In a recent video shared by George Stephanopoulos, he explores this very tension, and I want to add my own views to the conversation he started. He references the Italian theorist Antonio Gramsci, who wrote from a prison cell about this exact kind of gap in history. Gramsci called it an interregnum, famously noting that in this in-between time, "a great variety of morbid symptoms appear." Today, those symptoms are not just social or economic; they are neurological. Those of us with backgrounds in marketing and academic study recognize that the constant state of activation we feel when we check our phones or sit through a useless Zoom call is not a coincidence. It is an architecture of control.

In the marketing world, the focus is often on attentional capture. We know how to seize a gaze and hold it. But what we are experiencing now has evolved into the manufacturing of disregulation. Media platforms and algorithms are no longer just selling products. They are constructing our reality by bypassing our rational minds and plugging directly into our amygdala.

Marshall McLuhan once said that "the medium is the message." In our current world, the message of the screen is permanent agitation. It is designed to keep us in a state of fight or flight because an activated person is a reactive consumer. As Noam Chomsky pointed out in his work on manufacturing consent, "The smart way to keep people passive and obedient is to strictly limit the spectrum of acceptable opinion, but allow very lively debate within that spectrum." When our jaws are tight and our breath is shallow, we lose the ability to see outside that spectrum. We stop looking for nuance and start shopping for certainty.

Even for those of us who consider ourselves healthy, this constant friction is corrosive. But for those of us moving through the world in a body already compromised by autoimmune disease or chronic illness, this environment is a veritable minefield.

In the world of Somatic Experiencing, Peter Levine reminds us that "trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness." When our internal systems are already in a state of hyper-vigilance, fighting an invisible war within our own tissues, this external activation is a physiological tax that can trigger flares and deepen exhaustion. We must hold deep compassion for the fact that navigating this modern shit storm requires ten times the energy when your body is already struggling to find its own baseline of safety. As Stephen Porges describes in Polyvagal Theory, our nervous systems are constantly performing neuroception—scanning for safety or danger. If we feel like we are drowning, it is because the danger signal is being artificially jammed into our lives 24/7.

The real danger is not that we feel stress. The danger is that we get stuck. A healthy nervous system is meant to be fluid. We should be able to activate to meet a challenge and then return to a state of safety and connection.

However, our modern information diet trains us to stay in a state of high alert. When we are stuck in activation, our empathy circuits literally shut down. Brené Brown often says that "it is hard to hate close up," but the digital world ensures we are never close up. It keeps us in a loop of outrage and fear where cruelty begins to feel reasonable. It is the result of a nervous system that has been hijacked.

Building Our Survival Toolkit

Regulating our nervous systems is the most rebellious act we can perform. To find that fluidity again, we need practical, everyday strategies.

Audit Our Emotional Weather Just as we audit a marketing campaign, we must audit our own internal state. If a piece of media makes us feel a surge of righteous anger without providing any actual data, we can recognize it as an attentional capture mechanism. When we label the feeling, we create a gap that allows our higher brain to come back online.

Close Our Background Tasks Our brains carry a heavy load of open loops. These are the small, unfinished tasks and minor anxieties that drain our battery in the background. Whether it is a looming bill or a frustrating email, these tasks act like background apps on a phone. When we write them down and externalize the stress, our nervous system can stop scanning for the threat.

The Power of Sonic Transitions Music is survival equipment for the mind. It bypasses the rational brain and speaks directly to the nervous system. We can use it as a tool to force a state shift. If we are vibrating with anxiety, we can use a specific playlist to ground ourselves and bring our heart rate back to a human pace.

Physical Proximity and Community The digital world is designed to make us feel connected while keeping us isolated. To regulate, we must return to the physical. We can get to know the people on our actual street and engage in the noisy, messy work of local community. Physical presence is a powerful regulator that no algorithm can replicate.

Choosing Fluidity

We are not aiming for a life of perfect, unbothered calm. The goal is to be the mechanics of our own minds. We want a system that is flexible enough to handle the storm without being shattered by it. When we learn to navigate in and out of activation purposefully, we reclaim our empathy and our agency.

What is the first physical sign you notice when you start to feel that surge of activation? Recognizing our own signals is the first step toward taking back the wheel.

I remember getting back to my car after a session and just bawling. Loud, gasping, heaving sobs for no particular reason other than everything needing to get out of my body and mind. I felt ashamed of a response I was so terrified of allowing. But nine years has taught me something no one tells you: That release isn't a breakdown; it’s a breakthrough. Most people don’t realize that life doesn’t repeat because of fate—it repeats because of loops. In the journey of chronic illness and trauma, we are often caught between two very different cycles. At the center of both is INTENTION.

The Survival Loop (The Protective Cycle)

I used to see diagrams calling this the "Victim Loop," but I always took offence to that. I wasn’t a victim; I was in Survival. This is a physical state where the nervous system stays stuck in a defensive posture to protect you from pain. In this loop, we:

• Ignore: We numb out the body's signals to "push through."

• Deny: We refuse to accept that our capacity has changed, seeing it as a failure.

• Blame: We get angry at the flare-ups as if our body is the enemy.

• Rationalize: We stay in the perfectionist cycle, justifying the sacrifice of our health for the quest to be the best.

• Resist: We fight the discomfort of stillness because we are terrified of what we might feel if we stop being busy.

• Hide: We mask the exhaustion to avoid the big release.

The Survival Loop feels safe because it protects the ego, but that safety comes at the cost of stagnation. Nothing heals here.

The Growth Loop (The Somatic Path)

This is the loop of conscious growth. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about being honest. For me, this loop started in a restorative yoga class that was excruciating. While others were relaxing, I was in agony. I couldn't find comfort in the stillness. Accepting the discomfort was the path. In this loop, we:

• Recognize: We notice the triggers or flare-ups without the immediate need to fix or fight them.

• Own: We acknowledge our response, not the story. We realize we don't have to earn our well-being.

• Forgive: We let go of the shame behind the gasping sobs and the backward steps.

• Self-Examine: We look at our need to be perfect with curiosity instead of self-attack.

• Learn: We practice the stillness, even when it’s uncomfortable, to hear what the body is asking for.

• Take Action: We choose to surrender to what is necessary, even when it’s uncomfortable.

The Truth About the Muck

Both loops begin with the same SITUATION. The difference is CHOICE.

You don’t escape the Survival Loop by blaming less or working harder. You escape it by telling yourself the truth, even when that truth is painful. And you don’t enter the Growth Loop by being symptom-free. You enter it by being brave enough to be honest.

What I’ve learned over a decade is that you can’t mindset your way out of a survival response. My therapist was my anchor, constantly building my capacity and reminding me: You cannot rush this. You cannot push harder to heal faster.

Healing is a process of two steps forward, five steps backward, on repeat. It’s messy, uncomfortable work. You stay in the muck for a long time, feeling like you’re failing because the tears won’t stop. But then, slowly, eventually, the consistency starts to pay off. The practices stick. The way you talk to your body shifts from anger to empathy.

Choosing this path often means being misunderstood by those still in the accomplishment cycle, willing to sacrifice everything for work. But choosing growth is an act of radical self-respect.

Accountability is not punishment; it’s self-respect. Surrender is not weakness; it’s clarity. Growth doesn’t happen when life gets easier, it happens when you get braver.

Ask yourself today: Which loop am I feeding and which one is feeding me? The moment you change your INTENTION, your entire life trajectory shifts.

That understanding began to shift in 2017 after a six-week period filled with medical and emotional crises that finally brought me to a complete stop. Up until then, I had lived with 21 years of symptoms since my first bilateral pulmonary emboli without any understanding of nervous system regulation. I did not have language for my internal experience. I didn’t know my body had been working nonstop to protect me. I had no idea I was living in threat physiology. That intense period became the breaking point and the beginning of my real healing.

My trauma therapist slowly introduced calming tools, nervous system education, and small pieces of language that finally made sense of what I had been feeling for so long. It was like someone handed me the manual for my own body. Once I felt even a tiny moment of regulation I became determined to learn more. At first I approached healing the same way I had approached survival, which meant moving fast, reading as much as I could, and chasing skills and information with the hope that more knowledge would equal faster relief. It never worked. Healing never accelerates because of pressure. The more you push your healing, the more your nervous system tightens. It took years to understand that nervous system regulation develops slowly through relationships, repetition, and gentleness. Again and again, the doorway was kindness.

Not the performative kind. Not the polite kind. Not the version of “I’m fine” that hides suffering. What I needed was ventral vagal kindness, which is the physiological state of safety. Polyvagal Theory explains that true kindness relies on having your Social Engagement System available. It is a biological state and not an attitude. When your nervous system feels safe, your breath deepens, your heart rate slows, the muscles in your face soften, your middle ear becomes more attuned to human voice, and connection begins to feel possible. Kindness is a state of expansion. You cannot access true kindness when you are in sympathetic urgency or dorsal collapse. In those states your body is still protecting you.

Understanding the difference between real kindness and the fawn response changed everything, especially because so many people with chronic illness are high-functioning pleasers. Fawning looks like kindness but it is actually a survival strategy. It is the nervous system saying, “If I stay agreeable and small, maybe I will be safe.” This is threat physiology and it drains the body. True kindness, the kind that comes from safety and regulation, gives energy. It fills your system rather than empties it. When I understood this, I realized I had not been “kind” all those years. I had been afraid. That realization completely changed the way I approached my healing.

When I began to experience true kindness, I could feel its biology. When you shift into authentic kindness, especially toward yourself, your body changes its internal chemistry. Oxytocin increases and calms the amygdala while counteracting cortisol. Vagal tone improves, which activates the cholinergic anti-inflammatory pathway and reduces systemic inflammation. Heart rate variability increases and signals greater resilience. Even immune function shifts because the body receives the message that the threat has passed. Kindness is not a soft idea. It is a physiological state of safety. For people with autoimmune illness, safety is a form of medicine.

This matters because self-criticism has the same physiological impact as being attacked by someone else. The body does not distinguish between an external threat and an internal one. Self-attack heightens inflammation. Self-compassion reduces it. The immune system responds to the cues sent by the nervous system. Self-compassion signals safety, and the immune system softens its defensive posture.

The practices that helped me access kindness were surprisingly simple. The first was placing one hand on my heart and one on my belly, then lengthening my exhale by a few seconds. This cues the ventral vagus and helps the body downshift. Another practice was learning to “name the tone.” Instead of getting pulled into my thoughts, I would pause and notice whether the internal tone was harsh, urgent, tight, gentle, or soft, then ask, “What tone would feel just a little kinder?” A one percent shift was enough. I also chose one small act of self-kindness each day. It could be a warm drink, a minute outdoors, unclenching my jaw, or softening my belly. It didn’t matter what the act was. What mattered was consistency. I replaced self-criticism with honest acknowledgement. Instead of saying, “I shouldn’t be struggling,” I began saying, “It makes sense that this is hard. My body is doing the best it can.” My nervous system received this as safety. I also learned to cultivate low-intensity joy. High excitement can be destabilizing for many bodies in chronic stress. Gentle pleasure, warmth, coziness, or soft laughter supports regulation and immune balance.

Now, this is an ongoing practice. Some days the habits slip, and I can feel the difference in my body and mind. When I notice, I pause and gently invite myself to return to the practices that support me most.

Today, I see kindness not as something I have to perform, but as a biological coordinate I can return to. It is a place of internal safety. I no longer rush my healing or push myself to go faster. I no longer try to earn worthiness. I meet myself with the posture I needed years ago, one that is soft, slow, curious, and kind. This is the space where my healing continues to unfold, and it is the space where I help others begin.

References

Pace, T. W. W. et al. (2009). Effect of compassion meditation on neuroendocrine, innate immune, and behavioral responses to psychosocial stress. Psychoneuroendocrinology, 34, 87–98.
Whillans, A. V. et al. (2016). Is spending money on others good for your heart? Journal of Health Psychology, 35(6), 574–83.
Nelson-Coffey, S. K. et al. (2017). Kindness in the blood, a randomized controlled trial of the gene regulatory impact of prosocial behavior. Psychoneuroendocrinology, 81, 8–13.
Kirsch, P. (2005). Oxytocin modulates neural circuitry for social cognition and fear. Nature Neuroscience.
Kok, B. E. and Fredrickson, B. L. (2010). Upward spirals of the heart, vagal signaling and positive emotions. Biological Psychology, 85(3), 432–436.
Gilbert, P. (2009). The Compassionate Mind. New Harbinger.
Neff, K. (2011). Self-Compassion, The Proven Power of Being Kind to Yourself. William Morrow.
Porges, S. (2011). The Polyvagal Theory. W. W. Norton.

I didn’t realize it then, but I was living in a constant hum of fight-or-flight, rushing, pushing, “busy-busy-busy,” mistaking adrenaline for energy. So when restorative yoga gave me those brief flashes of relief—tiny pockets of calm—they felt foreign, almost threatening. I later learned this wasn’t an emotional weakness. It was physiological dysregulation. My nervous system had learned that rest equals danger.

It took many sessions before my body could trust stillness again. But those early experiences taught me something essential: healing an autoimmune body doesn’t start with willpower—it starts with safety.

You’ve probably heard the advice to “manage your stress.” Maybe you meditate, you journal, you try to stay positive. And yet the flares still come, the fatigue lingers, and your body feels like it’s constantly bracing for something. What if your struggle isn’t a lack of discipline or emotional coping skills at all? What if your body is asking for something deeper?

For those of us living with autoimmune conditions, lasting stability comes not from better emotional regulation or positive thinking, but from soothing and supporting the body’s underlying physiological regulation: the hardware that sets the tone for everything else.

The Two Sides of Stress: Mind vs. Body

To move forward, we need to clearly define the two types of regulation we engage in every day:

Emotional Regulation (ER)

This is the software of your mind—your ability to manage, process, and respond to your feelings in a contextually appropriate way.

The Goal: To help your mind cope with challenging external and internal events.

Examples: Taking a deep breath before reacting to a stressful email or using cognitive reframing to see a situation differently.

Physiological Regulation (PR)

This is the hardware of your body—your nervous system’s core ability to maintain internal balance, manage sensory input, and switch smoothly between the Sympathetic (fight/flight) and Parasympathetic (rest/digest) nervous systems.

The Goal: To keep your body's alarm system—the HPA axis—in a safe and balanced state, allowing your immune system to focus on maintenance instead of defence.

Examples: How well your body processes bright lights, manages muscle tension, or handles a drop in blood sugar.

The Shift in Perspective: From Self-Blame to Understanding

Autoimmune bodies often live on a very short fuse—not because we’re “too sensitive,” but because the nervous system is already overloaded long before symptoms appear. When we interpret every reaction through the Emotional Regulation lens, we end up blaming ourselves for something our physiology is driving. Shifting to a Physiological Regulation lens helps us understand what’s truly happening inside the body—and reminds us that gentleness, not judgment, is the path forward.

Here is how this essential shift in perspective works using real-life examples:

Scenario: The Traffic Jam

You get cut off in traffic and immediately slam on your brakes, followed by extreme, lingering anger. This is viewed as an emotional failure. You think, "I have poor impulse control; I need to be better at staying calm." This was actually physiological dysregulation. Your body was likely already running on four hours of sleep and skipped lunch (major PR stressors). The traffic just provided the spark. Your nervous system, already hyper-aroused, defaulted to the fight response because it had no reserve left.

Scenario: The Social Event

You attend a dinner party but feel exhausted, can't focus, and have to leave early. You feel guilty about your withdrawal. This is viewed as an emotional failure. You think, "I'm too anxious to be social; I need to work on my fear of crowds." It was actually physiological dysregulation. The cumulative sensory input—multiple voices, restaurant lighting, strong perfume—created a massive sensory overload in your nervous system. Your brain used all its energy to process the environment, leaving none for conversation. Leaving early was an act of necessary self-regulation to protect your physical health and prevent a flare.

Scenario: The Flare Trigger

You’ve been managing your autoimmune condition well, but a sudden work deadline triggers joint pain or gut symptoms that could eventually lead to a full-blown flare. This is viewed as an emotional failure. You think, "My stress level is too high; I should have worked less and been more disciplined." It was actually a Physiological Trigger. The acute stress of the deadline activated your HPA axis, flooding your system with cortisol. This hormonal cascade directly influences cytokine production, prompting an increase in systemic inflammation that initiates the flare, regardless of whether you kept an emotionally calm mindset during the process.

Your Key to Healing: Prioritizing Physiological Regulation

The takeaway is this: Stop blaming yourself for feeling overwhelmed. Your body isn't emotionally failing; it's physiologically struggling under the weight of an autoimmune condition and chronic stress.

If your immune system is overactive, your number one priority is to communicate safety to your body’s hardware. You cannot effectively use emotional regulation strategies when your body feels like it's fighting a war.

This is why we shift our focus to Physiological Regulation. We use body-based methods to calm the nervous system, which in turn cools the immune response.

Actionable Physiological Regulation Strategies to Try Today:

1. Vagal Nerve Toning (The Direct Reset): Your vagus nerve is the superhighway of the parasympathetic (calming) system. You can tone it by:

• Gargling loudly with water until you tear up.

• Humming or Chanting a steady tone for 30 seconds.

• Taking short, controlled cold exposures (like splashing cold water on your face).

2. Sensory Shielding (Lowering the Alarm): Identify and reduce environmental input that causes overload.

• Wear noise-cancelling headphones in busy places.

• Use blue-light blocking glasses in the evening.

• Create a "No-Input Zone"—a quiet, dimly lit space you retreat to daily for 15 minutes.

3. Foundation First (Creating Stability): Ensure your body has the energy to regulate.

• Prioritize Sleep: Treat your bedtime as a non-negotiable medical appointment.

• Steady Input: Eat small, regular, nutrient-dense meals to avoid blood sugar crashes, which are a major physiological stressor.

• Find Heavy Work: Gentle, intentional movement like pushing a heavy cart or carrying a backpack.

It took me many sessions of restorative yoga to acclimate to the sensation of genuine rest, but I kept going back for more. This repeated exposure was how I began to rewire my nervous system, teaching it that stillness equals safety, not sickness.

This journey led me to become a yoga teacher, driven by the desire to spread the word that yoga isn't just for fitness—it’s a powerful tool for physiological regulation, rest, and restoration. By diving into the initial discomfort and committing to the process, I learned to manage my internal hardware. I’m still learning!

By giving your nervous system the support it truly needs, you empower your immune system to finally step down from its high-alert state, leading to less inflammation and more lasting balance.

Ready to dive deeper into truly regulating your nervous system and finding lasting calm for your autoimmune journey? Sign up for my newsletter and get notified when Autoimmune Compass launches.

I’m navigating all this while also managing an autoimmune body that turns every day into a quiet negotiation. I’m grateful to have a partner who is able to support us financially. But even with that security, the pressure is immense. It’s an internal pressure that whispers: You should be doing more. You should be stronger.

I realized the hardest part of chronic illness isn't the physical pain; it's the shame that tries to convince you your worth is tied to your productivity. We were raised on the idea of being busy, active women. What happens when the body changes the rules?

I’m learning to be kind to myself by holding space for these tough truths. These aren't rules—they're just Reflections from the Quiet Moments. Maybe they'll resonate with you, too.

Reflection 1: Redefining "Enough" and Releasing the Guilt

When a flare hits, even basic personal hygiene—like having a shower and drying my hair—can feel like a major physical event. The dishes pile up, the pet fur accumulates, and I feel that familiar sting of failure. It's hard not to feel like I'm falling short as a wife and mother, especially when I know the house could be cleaner.

• My experience: I've had to make a radical mental shift: My worth is not linked to a clean house. I am learning to define a successful day by my self-compassion, not my checklist. Success is taking my medication, drinking water, and managing my symptoms. When I’m down, the standard drops. Survival is the win. The reality is, the pile of laundry doesn't stop my family from loving me.

• Gentle Inquiry: When your energy is spent and the chores sit, what is the kindest, most essential truth you can tell yourself to silence that inner critic and celebrate the small act of simply enduring?

Reflection 2: The Silent Grief and Cultivating Safe Joy

There is a quiet grief in having to constantly adjust dreams and cancel plans—the lost opportunity to be the active mum or colleague I want to be. It’s isolating when your capacity doesn't match your desire, especially when I'm confined to the couch or need to stay close to the bathroom. If I can't be busy or mobile, who am I?

The answer lies in cultivating small, internal moments of joy that are immune to physical capacity.

• My experience: I had to let go of waiting for a big outing to feel happy. My joy must be something I can access when I'm housebound. I prioritize a peaceful breakfast, listening to an audiobook, learning a new word, or focusing on a quiet, sensory experience like a favourite scent or music. This mental movement keeps me young. When you know how to make yourself happy in the quiet, loneliness loses a bit of its power.

• Gentle Inquiry: What is one specific, quiet, low-energy joy—a book, a song, a new short skill—you can protect and prioritize today, ensuring your happiness isn't dependent on external, unpredictable health?

Reflection 3: Setting Boundaries—An Investment in Presence

It is incredibly challenging to manage the disappointment of a 17-year-old who needs a ride or a 12-year-old who wanted to bake, only to have to say, "I can't." But if I push through, the rebound crash is worse, and then I’m useless to them for days.

I’ve learned that setting a boundary is an act of self-preservation that ultimately benefits the whole family.

• My experience: I communicate with my husband and children using the language of shared investment: "If you all manage the pet care and the dishes this week, you are investing in my ability to join you for that outing on Saturday. Your help is giving me energy back." It shifts their role from helpers to active participants in my stability.

• Gentle Inquiry: If you could gently ask for help with one major energy-draining chore this week—and frame it to your family as an investment in your future presence—what would that chore be, and how would you word the request without shame? (Remember, we deserve to be supported.)

If you are navigating this reality, please know you are not alone. You are performing a silent, constant act of resilience that deserves honouring.

This journey requires profound self-compassion, not self-criticism. What are the small, manageable ways you allow yourself grace on the days when rest is the only item on your list, and how do you find community connection on days you can't leave the house?

Have you ever had a pain like that? One that feels less like a symptom and more like a permanent part of your life?

During my in person Somatic Experiencing training, I had my first personal SE session. I was nervous and didn’t really know what to expect. My practitioner had me imagine my body as a museum I was walking through. A museum of me. She gently guided me, figuratively holding me with compassion, as we toured the museum of me, we gently touched on the sensation in my chest.

As we got close, my heart started to beat rapidly, I felt warm, I even started sweating... all the familiar sensations that usually sent me into a panic attack.

But this time was different. She was there with me. I wasn't alone in it. She wasn't trying to fix the pain or make it go away. She just helped me notice all the parts of it, with curiosity. The heat, the memory, the fear, and the story I'd told myself that this pain was permanent.

By gently and safely noticing all these pieces without getting overwhelmed, my nervous system finally got the memo. The danger from 1996 was over. It was able to let the echo of that pain go.

After that one session, the pain I held for almost three decades was gone. It has not returned.

It felt like magic.

But it wasn't magic. It was physiology. It was my brain and body finally having a new, updated conversation.

This brain-body connection isn't just for big magic moments, though. It's a lifeline in a crisis, too.

I saw this again after my abdominal surgery in 2024. The ketamine they gave me for pain management had a terrifying effect. I felt completely disembodied, like I wasn’t in my body. My limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. It was very disorienting. I felt paralyzed.

It was like my brain was a lighthouse, and my body was a small boat lost in a thick fog. The connection was completely obscured. But even in that overwhelming state, I could access my clinical somatics training. I couldn't move much, but I could will my body to do a gentle pelvic tilt. I was lying there, feeling my feet press into the mattress and my pelvis gently rock.

That tiny movement was like sending up a single flare from the boat. It was a pinprick of light in the fog, a tiny "I'm am here" signal. It was profound. I was proving, even in that disoriented state, that the connection between my brain and my body was not broken. This was a small, subtle movement. A large movement felt out of reach, too much with the disconnection sensation from the medication.

I didn’t feel the post-op pain, but I would have preferred the pain to the disconnection, disassociation, and discomfort.

So, how do you start to build this connection when you're not in a therapist's office or a hospital bed?

It starts small. This work is slow, subtle, and kind. It's not a tidal wave of effort. It's a single drop of ease.

Give yourself permission to get curious with these simple exercises, right now:

• Place a hand on your heart and a hand on your belly. Just feel the warmth of your own touch. Notice your breath. Stay here for several rounds. Genty release.

• Hum a little tune. Your favourite song. Your national anthem. It doesn’t really matter. The vibration is a direct message to your vagus nerve that you are okay.

• Look around the room and name three things you see that are blue. This is called orienting. It pulls your brain out of a spiral and into the present moment.

• Press your feet firmly into the floor. Feel the solid ground beneath you. It is always there, holding you.

That's it. You are simply signalling to your brain, "I am here. In this moment, I am safe." You are actively drawing a new map. While these examples are simple, I don’t mean to imply the work will be easy. It’s not. But it is so very worthwhile.

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.

Living with an autoimmune disease isn't just about managing physical symptoms. It's a relentless, moment-to-moment negotiation. It’s the grief for the energy you used to have. It’s the frustration of feeling misunderstood. It’s the exhaustion of trying to explain an invisible battle that you fight every single day.

If you’re reading this, you probably know exactly what I mean.

My own health journey began between 1996 and 1998. Back then, the internet was not what it is today. There were no online courses or YouTube videos explaining what my diagnosis meant. Information was incredibly difficult to find, and I felt utterly alone in trying to navigate my new reality.

Over the last three decades, I've tried almost everything under the sun to feel better. I've encountered every scam, every multi-level marketing company promising to heal my gut, and every well-meaning person asking, "Oh, but have you tried...?" This is why I am creating The Autoimmune Compass.

This isn't another quick fix or a rigid protocol. What I am creating is a flexible offering that you are meant to practice. These are the tools and somatic resources that, when practiced consistently, create real, sustainable change.

There is no quick fix, and I am absolutely not offering a cure. But I can say this with confidence: when you commit to the practice, you will experience a difference. My guiding philosophy is simple: Take what works for you and leave the rest.

Full transparency: I’m still in the process of structuring the modules and refining the content. I’m pouring my heart into making this as supportive and genuinely helpful as it can be. I’m not sure exactly what the final version will look like, but I can promise you this: it is happening.

If you’ve been feeling lost and are looking for a gentle, sustainable way to support your body and spirit, I’m creating this for you.

You don’t have to navigate this alone.

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Navigating life from a state of survival is exhausting, and you deserve a lifeline. If you're looking for a way to gently guide your nervous system back to safety, I've created something just for you. My free guide, A Moment of Ease, offers three simple, somatic practices to help you find your anchor and calm your body in 5 minutes or less. It’s your first step toward reclaiming your peace.

Click here to get your free A Moment of Ease guide.

For years, I thought the only way to manage this was to push harder, to fix, control, or outsmart my body. But the real shift came when I learned to pause.

Our nervous system is designed to protect us. When it senses threat, even something as simple as pain, fatigue, or stress, it flips into survival mode. Heart rate increases. Muscles tense. The body prepares to act. For people living with chronic illness, this response can become stuck in the “on” position.

The more I tried to force myself to get back to normal, the more my body resisted. It was not being lazy or uncooperative. It was protecting me.

What I did not realize back then was that rest, slowness, and gentle movement could rewire that pattern. They could teach my body and brain that safety was possible again.

Restorative yoga was my first teacher in this. At first, I hated it. Being still felt like failure, like giving up, like I was stuck in bed from my chronic illnesses. But over time, as I learned to settle into props and soften into breath, I began to feel something I had not felt in years, if ever: ease.

Somatic movement deepened that experience. Instead of stretching or forcing, I learned to move from the inside out, to notice subtle sensations, tiny releases, quiet shifts in tension. These movements are small, but they are profound. They remind the body that it can let go of old holding patterns and find a new sense of balance.

Both practices became ways of communicating with my nervous system, a language of softness, curiosity, and compassion.

The pause is not passive. It is where healing begins. It is where the body can shift from fight or flight into rest and digest, the place where repair happens.

For those of us living with autoimmune disease, healing is not about pushing through every flare or pretending to be fine. It is about learning to live in the pause, to meet ourselves gently, to listen when the body whispers (before it has to shout), and to remember that doing less is sometimes the most powerful medicine of all.

Because when we stop fighting our bodies and start listening, we find something deeper than control. We find connection.

And that connection is where healing, real and sustainable healing, begins.

I’ve been spending a lot of time this weekend deep in my Somatic Experiencing Intermediate training, and a concept that has landed with profound resonance is Global High Intensity Activation, or GHIA. It’s the clinical term for that state of being completely overwhelmed, where your nervous system is so flooded with stress hormones that it gets stuck in the 'on' position. Think of a car with the accelerator pressed to the floor, even in neutral. That's the hum. It’s a state of high alert, of fight or flight, but often without a clear, present threat. It just becomes our baseline.

And what do we do when we’re in that state? We over-do. We push through the fatigue, ignore the subtle (or screaming) signals from our body, and keep moving. It can look incredibly functional from the outside. We’re still getting the kids to school, meeting work deadlines, keeping the house in order. But inside, our system is burning fuel at an unsustainable rate. This functional freeze is a brilliant survival strategy, but it comes at a cost: a deep and painful disconnection from ourselves.

Recognizing this pattern in my own life has been a revelation. The tendency to mistake that high-intensity hum for a normal state of being. The habit of honouring the to-do list more than the tremor in my hands or the tightness in my chest.

So where do we even begin with this? The path toward navigating this intensity isn't about finding a magic button to turn it off. Instead, it starts with the foundational practice of resourcing.

Resourcing is the gentle, deliberate act of turning our attention toward anything that brings even a flicker of ease, safety, or neutrality. It is the practice of building a different kind of relationship with our nervous system, one moment at a time. It’s about cultivating anchors of safety we can return to.

For me, resourcing can be incredibly simple:

• Feeling the solid ground beneath my feet for three full breaths.

• Pausing to look out the window and notice the exact shade of gold on the autumn leaves.

• Wrapping my hands around a warm mug of tea and actually feeling the warmth seep into my palms.

• Placing a hand on my own heart and noticing the rhythm of its beat.

These aren’t grand gestures meant to solve everything at once. They are micro-moments of return. Each one is a small act of defiance against the tyranny of pushing through. They are how we begin to build our capacity to be with what is true in the present moment.

And here is the most beautiful discovery in all of this: as we practise resourcing, we strengthen our ability to be present with ourselves, even amidst the intensity. This capacity is the bedrock of true relationship.

When we are stuck in that high-activation state, we can’t truly connect with others. We might be in the same room, but our nervous system is in a war room. We can listen to words, but we can't feel the emotional current beneath them. We can't offer our full, regulated presence because we don't have access to it ourselves. We are, in essence, unavailable.

By practising resourcing, we come home to our own bodies first. We find a centre. And from that more settled, aware place, we can finally turn towards another person. We can listen without our own alarm bells ringing. We can offer empathy that comes from a place of fullness, not depletion. We can be present. We can truly come into relationship—with our partners, our children, our friends, and most fundamentally, with ourselves.

So today, I’m offering a gentle invitation, to you and to me: Where is the hum of too much in your life? And what is one small resource, one moment of sensory goodness, that you can offer yourself to build your capacity for presence today?

How Autoimmune Diseases Work

Think of your immune system as a security guard. Its job is to recognize harmful invaders like bacteria, viruses, or toxins and take them down. Normally, that guard is sharp, quick, and accurate.

But in autoimmune diseases, the guard gets confused. Instead of only chasing the bad guys, it mistakes your own healthy cells for intruders. Scientists believe this happens because of a mix of genetics, environmental triggers like infections or toxins, and sometimes hormonal influences.

When this mistake happens, the immune system creates autoantibodies or activates immune cells that attack the body itself. The end result is inflammation that does not turn off. Sometimes it zeroes in on one organ, like the thyroid in Hashimoto’s or the pancreas in Type 1 diabetes. Other times, it spreads throughout the body, like in lupus or rheumatoid arthritis.

How This Plays Out in Real Life

The science explains the process, but it doesn’t capture what life actually feels like.

Autoimmune diseases often bring pain, fatigue, and limited mobility. They can cause organ damage, and if not managed carefully, they can even shorten life expectancy. Mentally and emotionally, the constant stress and unpredictability increase rates of depression and anxiety. The invisible nature of many of these diseases adds another layer of difficulty. You may look fine on the outside, while inside you are struggling.

Daily life becomes a balancing act. Flare-ups come and go without warning. One day you can get through work or family responsibilities. The next, you may be stuck in bed or unable to eat without pain. School, work, and social plans get interrupted over and over again. Medical appointments, bloodwork, and medication schedules become a regular part of life. And of course, the financial impact of medications and missed work is real and heavy.

My Experience with Crohn’s

With Crohn’s disease, unpredictability is the name of the game. I have learned to always know where the nearest bathroom is, because sudden cramps and urgent trips to the toilet can take over without warning. The pain and exhaustion can be relentless. Add to that the emotional rollercoaster of not knowing how I will feel from one day to the next, and it is easy to feel like life is running me instead of the other way around.

Then there are the medications. Prednisone, for example, can bring relief but also comes with wild side effects. I have lived through the mood swings, the insomnia, and what I jokingly call “roid rage.” Imagine crying over a commercial one minute and snapping at a houseplant the next. Not exactly the calm and centered life I would choose.

And yet, I have learned that fighting against my body only makes everything harder.

Finding Hope

Living with an autoimmune disease has taught me that sometimes I do have to push through. There are days when rest simply isn’t an option, when life asks more of me than my body would choose, and I often feel the consequences later. That’s part of the reality of chronic illness, and I try to meet that honestly.

But when I do have the choice, the greatest gift I give myself is slowing down. Allowing rest. Letting my body have the space it needs instead of forcing it into a version of “normal” that isn’t possible that day.

This isn’t giving up. It’s listening. It’s compassion. It’s choosing to meet myself exactly as I am instead of holding myself to who I think I should be.

Somatic movement helps me release tension gently, without force. Yoga reconnects me to my breath and teaches me to move at the pace my body can manage. Art journaling gives me a place to process emotions that don’t yet have words. These practices don’t fix my autoimmune disease, but they support me. They help me feel more grounded, more present, and more at home in my body.

With consistent practice, these tools have changed my relationship with Crohn’s. Instead of seeing my body as something that’s failing me, I try to treat it as a partner. Some days are smoother than others, but when I listen with curiosity instead of judgment, I find more steadiness and more hope.

My illness may always be part of my life, but healing, for me, is no longer about eliminating it. Healing means softening into what’s here, using the practices that support me, and choosing again and again to respond to myself with gentleness.

That’s the kind of hope I want to share.

For a long time, I treated my body like a stubborn employee — barking orders and demanding results. When I was exhausted or in pain, I ignored it. When I wanted to keep up appearances, I pushed through. And when chronic illness knocked me down, I got back up too soon, too fast. It was a cycle of boom and bust — energy spikes followed by crashes.

But the deeper truth started much earlier.

In 1996, I survived a massive bilateral pulmonary embolism. One moment I was an athlete, running, moving, alive in my body. The next, I was in a medical coma, waitlisted for a heart–lung transplant if I didn’t improve. I did survive, but fear moved into my body and never left.

No one told me at the time that what I was experiencing was trauma. The doctors didn’t speak about it, my family rarely discussed it, and I had no words for what lingered. But I came out of that hospital with paralyzing fear: terrified to increase my heart rate, convinced that if I pushed too far, I would die.

So I stopped moving. Aside from gentle walking, I avoided exercise. And because movement had always been part of my identity, losing it felt like losing myself. For over 20 years, I lived with undiagnosed PTSD - hypervigilance, dread, panic when my pulse rose, without knowing its name.

Slowly, with help, I inched my way back. A personal trainer worked with me in a way I had never experienced before: watching my heart rate, pausing when it got too high, waiting until it came down before we continued. That was magic. I began to learn something my nervous system had forgotten: when the heart rate rises with activity, it can also come back down with rest.

That shift was healing beyond words. It gave me a bridge back to movement, a sense of safety, and proof that my body could handle more than I feared.

Later, I found restorative yoga — another surprise. I didn’t know how to rest. Stillness made me twitchy and uncomfortable — surely I should be doing something! But restorative yoga taught me the opposite: stillness is doing something. When I propped myself in a gentle fold or melted into a bolster, I felt my body soften in ways I hadn’t thought possible. Muscles released. Breath slowed. Emotions flowed. A nervous system on constant high alert began to downshift.

Then came Hanna Somatics, slow, mindful movements that look like almost nothing from the outside but feel profound inside. These movements gently re-educate the nervous system, teaching chronically contracted muscles to release.

The magic wasn’t in big workouts; it was in subtle, curious exploration. A tiny arch and flatten of the back. A gentle shoulder release. Somatic exercise taught me how to listen, not demand. Bonus - most movements are gentle enough that I can do them even on low energy, high pain days, and can be done in bed! Over time, my legs, back, and core began to feel stronger, not through force, but through cooperation.

Try this mini experiment: Lie on your back with knees bent. Slowly arch your lower back just a little, then gently press it into the floor. Move with as little effort as possible. Notice the difference between the two. Repeat three times, slower each round.

Breath was the other key. I didn’t realize how often I held my breath, bracing against pain, stress, and even joy. My breath was also incredibly shallow and rapid. The inhale was my life, I needed oxygen! Deep breathing was scary, and it was something that took regular practice. Therapeutic breathing, especially the parasympathetic breath, became a reset button for my nervous system.

The parasympathetic breath is simple: inhale through the nose for a count of 4, exhale slowly through the mouth for a count of 6–8. That longer exhale signals safety to the body, activating the parasympathetic nervous system — the “rest and digest” mode. Over time, this simple breath reduced anxiety spikes, calmed pain flares, and gave my body permission to heal.

Try this now: Inhale gently for a count of 4. Exhale slowly, like you’re sighing, for 6–8 counts. Repeat three times. Notice if your shoulders soften or your jaw releases.

Why Gentle Movement Matters with Autoimmune Disease

Living with autoimmune disease taught me that consistency beats intensity every time. Gentle, mindful movement creates sustainable strength, mobility, and regulation. It respects the body’s changing energy levels.

Contrast that with what happens when we push too hard — like HIIT (high-intensity interval training) several times a week. For healthy bodies, it can be invigorating. But for autoimmune bodies, HIIT can flood the system with stress hormones, increase inflammation, and trigger crashes or flares. I’ve been there: the harder I pushed, the longer it took to recover. My body wasn’t getting stronger — it was getting more depleted.

My Movement Today

These days, my practice looks like a patchwork quilt: restorative yoga for rest, somatic exercise for release, gentle core and back work for stability, and breath for regulation. It’s not flashy or Instagram-worthy. Some days, it’s five minutes of windshield wipers and a few deep sighs. But it’s mine. And it’s healing.

Because healing through movement isn’t about punishing the body into submission. It’s about listening, honoring, and partnering with it. It’s about learning that rest is a form of strength, that slower can be deeper, and that gentleness is not weakness — it’s wisdom.

Your invitation: What’s one tiny, gentle movement you can try today — a shoulder roll, a sigh, a stretch — not to fix yourself, but to listen?

My pages always start the same way: with words. I sit with a short meditation, listen to whatever shows up, and write it all down. The messy, unfiltered things I would never voice out loud to another living being. That first layer is raw and brave. Then I honor it. I name it. I write it down so it is seen. And then I cover it.

Gesso, collage, paint. Sometimes I add a pretty or meaningful image on top as a final layer. The result is an honest map of my interior life that I can hold, touch, and transform. The words are still there, under the layers, witnessed and respected, but they are no longer the loudest thing in the room.

At first, my inner critic was merciless. “This isn’t good enough,” she said, often in all caps. I did not even know what gesso was. Watercolour bled, acrylics clumped, and I felt incompetent at every turn. Perfectionism used to stop me from starting anything. If it could not be perfect, why try? Art journaling taught me a new rule: there is no wrong way. The point is the process.

Living with autoimmune disease means days, sometimes long stretches, of low energy. Art journaling has been shockingly adaptable to that reality. On good days I sit at my table and layer, collage, and play. On harder days I doodle in bed. In the hospital, with an IV taped to my hand, creation looked different: a small colouring book, a couple of markers within reach. Those tiny acts—a doodle, a repeated motif, a single painted petal—mattered. They whispered that I still existed beyond illness and pain.

Why does this feel like medicine? Because creativity changes us physiologically. Making art lowers stress hormones and heart rate, nudging the nervous system toward “rest and digest.” I did not understand the science when I started. I only knew I felt calmer, lighter, and somehow safer after sessions. Later, when I learned about somatics and the nervous system, it all made sense. Those small creative rituals were giving my body repeated opportunities to downshift, to find safety, and to re-pattern how I lived in my own skin.

What I love most is how art journaling asks for compassion rather than perfection. The page becomes a witness to grief, fear, gratitude, and small joys. All of it is layered and held. Sometimes the final spread is a mess. Sometimes it surprises me. The point is not the finished product. It is the permission to show up, to feel, to create, and to rest.

If you are thinking “I am not an artist,” neither was I. If you think “I don’t have energy,” try this: put a small stack of paper, a pen, and one marker beside your bed. When you can, sit for two minutes. Breathe. Start with a short guided meditation on your phone. Write whatever comes up. Close the page and, later if you want, add a wash of color. That is art journaling. Tiny. Flexible. Radical in its gentleness.

A few practical ways I use art journaling for low-energy or even hospital days:

• Keep a small kit: a colouring book, a handful of markers, black pen, white gel pen

• Begin with meditation, freewrite, then cover with gesso or paint at a later date if you do not have the energy to do it all

• Stamp tissue paper or paint scraps to save for future collages (low effort, high payoff)

• Doodle or zentangle with a single pen—no supplies, no pressure

• Remember: one coloured square, one painted petal, or one line counts

Art journaling is play with a purpose. It taught my nervous system and my perfectionist heart to tolerate imperfection and to find rest. It helped me hold things I could not say out loud and then gently change how they lived inside me. That alone felt like a revolution.

Your turn: What if one imperfect mark on a page could be the beginning of your own small, steady healing habit? Try it today. Two minutes, one pen, one page. No perfection required.

I was busy all the time. Volunteering at school, leading kids’ extracurricular activities, juggling everything I thought mattered. I avoided, ignored, denied, dissociated. Rest wasn’t optional—it was something I never gave myself.

Then, in February 2017, my body forced me to listen, for real. Another massive bilateral pulmonary embolism hit me hard. Not long after, a 30cm growth formerly knows as my right ovary burst, which led to an emergency total hysterectomy and omentectomy—through an already weakened incision from small bowel resection in 2006. I was literally smacked down.

Suddenly, all the “busy” and “keep going” strategies meant nothing. My body wasn’t asking anymore—it was insisting. Every movement, every breath, every thought had to take my health into account. For the first time, I couldn’t deny, avoid, or dissociate.

From that point, I began talking with a trauma therapist. Game-changing. I was diagnosed with PTSD, and for the first time, I understood that my body’s reactions weren’t just “me being weak” or “overreacting”—they were real, valid, and part of my healing journey.

Therapy opened the door to yoga, meditation, self-compassion, and eventually all things somatic. Movement became a language, not a punishment. Breath became a tool, not a threat. Awareness became a pathway, not a judgment.

If you’re living with chronic illness, pain, or overwhelm, know this: sometimes your body has to force you to stop. And when it does, it’s not punishment—it’s an invitation to reconnect, however slowly, however gently.

Here’s a tiny way to start:

Bilateral Butterfly Tap

1. Place the tips of your fingers lightly on the tops of both shoulders, crossing your arms in front. Left hand to right shoulder, right hand to left shoulder.

2. Begin to gently tap your shoulders alternately, left then right, like butterfly wings flapping softly.

3. Tap at a rhythm that feels natural—slow, playful, and comfortable.

4. After a few rounds, release the tapping and relax your arms. Take a slow, deep breath. Notice how your body feels.

Tiny, simple, playful. And yet, that tiny moment of attention is a start. It’s how healing begins.

Your body has been talking. Sometimes it has to shout. Will you listen?