It Starts with Me: From Inner Chaos to Quiet Power

It’s Friday evening, and I’m getting ready for a party—makeup, dress, hair, nails… and the worries, all at once. My mind shows up early, rehearsing conversations, scanning for danger, bracing for judgment. The fear, the hope, the armour creep in. How can we be in two places at once? Still at home, yet already at the party, the meeting, the school gate, the reunion. We worry before we’ve even arrived at the destination.

Smudging eyeliner, wobbling in heels we can’t walk in, anxious parts of us already reading the room. Conversations we won’t keep up with. Fashion trends we don’t understand. Embarrassment floating in the air like smoke. Thoughts racing ahead, rehearsing lines for small talk. Too much? Too little? Too awkward? By the time we reach the door, the worries have already returned. Verdict: Better to stay home.

The eyeliner refuses to cooperate—more black eye than smoky eye. The clock ticks louder. Frustration rises. I’ll be late at this rate. A wave of anger surges up—and, of course, it spills out on the safest target nearby: a partner, a child, maybe even the dog. Someone gets a sharp, undeserved dig.

“Use some self-control!” the inner critic scolds. But self-control only means suppressing your emotions, holding it together for appearances. It’s a short-term strategy—and exhausting. What the nervous system really wants isn’t control. It’s release. A pause. A noticing. A gentle reset.

Often, the tension or frustration we feel isn’t really about the event itself—the makeup, the party, the meeting. It’s echoes from old wounds, patterns our nervous system learned long ago. Maybe as a child you were criticized, silenced, or constantly told what to do, and your body learned to stay on guard. Some kids had calm, present caregivers who helped soothe big feelings. Others got scraps of regulation, leaving their nervous systems wired to stay on high alert—fight, flight, freeze, or fawn.

If no one teaches you how to come back to calm, your body learns to survive on overdrive. And those old survival skills? They still show up now—years later—long before words catch up. Sometimes the trigger sparks in anticipation, other times it hits in the moment—the noise, the comment, the unexpected twist. Either way, the body reacts first, at parties, in parenting, in marriage, even in front of the mirror.

But the triggers aren’t signs of us being “difficult.” They’re the nervous system doing its best with what it learned back then. Overreactions were survival strategies once—they kept us safe.

And now? Now they shine a light on what still needs care, compassion, and healing.

So instead of resisting or shaming it, we pause. We breathe. We remind ourselves: It’s safe now. I’m safe now.

I’m not seven years old anymore.

It’s just a party; I can hold myself steady.

The loud noise isn’t danger; it’s just noise. I am not running away from a lion.

A cancelled plan isn’t abandonment; it’s rescheduling.

Their storm isn’t my storm; I don’t have to fire back.

Silence isn’t rejection; it’s someone thinking.

I can handle it, I can self-regulate.

Self-regulation comes with practice. It doesn’t mean never being triggered; it means noticing the spiral, understanding where it comes from, and choosing to respond differently.

It starts with me. It starts with you. It starts with us—with compassion, with practice, with the quiet power of knowing we can soothe ourselves…

Because regulation isn’t about perfection. It’s about remembering: we can always try again. Every moment is an opportunity to notice, pause, and respond differently. And even if the eyeliner smudges, even if the nerves flare, we can still show up—steady, human, and learning along the way.