Series 10: When Stability Feels Foreign

This reflection is part of The Unscripted Self: Notes from the Interior, a series of honest essays about living without the script, choosing presence over performance, and staying close to what’s real.


No one tells you that peace can feel like a threat. After years of surviving chaos, your nervous system doesn’t register calm as safety. It flags it as unfamiliar, maybe even alarming. You spend so long hustling, fixing, reacting, and living on edge, that when life finally quiets down, a part of you panics. You find yourself in a space that isn’t spinning, that isn’t on fire, and instead of feeling relieved, you feel unmoored. You itch for motion, for something to manage, for that old familiar current of urgency, because somewhere along the way, you started mistaking adrenaline for purpose and unpredictability for meaning.

When you grow up walking on eggshells, when every day feels like bracing for the next blow, when your body has never had a safe place to land, stability doesn’t feel like peace. It feels like waiting, waiting for the catch, the drop, the thing that will remind you you’re not safe after all. So when everything seems okay, when your relationships are steady, your finances aren’t in crisis, your health is holding up, and nothing around you is burning, you don’t fully exhale. You hold your breath, quietly scanning the horizon for what’s coming next, because the calm feels suspicious.

The thing is, we’re never taught how to just be okay. We learn to survive, to adapt, to work harder, to push through, but no one tells us what it feels like to live without chaos constantly knocking. No one tells us how strange it is to wake up without dread, how jarring it can be to feel safe, how unsettling it is to not feel the weight of survival pressing down on your chest. So we question it, we sabotage it, and we wait for it to disappear.

Stability is a language your body might not speak yet. It takes time to learn that calm is presence. It’s not the lack of problems, it’s the space to actually feel your life. It’s learning to rest without guilt, to breathe without panic, to let things be soft without assuming softness means weakness. You don’t have to earn rest by falling apart first. You don’t need an emergency to justify taking care of yourself. You’re allowed to feel good. You’re allowed to stay there.

This might not be the dramatic part of your story, it might not be the twist or the climax, but maybe this is the most important chapter, the one where you stop chasing intensity just to feel alive, the one where you start trusting stillness, leaning into ease, letting yourself believe that love doesn’t have to hurt to be real. Maybe this is the part where stability stops feeling foreign and starts feeling like home.


These are reflections from the quiet, ongoing work of staying honest with yourself.

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