This isn't about discipline. It's about safety.
I am almost embarrassed to admit how long I suffered before I started to see the light.
I spent months — then years — standing in front of the mirror, chiding myself. Frustrated that the diet and fitness routines that had worked so well when I was thirty and relatively unstressed were no longer working at all. I lost count of the hours I spent remembering how easily I once met friends after work, bewildered that now even engaging with my family at the end of the day felt irrationally insurmountable.
I spent years watching my husband and my friends live their lives without the constant stress that I felt — and verbalized.
And I absolutely verbalized it. I’m a talker, in case you haven’t noticed.
Growing up, my parents were big on not discussing a particular family situation — something I’ll go deeper into later — that, as I eventually learned in therapy, had quietly upended my entire world. I learned early that silence made me feel isolated and alone. Talking, on the other hand, helped me realize that no family was perfect, that other people carried complicated stories too.
So I became a talker.
I tried explaining my stress to my friends.
They didn’t get it.
“What you’re describing is normal.”
“It’s called being an adult.”
“If you can’t do anything about it, just shrug it off.”
“Just cross that bridge when you get to it.”
And then something clicked.
It came as a startling epiphany.
Just as human bodies come in countless shapes and sizes, and personalities exist across a wide spectrum of introversion and extroversion — nervous systems do too.
My friends’ nervous systems were simply different from mine.
My best friend is 5’10” with long legs. I used to compare myself to her constantly, loathing the fact that jeans always fit her better. I’m five-foot-almost-one-inch — even petite jeans still need hemming. Eventually, I realized that no amount of negative self-talk or wishing would change my height. I had these legs. This body.
After all, God only made me grow until I was perfect.
The same, I realized, was true of nervous systems.
My husband has an Olympic sprinter of a nervous system. He absorbs stress during the workday, does what he can to fix what’s in front of him, and then — astonishingly — lets it go. Once he’s done what he can do, his system stops carrying the weight. It’s genuinely impressive.
My friends’ nervous systems vary beautifully. One has an ultramarathoner’s nervous system — nothing sticks long enough to snag. Another has a nervous system of steel, navigating work, motherhood, and crisis with an ease I deeply admire. My long-legged best friend can compartmentalize life with remarkable efficiency, optimizing her energy across work, home, and friendships.
They all move through chaos with grace. They adapt quickly. They recover easily.
None of that describes my nervous system.
My nervous system is a tottering little toddler — one who spends more time on her bottom than on her feet. She’s earnest and determined, but unsteady. She gets overwhelmed easily. She needs frequent breaks to reset and rebuild capacity. She seeks reassurance that she isn’t doing it wrong — whatever it happens to be that day.
And once I stopped judging my tottering little toddler…
Once I stopped wishing she were someone else…
I could finally begin caring for her.
I learned that if I simply listened, my nervous system had a lot to say.
About everything.
She’s a noisy, opinionated little toddler.
began noticing that I felt better when I paid attention to specific signals from my body. Instead of pushing through, I started observing. I tracked my sleep. I noticed patterns. I realized that after nights with low deep sleep, my body felt better if I reset my alarm for 6:00 a.m. instead of forcing myself up at 4:30 for a workout.
That realization changed everything.
I found an app that tracked not only sleep, but heart rate variability and other physiological data, translating it all into a color-coded “readiness” score. I’m still learning how to interpret it, but even that process has been grounding. When the score is low — glaring red, angry and insistent — it’s a signal that my body needs something different.
If I had planned a strength workout on one of those days, I learned to pivot. Instead of lifting heavy, I chose low-intensity mobility. Gentle movement. Maybe a slow walk on the treadmill.
Not punishment.
Not failure.
Just listening.
Tracking my sleep also helped me recognize how much my nightly wine habit affected my nervous system. Nights with my favorite Russian River pinot noir resulted in highly fragmented sleep, an elevated heart rate, and very little restorative rest. I experimented and learned that crisp Chardonnays had less of an impact — but still an impact. Champagne, surprisingly, affected my sleep the least - especially when enjoyed earlier in the day.
I also learned that hydration plays a critical role in nervous system regulation. Despite drinking nearly a gallon of water a day, I still had chapped lips and a dry mouth. I realized I was flushing water out before my body could absorb it. Adding electrolytes helped — and adding a pinch of sea salt helped even more. The dryness disappeared.
There was a learning curve there, too. I learned that stopping electrolyte intake by mid-afternoon allowed my body to relax more fully in the evening.
I also had to relearn how to move my body with care. For years, I skipped warm-ups and stretches in favor of longer, harder workouts. But my body felt dramatically better when I began each session with ten minutes of mobility or yoga, and ended with a stretch. I learned that mobility doesn’t just prepare the body — it can help release stored stress.
I began doing a short mobility routine when I got home from work. I change into “soft pants,” move gently, and let my nervous system transition from work hustle to home unhustle. And slowly, I began to notice more patience with the boys.
I learned that blue light wreaks havoc on cortisol regulation. I started wearing blue-light-blocking glasses after dinner and building in a wind-down window before sleep. Journaling didn’t work for me. Meditation didn’t either. But soft music, dim lights, and reading a good book absolutely do.
This isn’t perfect.
Not even close.
I am a work in progress.
I still work in the same career field that generates daily stress. I’m taking time off next school year, but I’m finishing this one with the same high expectations I’ve always held. I’m still raising three teenage boys. Life still happens.
This past December, I white-knuckled my way through. I prioritized sleep over workouts most mornings, leaned on DoorDash more than I’d like to admit, and scrolled mindlessly in bed when the day had taken everything out of me.
But I am working on it.
I still dread jeans. I still frown at myself in the gym mirror. But I’ve finally admitted — however reluctantly — that strong-arming diet and exercise was no longer serving me. Restriction and force weren’t shrinking this body. And worse, they felt awful. It’s exhausting to speak harshly to yourself.
No wonder my nervous system needs reassurance.
So I’ve made a decision: I am no longer actively pursuing weight loss. I can’t — not like that. I am pursuing nervous system regulation. I am building safety. I am offering my tottering toddler a soft place to land when life inevitably gets hard.
I am strengthening the nervous system I was given.
And if weight loss happens along the way, I’ll welcome it.
But even if it doesn’t, I can’t think of a single downside to learning how to live in my body with care.
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