Confessions of a Recovering Wannabe Vulcan

Where are my Trekkies at? I used to live my life like a Vulcan. I was convinced that emotions were unnecessary and crying was for overly emotional women. I did my best to avoid feeling them. Live long and prosper, right?

I was busy, driven, and an overachiever. On the outside, I was high-functioning and certainly didn’t look sick. On the inside, I was a master at pushing through, at distracting myself, at being always on the go. (Sometimes the only place I went was to the bathroom, but who’s counting!)

In those early years of Crohn’s disease, my energy levels were propped up by a corticosteroid, Prednisone, that helped keep my IBD symptoms in check, sort of, but also left me with raging unpredictable emotions. I was also taking an immune suppressant, Imuran, or azathioprine as it’s generically known. This medication left me feeling tired and down. The two together is quite the combination.

When you’re in an acute autoimmune flair, your body is screaming, constantly. The meds are an attempt to quiet the physical symptoms, to stop your body from attacking itself. I began to ignore the constant screaming. It was necessary for survival. I had to tune it out, to turn down the volume on the pain and discomfort.

This disconnection from self, from body, has a significant cost though. I lost relationship with myself, with my soma. I denied what she was saying to me because she wouldn’t stop talking, on high volume, all the time. It was just too much.

This disconnection from my body wasn't just about the pain. It started to include things that are supposed to be automatic, like breathing.

Think of the connection between your brain and your body as a bridge. For me, that bridge became a rickety, terrifying rope bridge swinging in a hurricane. After my pulmonary emboli in 1996, it felt completely unsafe to cross.

Any time my heart rate went up, even for a perfectly good reason like walking uphill, my brain would take me right back to that hospital room. It’s funny how your brain works. I could swear I was there! I couldn't breathe. Catching my breath was challenging from the damage in my lungs. My breath was often shallow and rapid. Deep breathing actually hurt, and if my inhale didn’t bring in enough oxygen, I felt like I was suffocating.

I developed a lot of fear and self-consciousness around my own breath. Am I breathing too loud, too fast, too heavily? This vital, life-giving process had become another source of fear. So, I tuned that out, too. I held my breath often. I stayed disconnected.

What I didn’t know then is that I was living with undiagnosed PTSD. The anxiety, the perfectionism, the anger, the constant busyness... these were not my personality nor were they character flaws. They were trauma responses, through and through.

Here’s why. A nervous system that has experienced trauma, like a life-threatening medical event, doesn't just forget. It stays on high alert, always scanning for the next threat.

• Constant busyness and perfectionism? That's a form of flight. It's a way to stay in motion, to outrun the overwhelming feelings and sensations. It's an attempt to control an uncontrollable situation.

• Anger and rages? That's pure fight energy. It's a system overloaded and ready to defend itself at a moment’s notice.

• Anxiety? That's the hypervigilance of a system that can't power down. My body was stuck in survive mode, even when I was just sitting on the couch.

We are so often taught to see our body's signals as a problem to be fixed. We see anxiety, chronic pain, or exhaustion as a personal failure. We're told to push through or think positively. And we just want the pain to stop.

What if these symptoms are not a flaw, but a language?

What if your anxiety is the intelligent language of a nervous system that needs support? What if your perfectionism is a part of you that learned to survive by being on high alert?

When I finally found a trauma therapist, she helped me see what was happening. My body wasn't trying to ruin my life. It was trying to save my life. It was just using old, outdated information from a time when it was genuinely in danger.

This understanding, this shift changed everything. My relationship with my body moved from one of battle to one of curiosity.

This is the very heart of somatic work. We don't try to flood the system with a tidal wave of effort like I’d been doing. Instead, we get curious. We compassionately ask, what is this trying to tell me? There is no need to make meaning here. We’re learning to listen.

You can start this practice right now. You don't need to dive deep into the discomfort. Just try this small, gentle invitation.

The next time you feel that familiar wave of anxiety, overwhelm, or pain, pause. Place a hand on your heart. Instead of trying to make the feeling go away, just notice it.

Then, gently ask your body, "What would help me feel even 5% safer in this moment?"

Maybe the answer is a sip of water or warm tea. Maybe it's feeling your feet on the floor. Maybe it's petting your dog or looking at a green plant. Maybe it’s a big thing like going for a walk in nature.

It's not about eradicating the feeling. It's about expanding your capacity to be with it, little by little. You are learning how to listen.