When Your Body Says Run

Have you ever had that moment of, “oh shit, this happens every time I…” — and suddenly you feel the urge to run, lash out, or just give in to avoid an argument? Most of us have. And then the guilt sets in. What’s left is disconnection at best and, at worst, the sinking feeling that we can’t trust anyone — not even ourselves. Ugh. Heavy stuff, right?

Here’s the thing: your body isn’t broken. What’s happening is that your brain scans the situation and your body recognizes a familiar sensation — fear, unfairness, being ignored, losing control (a few of my own triggers). Because those feelings feel the same as past experiences, your body sets off the sirens: “Run! Yell! Shut down! Do whatever it takes to escape!”

But the truth is: not every moment of fear means you’re in danger. Your body can’t tell time. If the feeling is alive in you now, it doesn’t know it’s from the past. That’s why discomfort and danger can feel almost identical.

Discomfort alone won’t harm you. In fact, when you can meet it gently — by titrating (letting yourself feel just a little at a time) or pendulating (noticing your nervous system naturally swing between “this could be dangerous” and “I am safe”) — you start to build trust in your body’s ability to regulate.

This is the goal: not to erase discomfort, but to notice it, let it be there, and allow your nervous system to guide you back to safety. That’s where healing and connection live.

Regulating with River, Ladybug and Rainbow

Every afternoon, I open the front door and leave only the screen between us and the world outside. I love the way the breeze slides in, carrying scents of fresh cut grass, hearing my neighbors talk in their driveway, or the faint whiff of rain on the horizon. It makes me feel like I’m outside while still wrapped in the comfort of my home.

The moment the door opens, Ladybug, River, and Rainbow, my dogs, claim their spots. Three little bodies pressed against the screen, noses working overtime. River, especially, is a sight—her sharp, pointed ears swivel like tiny satellites, each one scanning in a different direction. She reminds me of the cartoon Bluey, though River is all black, white, and tan with a pink button nose. Their faces twitch and pulse as the smells change. They don’t chase them, they don’t analyze them—they just notice.

Sometimes a new sound will break through—a car door slamming, a bird call they don’t recognize. Instantly, they’re alert, bodies taut, eyes sharp. And then, just as quickly, they settle again. Either they figure out it’s nothing to worry about, or they glance at me, hear my calm voice, and melt back into stillness. The rise, the fall. Tension, then ease.

I didn’t always understand how extraordinary that was. For years, I didn’t know I was living in constant “alert mode” myself, my body trying to save me from dangers that weren’t really there. It left me with pain and exhaustion that felt endless. Watching my dogs at the door, though, I see what regulation looks like. I see how the body can rise for protection, then soften again when safety is restored.

And slowly, I’ve learned to follow their lead. When they lie across my lap like little weighted blankets, I breathe deeper. My heartbeat slows with theirs. My body remembers what “safe” feels like. We co-regulate—me coaching them with soft words, them reminding me with sleepy eyes and steady breath.

So now, whenever the door is open, I sit with them. They teach me that it’s not about never being startled or afraid—it’s about knowing how to come back to calm.

If you have a pet, try sitting beside them and just noticing. You might be surprised at how much their body knows—and how much yours remembers.

Every Sunday morning:

Next Walk is:
September 28th 8am at
I-Lan Park Shelter

12601 Nall Avenue Leawood, KS 66209

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