supported by families or husbands. I lived the opposite. I supported myself financially my entire adult life — even while partnered — while still being expected to perform the emotional labor of someone being supported. That double bind is exhausting in ways that are hard to explain unless you’ve lived it. And the body keeps score. The rupture that broke the cycle The cycle finally broke when my partner retired and removed me from his insurance — while still expecting the same emotional and relational labor. That was the moment the illusion of mutuality collapsed. What made the rupture permanent wasn't the loss of support alone - it was what followed. When I moved toward my own sovereignty in a period of real vulnerability - financially, materially, and medically, without any real support - I was met not with care, accountability, or humanity, but with actions that prioritized control over relationship. There was no acknowledgement. No repair. No recognition of what I had carried or contributed. That absence - of conscience, not just support - is what made the break irreversible. I was suddenly on my own — materially, practically, medically — and something in me said: Enough. I made bold moves out of survival. I chose myself not because it was empowering — but because it was necessary. That decision saved my life. But survival decisions are made under threat. Integration comes later — when the body finally feels safe enough to process what it endured. That’s why, even nearly five years later, I’m still healing. Not because I’m stuck — but because I’m completing something ancient. Nervous system truth (and grace) Here is something I can say now with clarity and without shame: My nervous system can no longer handle much. After a lifetime of hyper vigilance, anticipation, and responsibility, my body is done bracing. That doesn’t mean I’m fragile. It means I’m honest. I can be calm. I can be kind. I can be present. But I am no longer available for absorbing other people’s crises, dysregulation, or unmet responsibilities. That’s not selfishness. That’s stewardship. Giving it to God What helps me most now is giving it to God — because it is not mine to carry. That isn’t bypassing. It’s right-sizing. There are burdens that exceed human capacity. There are roles we were never meant to play indefinitely. When I say, “This is not mine,” I am not abandoning love — I am restoring order. What breaking the cycle actually looks like Breaking the cycle didn’t mean confrontation. It didn’t mean explanations or revenge. It meant:
It meant accepting that some people may misunderstand me — and letting that be. I am not closing my heart. I am closing the emergency room. A quiet truth for this season of life I’ll be 67 in March. This is the season of discernment, not endurance. Of rhythm, not sacrifice. Of self-trust, not approval. I am no longer the strong one. I am simply a human being — worthy of care, safety, and rest — like everyone else. And that, finally, is enough. Lately, I’ve been sitting with a question that feels both personal and collective:
What is really happening beneath all the talk about narcissism, empathy, and dysfunction? The word narcissism gets used so easily now. Sometimes it helps name real harm. Other times, it becomes a blunt instrument — a way to explain pain without fully touching it. I’ve come to feel that what we’re seeing is not simply a rise in narcissism, but a deeper exposure of unhealed trauma moving through human systems. Trauma doesn’t only affect individuals. It organizes families. Friend groups. Institutions. Even cultures. When trauma goes unintegrated, it shapes identity. Some people survive by armoring themselves with control, image, or status. Others survive by over-attuning, caretaking, or absorbing emotional weight for the group. Neither path begins in malice. Both begin in fear. And often, they form together. In these systems, the most sensitive person is frequently the first to feel when something is off. That sensitivity is rarely welcomed. More often, it is labeled too much, dramatic, or the problem. The truth-teller becomes the scapegoat — not because they seek conflict, but because they speak what others cannot yet bear to face. This role is painful. But it also carries a quiet clarity. Those who can still feel often see first. Over time, trauma can sever us from something essential — our inner sense of worth, creativity, and connection. When that happens, we may look outward for validation, control, or belonging, forgetting that these qualities were once innate. This disconnection isn’t a moral failure. It’s a human one. And it’s far more common than we like to admit. What many call awakening, I’ve come to experience as something less dramatic and more humbling. It isn’t about becoming special or enlightened. It’s about seeing — honestly — how fear, survival, and inherited patterns have shaped us. This kind of awakening moves through the body before it reaches the mind. It can feel destabilizing, quiet, even disorienting. Old identities soften. Certainties loosen. The need to be “right” fades. What remains is not emptiness, but steadiness. I believe we are living through a collective moment like this now — not a sudden ascent, but a great human humbling. Some are learning boundaries for the first time. Some are learning to rest. Some are learning to stop performing goodness and start living truth. Each of us arrives in our own way, at our own pace. Nothing here is wasted. Human history holds unspeakable cruelty — and breathtaking compassion. It holds domination and tenderness, fear and love. It holds the image of Christ as an embodied example of what love looks like when lived through a human nervous system. This path is not comfortable. But it is real. And perhaps that is what this moment is asking of us — not perfection, not purity, but presence. A Wing to Close Some stories lift us through joy. Others through truth. Both grow wings when they are held with care. Thank you for reading. |
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