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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