Parasympathetic Flooding

I’ve been through a lot of hard things. Trauma, illness, betrayal, grief—my nervous system has been on high alert for so long that survival became second nature. I didn’t even realize I was still running… until I finally stopped.

It happened quietly, on a Monday morning.

I was supposed to work. I had things to do. But instead, I found myself sinking—so deeply into my couch I could barely move. My whole body felt like Jell-O. Not in a scary way—more like the aftershock of tension melting. Like my muscles were exhaling for the first time in years.

I tried to drink coffee. Seven cups, actually. Nothing touched it. My eyes were heavy. My limbs were soft. My thoughts slowed down into something almost dreamlike. It felt like being high—but I hadn’t smoked. I didn’t need to.

Because for once, my body was doing something all on its own.

It was relaxing. It was resting.

Really resting.

Not the kind of rest that comes from collapsing after pushing too hard—but the kind that rises when your body finally, finally believes it’s safe.

The night before, he had held me for hours.

He didn’t try to fix me or rush me or talk me out of anything. He just held me. He told me I was safe. And he meant it. Not just with his words, but with his touch.

He rubbed my head. My neck. My back. My arms.

Each place he touched was so tender—I hadn’t even realized how much pain I was holding until his hands found it. Somehow, he knew. He could feel the tension and the heat. Like his body had a radar for where mine was still bracing.

Each time he touched a spot, it hurt a little at first—but then something would shift. He would rub gently, patiently, like he was coaxing the fear out of my muscles. And when he came back to those places again later… they were better.

That’s what safe love does. It doesn’t demand. It doesn’t rush. It listens. And it keeps coming back.

By morning, I was in full nervous system recalibration. I climbed into bed on purpose, wrapped myself in my weighted blanket, and let go. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t try to override it with guilt or productivity. I just listened.

I gave my body what it asked for.

Softness. Stillness. Nourishment. Nicky cuddles. Water. I knew I was enhancing peace, not chasing it.

And in that space, I felt something sacred:

My body had never been this relaxed.

My mind had never been this quiet.

And I had never been this safe.

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was just… real.

This is what healing looks like, sometimes. You don’t always notice the moment it begins. But you’ll know when your body stops bracing. When the tension finally lets go. When you feel the weight of the blanket, and realize—it’s not holding you down.

It’s holding you together.

And you’re allowed to rest.

With Love,

Dana & Nicky