Why Your Nervous System Keeps Returning to Chaos - And What I'm Learning About Healing

After going through burnout not once, but three separate times, I finally had to face a truth that felt as frustrating as it was freeing: resting isn’t enough.

I used to think recovery meant simply stepping back—taking time off, sleeping more, clearing my calendar, cancelling plans, and lowering the volume of my life.

And each time, it worked... temporarily. I’d feel a bit better. I’d tell myself I was back on track. But then, almost without warning, the exhaustion, anxiety, and emotional numbness would creep back in - quietly at first, and then all at once.

Like clockwork.

That’s when I realised something deeper was going on. My problem wasn’t just that I was overcommitted or too busy. My body wasn’t just tired—it was stuck. It was caught in a cycle it didn’t know how to exit, no matter how many hours I slept or how many tasks I dropped. It wasn’t until I began learning about the nervous system - its wiring, its memory, and its role in how we experience safety—that things finally started to make sense.

What I discovered changed everything.

When Chaos Becomes Home

Many of us live with nervous systems that have been wired for survival from an early age. For some, it started in childhood—growing up in homes where we had to be alert, careful, or emotionally self-reliant far too soon. In those environments, our nervous systems didn’t learn what it meant to relax or feel deeply safe. Instead, we learned how to scan for danger. We learned how to stay one step ahead. We learned to anticipate, to perform, to keep the peace.

Over time, that becomes your “normal.” You stop noticing the tightness in your chest, the way your shoulders are always slightly hunched, how your breath never seems to reach your belly. You stop questioning the constant doing, the striving, the busyness. You don’t even realise you’re living in a state of subtle (or not-so-subtle) tension—because you’ve always lived that way.

And then, even when life is calm, even when the juggling act of life gets into a workable groove, your nervous system doesn’t know how to settle. That inner alarm clock keeps ticking. Calm feels unfamiliar. And because it’s unfamiliar, it can feel unsafe. The chaos, the overworking, the pushing through? That feels like home. That’s what your body understands. It’s not what you want—it’s what you know. one of burnout’s more hidden burdens: the way we become conditioned to overdrive.

What If Calm Isn't Comfortable?

One of the most disorienting moments in my healing process was realising that peace didn’t feel good - not at first. When I first decided to take a mental health break from work, I expected relief. But instead, I felt an unexpected wave of restlessness. I was uneasy, fidgety, constantly checking my phone or thinking about what I “should” be doing. I kept reaching for noise, distraction, tasks—anything to avoid the silence. It was as if my body didn’t know how to handle stillness. I’d removed the stressors, but not the stress response. I didn’t know how to just be in the quiet.

It felt too raw, too vulnerable, too exposed. 

And that was a wake-up call. 

This was a massive turning point for me. I realised that my nervous system was associating stillness with risk. Because stillness, in the past, had been dangerous. It meant the guard was down. It meant something could go wrong. My body had been trained to equate doing with safety. So of course I kept returning to chaos. I kept re-creating urgency—even when none existed.

That’s when I knew healing would take more than rest. It would take repatterning. Slowly, patiently, I would need to show my body—through consistent, embodied experiences—that peace could be safe. That I could trust it.

Learning a New Language: Safety

In my journey, the changes didn’t come from huge breakthroughs or dramatic epiphanies. They came from small, quiet decisions. Pausing to take a breath when I felt myself spiralling. Letting myself cry instead of pushing it down. Taking a walk with no destination. Placing a hand on my chest and saying, “You’re okay.”

Each of these actions was a new signal to my nervous system. Not just telling it I was safe—but showing it, in real time. Because here’s something I’ve learned: when you’re stuck in survival mode, trying to think your way out doesn’t really work. The mind is too wired, too reactive, too conditioned. It’s like trying to rewire a house while the alarm is still going off.

So I started with the body. Breathwork, grounding practices, cold, stretching, movement—these became my first language of safety. As my body began to settle, my mind softened, too. I could hear myself think again. I could pause before reacting. And slowly, I began to notice old patterns I hadn’t seen before.

That’s when the deeper shifts began.

Rewriting My Inner Script

Once I created a little more space inside myself, I began to see how many of my thoughts were shaped by years of operating from stress and fear. I started noticing the inner critic. The way I talked to myself when I made a mistake. The pressure I put on myself to always “get it right.” I could see how much of my identity had been built around proving I was good enough, capable enough, strong enough.

And so, little by little, I began rewriting that script. Not with mantras or toxic positivity - but with truth. With softness. With presence.

I stopped trying to rebuild the self I’d burned out of. Instead, I started listening for the version of me that didn’t need to perform. The one that didn’t need to chase or achieve. The one who felt whole simply by being. That’s when I began reconnecting with a different kind of purpose.

One that wasn’t rooted in hustle or productivity, but in alignment. In honesty. In service that felt real.

It’s Not Linear—And That’s Okay

Let me be clear: this isn’t a story with a tidy ending. My healing isn’t finished. There are still days I fall back into old habits. Days I overthink. Days I numb out. But now I know how to come back. I know how to reconnect. And I know that every time I do, it gets a little easier.

This work isn’t glamorous. It’s not always inspiring. It’s often slow, repetitive, frustrating. But it’s also real. It’s also honest. And it’s worth every single step.

A Journey, Not a Fix

Our nervous systems didn’t become dysregulated overnight, and they won’t heal overnight either. This is a journey—sometimes winding, sometimes bumpy, often nonlinear. But it is a journey toward something. Toward greater ease. Toward greater trust. Toward a sense of internal safety that doesn’t depend on your environment.

And the beautiful thing is this: with time, familiar chaos can be replaced with familiar calm. Peace can stop being scary. Rest can stop being something you earn and start being something you deserve.

YOU'RE NOT BROKEN.

You’re becoming.

And the journey you’re on is sacred.

Keep going. Calm is coming home to you.

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