The Audacity of a Nervous System
Day 114 – March 17, 2026
My nervous system has the audacity of a podcast. That is the thought I had today. Because tell me why this bitch still occasionally acts like we are in imminent danger when I am literally just standing in my kitchen in fuzzy socks, making coffee, and trying to have one normal morning without my body behaving like it just got a group text from doom.
It is unbelievable. And also, apparently, trauma.
That’s the weirdest part. The way your body can be so deeply sincere and so wildly wrong at the exact same time. Like, thank you for trying to protect me, but respectfully, the threat level does not need to be set to “Jason Bourne at Trader Joe’s” just because a door closed too hard three buildings away.
I spent part of today thinking about how exhausting it is to be both the hot girl and the internal emergency management team. Because that’s really what this is. On the outside, lipstick, intelligence, suspiciously good instincts, a face that says “I probably know more than I’m letting on.”
On the inside, I’m yelling, “Something feels strange!” every time the wind changes direction.
Exhausting.
And yet, I’m learning to laugh at it a little more. Not because it’s cute. Because if I don’t laugh, I may have to fistfight my own adrenal system in the driveway, and I am trying to have a more elegant spring than that.
So today I kept noticing the absurdity of it all.
The way healing can be profound one second and embarrassingly stupid the next. The way your mind can be out here having layered, insightful thoughts about selfhood and recovery while your body is like, “Counterpoint, what if the hallway is evil.”
Roger, naturally, has none of these issues.
His nervous system is the spiritual opposite of mine. His internal philosophy appears to be if nothing is actively on fire, lie down harder. If there is a suspicious sound, bark once, decide you fixed it, and return to your nap with the confidence of a suburban king. Honestly? Aspirational.
At one point today he heard something outside, ran to the window like he was about to expose corruption at the highest level, barked twice, then trotted away like, “Handled it.”
Imagine. Imagine having that level of confidence. Imagine resolving your inner turmoil in under fourteen seconds. Imagine not replaying one weird tone from a conversation three hours ago like it’s evidence in a murder trial.
But maybe that’s part of healing too. Not becoming simple. Not becoming unfazed. Just becoming able to look at your own complexity and admit that some of it is tragic, some of it is intelligent, and some of it is just deeply, hilariously ridiculous.
Because it is ridiculous.
The human body is like, “I remember danger.” The human mind is like, “I would like to write a twelve-page essay about why.” And the human spirit is somewhere in the back wearing silk and muttering, “Can everyone calm down? We’re trying to be enchanting.”
That is basically my internal ecosystem at this point. And weirdly, I don’t hate it.
It’s messy. It’s overreactive. It’s beautiful in a slightly haunted way. But it’s mine. And there’s something almost funny about loving yourself enough to say, yes, this whole operation is unstable, overqualified, emotionally expensive, and occasionally dramatic for sport and still deciding it deserves tenderness.
That feels important. Or at least useful.
Chaos in one hand. Grace in the other.
And me, once again trying to have a normal day while my nervous system behaves like bad Wi-Fi.
