This Is Not an Emergency
I drank too much coffee and now the little things feel like an emergency.
The dog shit and pissed on the floor, and all I could do was start laughing hysterically while trying to keep my fingers from getting urine-soaked or touching his turd.
I can tell when my nervous system is out of whack because my jaw clenches, my body tightens, and I feel a little like the mom you can’t tell is crying because she’s laughing or because she finally broke.
This is when the lists begin to form in my mind.
Everything I need to do.
Everything I have not done.
Everything I should be better at.
Most of them stemming from old patterns that no longer apply to my life.
As I’m writing this, there is a moment of calm. My son is blowing bubbles and watering the sunflowers. And in this moment, I am able to zoom out. I am able to come back into the part of my brain that can think, observe, and make meaning.
This is the prefrontal cortex coming back online.
What’s actually happening in these moments is that I have moved outside of my window of tolerance into what is called hyperarousal.
Hyperarousal is when there is too much.
Too much sound.
Too much motion.
Too much touching.
Too much mess.
Too much needing you.
Too much happening all at once.
So that moment of hysterical laughing is not me being dramatic. It is my body giving me information. It is saying, “We cannot keep running like this under these conditions.”
Too much coffee.
Not enough food.
Summer break with little kids.
A dog creating a biohazard in the middle of the floor.
This is the point at which most people come to me. When they have been living in “too much” for far too long, and their body has started to believe that anything other than too much is unsafe.
Because the nervous system’s job is to keep you alive through predictability and pattern recognition.
So if chaos has been the pattern, chaos can start to feel familiar.
If urgency has been the pattern, rest can start to feel threatening.
If over-functioning has been the pattern, slowing down can feel like danger.
So instead of freaking the fuck out on my family and the pets, it becomes my job to realign my nervous system back into my window of tolerance.
Not because I need to be perfect.
Not because moms are supposed to be endlessly patient.
Not because I should never get overwhelmed.
But because I am the adult in the room.
And my body needs me to lead.
For me, this usually starts with removing some stimuli, even for a second. Sometimes that means locking myself in the bathroom for two minutes. Sometimes it means putting the phone down. Sometimes it means stepping outside. Sometimes it means telling my kids, “I need one minute before I can answer you.”
From there, I get to take a step back and evaluate the actual threat.
There was dog shit and piss on the floor.
Annoying? Absolutely.
An emergency? No.
My kids are loud and screaming.
Overstimulating? Yes.
Are we physically safe? Also yes.
My jaw is clenched.
My thoughts are racing.
My body feels like it needs to solve every problem that has ever existed before lunch.
But this moment will pass.
So I begin to tell my body the truth.
We are safe.
This is uncomfortable, but it is not dangerous.
This is messy, but it is not an emergency.
I can slow down.
I can do one thing at a time.
I can come back to myself.
That is the interruption.
That is the work.
Not becoming a mother who never loses her shit.
Not becoming a person who floats through life in a permanently regulated state.
But becoming someone who can notice the pattern before the pattern takes over.
Because awareness is the doorway back.
As a mother, I believe part of my job is to keep my own nervous system regulated and grounded, and to help my children learn how to do the same.
Not by pretending I am calm all the time.
Not by hiding my humanity.
Not by shaming myself every time I feel overwhelmed.
But by modeling repair.
By modeling return.
By showing them that big feelings do not have to become big explosions.
That overstimulation does not mean we are bad.
That needing space does not mean we are failing.
That the body can get loud when it has been carrying too much for too long.
And this is the part so many people miss.
Nervous system work is not about never being triggered again.
It is about learning how to come back faster, with less damage, less self-abandonment, and less chaos spilled onto the people around you.
Sometimes regulation looks like breathwork.
Sometimes it looks like therapy.
Sometimes it looks like crying in the bathroom.
Sometimes it looks like eating a real meal after surviving on caffeine and vibes.
And sometimes it looks like laughing hysterically while cleaning up dog piss because your body is waving a tiny white flag and begging you to slow the fuck down.
The goal is not perfection.
The goal is return.
Return to your body.
Return to the present moment.
Return to safety.
Return to the truth that this is not an emergency, even if your body is responding like it is.
And every time you come back, you teach your nervous system something new:
We do not have to live in too much anymore.
