Sometimes I wish people understood that being a therapist doesn’t mean I’m immune to the things my clients go through. I spend a lot of time holding space for other people’s fears, validating their pain, helping them slow down and notice what’s happening in their bodies. I remind people that they’re not broken, that their symptoms make sense, that their nervous systems are just trying to protect them. And then I get hit with the same spirals in my own body and feel completely frozen.
Right now, medical anxiety is taking up a lot of space in my life. I’m trying to stay grounded, trying to remind myself what’s likely versus what’s possible, but my nervous system doesn’t want logic. My heart races. My chest tightens. Sometimes I can’t eat, sometimes I scroll for hours looking for answers to questions my body won’t even let me ask out loud. And even though I know exactly what’s happening, even though I’ve explained it to dozens of clients, I still can’t always soothe myself. That part is so frustrating.
There’s this assumption that if you know the tools, you should always know how and when to use them. But the truth is, I don’t always want to. I don’t always have the capacity to. Lately, there have been so many moments where I just shut down. Not because I’m giving up, but because I’m frozen. And freeze isn’t a metaphor, It’s a full-body reaction that feels like I’m stuck underwater, like my system has decided the best thing to do is nothing at all.
I’ve canceled plans I really wanted to keep. I’ve stared at text messages and just… couldn’t respond, even though I cared. I’ve taken days off work and told myself I’d rest, only to spiral online looking up symptoms or watching videos of people with similar conditions just so I feel a little less alone. It doesn’t always feel good, but sometimes it’s the only thing I can do. And honestly, I think one of the most honest things I can say as a therapist is that I’m in it too. This nervous system? Still learning. This body? Still holding a lot.
I’m sharing this because we don’t talk enough about what it’s like to do this work while also living in a body that feels unpredictable. A body that’s been through medical stuff before. A body that’s had to advocate for itself in systems that didn’t always listen. I know how hard it is to show up for others when I’m struggling to show up for myself. I know how much energy it takes just to call and make an appointment, or to not spiral after one. And I know that when I’m in this kind of space, my usual coping tools don’t always work the way they used to. That doesn’t mean I’m failing, it means I need something different right now.
I’ve started giving myself the same kinds of accommodations I would gently offer to a client. I build in recovery time after medical appointments. I give myself permission to reschedule things when my nervous system is in a full on “nope.” I let myself eat soft, salty food and watch something comforting when that’s all I can manage. That’s not nothing. That’s care. That’s something.
For a long time, I thought I had to keep it together all the time. Like being a therapist meant being regulated, grounded, fully emotionally available, no matter what. But that’s not real. That’s not sustainable. Maybe the most real thing I can do is be someone who tells the truth about how hard it is sometimes, and how much grace it takes to live in a body that’s doing its best.
There are still moments where I judge myself. Where I think I should be journaling or meditating or doing something “healthier” than scrolling on my phone. But then I remember that freeze isn’t failure. It’s a response. It’s my body saying, “This is too much right now.” And I’ve learned to meet that part of myself with kindness. I say to myself what I say to my clients: You’re not broken. This makes sense. You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to take your time.
If you’re a helper, if people rely on you, if you’ve ever felt like you have to be okay all the time: You don’t. You’re allowed to need breaks. You’re allowed to cancel plans. You’re allowed to cry in your car after an appointment. You’re allowed to freeze. None of that makes you any
Sometimes I wish people understood that being a therapist doesn’t mean I’m immune to the things my clients go through. I spend a lot of time holding space for other people’s fears, validating their pain, helping them slow down and notice what’s happening in their bodies. I remind people that they’re not broken, that their symptoms make sense, that their nervous systems are just trying to protect them. And then I get hit with the same spirals in my own body and feel completely frozen.
Right now, medical anxiety is taking up a lot of space in my life. I’m trying to stay grounded, trying to remind myself what’s likely versus what’s possible, but my nervous system doesn’t want logic. My heart races. My chest tightens. Sometimes I can’t eat, sometimes I scroll for hours looking for answers to questions my body won’t even let me ask out loud. And even though I know exactly what’s happening, even though I’ve explained it to dozens of clients, I still can’t always soothe myself. That part is so frustrating.
There’s this assumption that if you know the tools, you should always know how and when to use them. But the truth is, I don’t always want to. I don’t always have the capacity to. Lately, there have been so many moments where I just shut down. Not because I’m giving up, but because I’m frozen. And freeze isn’t a metaphor, It’s a full-body reaction that feels like I’m stuck underwater, like my system has decided the best thing to do is nothing at all.
I’ve canceled plans I really wanted to keep. I’ve stared at text messages and just… couldn’t respond, even though I cared. I’ve taken days off work and told myself I’d rest, only to spiral online looking up symptoms or watching videos of people with similar conditions just so I feel a little less alone. It doesn’t always feel good, but sometimes it’s the only thing I can do. And honestly, I think one of the most honest things I can say as a therapist is that I’m in it too. This nervous system? Still learning. This body? Still holding a lot.
I’m sharing this because we don’t talk enough about what it’s like to do this work while also living in a body that feels unpredictable. A body that’s been through medical stuff before. A body that’s had to advocate for itself in systems that didn’t always listen. I know how hard it is to show up for others when I’m struggling to show up for myself. I know how much energy it takes just to call and make an appointment, or to not spiral after one. And I know that when I’m in this kind of space, my usual coping tools don’t always work the way they used to. That doesn’t mean I’m failing, it means I need something different right now.
I’ve started giving myself the same kinds of accommodations I would gently offer to a client. I build in recovery time after medical appointments. I give myself permission to reschedule things when my nervous system is in a full on “nope.” I let myself eat soft, salty food and watch something comforting when that’s all I can manage. That’s not nothing. That’s care. That’s something.
For a long time, I thought I had to keep it together all the time. Like being a therapist meant being regulated, grounded, fully emotionally available, no matter what. But that’s not real. That’s not sustainable. Maybe the most real thing I can do is be someone who tells the truth about how hard it is sometimes, and how much grace it takes to live in a body that’s doing its best.
There are still moments where I judge myself. Where I think I should be journaling or meditating or doing something “healthier” than scrolling on my phone. But then I remember that freeze isn’t failure. It’s a response. It’s my body saying, “This is too much right now.” And I’ve learned to meet that part of myself with kindness. I say to myself what I say to my clients: You’re not broken. This makes sense. You’re allowed to be tired. You’re allowed to take your time.
If you’re a helper, if people rely on you, if you’ve ever felt like you have to be okay all the time: You don’t. You’re allowed to need breaks. You’re allowed to cancel plans. You’re allowed to cry in your car after an appointment. You’re allowed to freeze. None of that makes you any less good at what you do or how you usually show up for people. You don’t need to be perfectly regulated to be worthy of care. Or connection. Or rest.
If you’re here too, you’re not alone. You’re not behind. You’re not weak. You’re human. And you’re allowed to take your time! Sending love to anyone who knows what I’m talking about ❤ less good at what you do or how you usually show up for people. You don’t need to be perfectly regulated to be worthy of care. Or connection. Or rest.
If you’re here too, you’re not alone. You’re not behind. You’re not weak. You’re human. And you’re allowed to take your time! Sending love to anyone who knows what I’m talking about ❤