Our Ancient Guardian - Forever Protective Though Sheltered From Consciousness

The air in my chest often feels thin, a whisper of what it could be if only my lungs could fully expand without the vise-like grip of an invisible hand. I feel faint as my temperature rises and my sweat drips. I feel thin, tingly, weak. This perpetual tension isn’t a new acquaintance; it’s a shadow that has lengthened with every year I’ve lived, a constant hum beneath the surface of my consciousness. It’s the whisper of an old, tired tale, one my nervous system seems intent on telling repeatedly, regardless of the present

moment.

My nervous system. It holds my experiences from early life, a vast, intricate archive of every tremor, every fright, every moment of perceived threat or abandonment. It’s a diligent, if misguided, historian, theologian, carefully preserving sensations and reactions that once, long ago, served a purpose. The problem is, it doesn't know what is now safe and what isn't. It operates on a primitive logicless survival instinct that was forged in the crucible of my earliest years, when my capacity for conscious discernment was virtually non-existent and the parts of my brain for memory had not been developed. It is twisted in knots, a tangled skein of neural pathways that are tied to the limbic system, the ancient emotional brain, lost far from the conscious mind. It’s like a complex roadmap where all the old, dangerous routes are highlighted in bold, indelible ink, while the new, safe highways are barely visible, or sometimes, not even drawn. My rational mind, the part of me that understands cause and effect, that knows I am secure now, that the threats of the past are long gone, stands bewildered on the sidelines, trying to shout instructions to a driver who is deafened by the roar of old engines. It’s so utterly frustrating not being able to overcome reactions based so deep in, rooted in, embedded in my nervous system directly. I witness myself respond to situations – a sudden change in plans, a missed call, enjoying a moment for me, a mistake made, even just a momentary feeling of being overlooked – with a disproportionate surge of fear, anger, or despair. My heart races, my breath catches, my stomach clenches, my muscles tense, ready for a fight or desperate to flee, or worse, freezing entirely, a deer caught in headlights. Consciously, I know these reactions are irrational for the present context. Intellectually, I can dissect the situation, understand that there is no real danger. Yet, the physical and emotional hijack is absolute. It feels precisely like driving downhill on sheer ice. My conscious mind is at the wheel, hands gripped tight, foot hovering over the non-existent brake, desperately trying to steer. But the tires, my own body’s physiological responses, have lost all traction. They spin helplessly, skidding sideways, careening towards an unknown, frightening destination. The landscape around me might be tranquil, the sun might be shining, but my internal world is a blizzard, a perilous descent where control is an illusion that is desperately grasped at. I’m just a passenger in my own vehicle, bracing for impact, enduring the terrifying slide, utterly powerless.

I see others navigate life’s ordinary bumps and challenges with a fluidity, a resilience that I can only dream of. They stumble, they get up, they adjust, they move on seemingly with little repercussion. For me, a minor deviation can feel like a catastrophic crash. The energy it takes to recover from one of these nervous system-driven episodes is immense, often leaving me drained for days, questioning my sanity, my strength, my very self. Why can’t I just choose to react differently? Why can’t my will overpower these ancient, stubborn mechanisms? Why does my body betray my knowing so consistently and readily? The truth is, my nervous system isn't trying to betray me. It's trying to protect me. It’s just that its definition of "protection" is outdated, based on a time when I had no voice, no agency, no ability to escape dangerous, scary and abandonment situations. It learned to anticipate, to brace, to overreact, to shield, to hide, to be other because in those formative years, under-reaction might have meant something far worse. It created deeply grooved pathways, neural highways that lead straight to the limbic system, bypassing the logical, reasoning prefrontal cortex altogether. A lifetime of this pruned distance between fear and possibility. These pathways became my default, my primary mode of operation, a reflex so ingrained it feels like part of my very DNA, or deeper. For years, I didn't even understand what was happening. I thought I was weak, flawed, too sensitive. I blamed myself for my inability to cope. I tried to intellectualize my way out of it, to think positive, to just calm down, or ignore it. But you can’t tell your nervous system to "just calm down" any more than you can tell your heart to stop beating. The frustration mounted, leading to cycles of self-criticism, self-harm, despair and many thoughts of suicide. Then, slowly, glimmers of understanding began to pierce the fog. I stumbled upon information about trauma, about the autonomic nervous system, about polyvagal theory, about how early experiences literally wire the brain and body. It was like suddenly being given the owner’s manual to a complex machine I’d been operating blindly my entire life. The "tired scary old tale" wasn't just in my head; it was in my very cells, in the way my vagal nerve responded, in the subtle shifts of my body chemistry. It wasn’t a moral failing; it was a physiological response. This realization was both terrifying and liberating. Terrifying, because it meant the problem was deeper than I’d imagined, embedded in the very fabric of my being. Liberating, because it meant I wasn’t broken – my system was merely responding exactly as it was designed to, based on old, outdated stories and programming. The "fault" wasn’t mine; it was in the programming. And if it was programming, perhaps it could be re-programmed.

This new understanding ignited a fierce desire within me. I want to change. I want to set myself free from my nervous system’s implicit ways and navigate things as though they are new, not a tired scary old tale I can't discern from reality. I want to be the driver with hands firmly on the wheel, able to discern ice from asphalt, to apply the brakes gently, to steer with precision, or even to pull over and wait for the storm to pass without panicking, reacting or breaking apart in fear. The journey has begun, and it is a slow, arduous one. It involves learning to listen to my body, not to silence its alarms, but to understand their outdated messages. It involves practices of mindfulness and self-compassion, gently coaxing my nervous system away from its default settings. It means recognizing the subtle cues that precede a full-blown reaction – the flicker of tension in my jaw, the shallow breath, the slight chill in my limbs – and intervening with techniques that signal safety to my primitive brain: conscious breathing, gentle movement, grounding exercises, or simply a compassionate touch.

I’m learning to create tiny, new pathways, to lay down fresh tar over the icy patches. Each time I manage to take a deep, calming breath instead of hyperventilating, each time I intentionally soften my shoulders instead of hunching, each time I choose to engage my prefrontal cortex by pausing and asking, "Is this truly a threat now?" instead of immediately reacting – these are victories. That calm breath allowing a fact check, a mindfulness to adjust, "is this in my control", is this me, mine or other, is this assumption, fear or panic, is it rational. They are small acts of rebellion against the old narrative, tiny stitches

knitting together a new story of safety and presence, steady as she goes, they say, or brick by brick my brother.

I am not free yet, not entirely. The ice patches still appear, and sometimes, I still find myself skidding. But now, I have tools, and even the days I miss the moment, I can come back around to the tools. I have awareness. I have the conviction that this isn't my destiny, but a pattern that can be shifted. The scary old tale is still there, recorded within me, but I am learning not to read from its pages every single time. I am learning to read carefully between fact, fiction, fantasy or encyclopedia. I am learning to write new chapters, to experience the freshness of new moments without the heavy filter of past pain. My greatest hope is to one day simply be in the present, open and responsive, to truly navigate life as it unfolds, seeing each experience as new, and recognizing that my body, finally, knows it is safe. Until then I aim to find gratitude over frustration for my nervous system doing its job, playing it's role. Until I have taken the time to teach it the new new, new stories, new navigation, new perspectives and new security. We are a team, it taught me what it learned, now I get to teach it what I have learned.