When Familiar Doesn’t Mean Safe

You can be very good at keeping the peace and still have very little peace yourself.

Maybe you know when to stop talking by the look on someone’s face. You rehearse a simple request because you don’t know how it will land. Before you’ve even decided whether you’re upset, you’re already figuring out how to keep the other person from getting upset.

If that sounds familiar, it’s worth asking where you learned those rules—and whether you still want to live by them.

Growing up around unpredictable anger, criticism, or fear can teach a child to monitor other people closely and hide their own feelings. Those responses can continue even when circumstances change. The National Child Traumatic Stress Network describes them as adaptations that help children function in threatening environments but can create difficulties in later, safer relationships.

Knowing that doesn’t make the habit disappear. It does give you something more useful than “What’s wrong with me?”

You learned something. Now you get to examine it.

The rules we carry into relationships

Imagine someone who grew up in a home where disagreeing with an adult led to hours of anger. Years later, their partner asks where they want to eat. They have a preference, but “Whatever you want” comes out automatically.

That moment alone doesn’t tell us whether the current relationship is safe. Maybe their partner would happily hear a different opinion. Maybe disagreement still carries a price.

The distinction matters. We can’t assume every uncomfortable feeling is a reaction to the past. Sometimes something happening now deserves our attention.

It’s also why I’m careful with the idea that our nervous systems “choose familiar over safe.” That phrase can help describe an experience, but it’s too simple to explain a whole relationship. People have different histories. Familiarity can feel comforting, frightening, or both.

And nobody’s childhood makes them responsible for someone else’s decision to hurt or control them.

Look at what happens when you have a need

When you’re trying to understand a relationship, pay attention to ordinary moments.

Can you disagree about a plan without being insulted? Can you spend time with a friend without being interrogated afterward? When you say something hurt you, is there room to talk about it, or does the conversation end with you apologizing for bringing it up?

A person can feel disappointed by your answer and still respect it. They can be angry and remain responsible for what they do with that anger.

Consider what happens after an apology, too. Is there a meaningful change in behavior? Can the issue be discussed again, or are you expected to pretend it never happened?

You don’t have to decide what to call an entire relationship before taking a specific behavior seriously.

An interruption can begin quietly

If you recognize yourself in the habit of automatically accommodating everyone, start with one ordinary moment.

Notice the answer you were about to give. Was it honest? Were you agreeing because you wanted to, or because you were trying to prevent a reaction?

In a relationship where it’s safe to speak openly, you might try: “Let me think about that before I answer.” That gives you time to work out what you actually want.

You may also discover that you’ve been assuming someone will react badly when they haven’t. You can give yourself opportunities to notice how that person actually responds, without demanding that you feel comfortable immediately.

If saying no could lead to threats, intimidation, or violence, a boundary-setting exercise may put you at risk. You don’t have to confront someone to prove you’re changing. A domestic violence advocate can help you consider options and make a plan that fits your circumstances. Safety planning can help while you’re staying, preparing to leave, or after leaving.

What this means for what we pass on

For parents, these questions can reach into everyday family life.

When your child disagrees, can you hear them without treating disagreement as disrespect? Can you hold a limit without humiliating them? If you lose your temper, can you take responsibility without adding, “But you made me”?

Children will hear no. They’ll be disappointed. There will be conflict. The work is in how we handle those moments and what we do when we handle them badly.

Maybe today’s interruption is noticing that you apologized for having a preference. Maybe it’s going back to your child and saying, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way.”

Those are specific things you can begin to change. You don’t have to understand your entire history first.

This didn’t start with you…but you can interrupt it.

If you’re concerned about your relationship, the National Domestic Violence Hotline offers support at 800-799-SAFE (7233). If your device may be monitored, use a safer device to seek support when possible.

When_Familiar_Doesnt_Mean_Safe.md

The Chair, the Panic, and the Pause

What a first acupuncture appointment taught me about my body, a stranger I'd just trusted, and the truth I didn't tell him

I'm sitting in a chair, alone in the room. Needles already in—my neck, my shoulders, right where I'd been carrying pain that day. He'd stepped out so I could relax. Checked in a few minutes later—I was fine. He left again.

And then, alone in that room, out of nowhere, pain flares in my shoulder blade—and right behind it, panic.

Get him back in here. Right now. Tell him to stop.

Nothing was wrong. I'd chosen this. I was safe. Nobody was even touching me in that moment. So why did my body suddenly feel like it needed to yell for help?

That's what I want to walk through with you today—because it turned out to touch three relationships I didn't expect it to: my relationship with my own body, my relationship with someone new I was trusting with my care, and one I'm still sitting with—my relationship with telling the truth about my own experience.

What Actually Happened

I won a mini acupuncture session. First time ever. Curious, a little nervous, genuinely open to it.

He had me sit in a chair, focused on my neck and shoulders—which, if you know me, is exactly where I hold everything. I'd actually been in pain there that day. Every deadline, every hard conversation, every year of holding it together lives right there.

The needles themselves were fine. Some I didn't feel at all. A couple gave me a little zing—nothing close to painful.

He placed them, then stepped out so I could relax. A few minutes in, he checked on me. I told him I was okay. And right then, I was.

He left again. And it was in that stretch—alone, still, nobody touching me—that pain started up in my shoulder blade. And that's when it happened. Not a physical reaction to the pain itself. An emotional one, layered right on top of it. Anxiety, flooding in fast, almost out of nowhere. That urge to call out, to end it, to get someone back in the room.

I want to sit here for a second, because I think a lot of you will recognize this: the moment your body reacts like it's in danger, and your mind is standing there going, wait—nothing is actually wrong.

That gap—between what your body is doing and what your circumstances actually are—isn't a malfunction. It's a trauma response doing exactly what it was built to do. Just at the wrong time.

Why It Happened When I Was Alone, Not When He Was in the Room

Here's what's interesting, and it's the part I keep coming back to: the panic didn't hit while he was in the room, and it didn't hit while anyone was touching me. It hit when I was alone, still, with pain I couldn't immediately explain and no one there to check with.

That reframes what actually happened. This wasn't about someone else's hands on me. It was about being alone with an unexplained sensation in my body—which is its own well-worn trigger for a lot of trauma survivors. Isolation plus unexplained physical sensation is a combination the nervous system can read as danger, even in a room you walked into safely, on purpose, minutes earlier.

Your nervous system doesn't check a calendar. It doesn't know it's years later and you're fine. It pattern-matches on sensation and circumstance, not on facts. That's what we mean when we talk about the body keeping score—it's not poetic, it's literal.

There's real, growing research on acupuncture's effect on the parasympathetic nervous system—some evidence it can support vagal tone and shift the body out of fight-or-flight. It's not fully mapped out, and I won't oversell it as a cure-all. But as one modality in a toolkit for people doing this work, it's worth having on your radar.

The Part I'm Still Turning Over

When he'd checked in earlier and asked how I was, I said I was okay—and in that moment, I was. But the panic came after, once he was gone again, and I never called him back in or told him afterward what had happened.

I don't fully know why. Maybe it was that reflex a lot of us carry—the automatic instinct to manage things quietly rather than interrupt someone doing us a kindness. Maybe it felt easier to ride it out alone than to name it to someone I'd just met. Maybe by the time it passed, it genuinely felt over and not worth bringing up.

I'm still sitting with that one. If you know that reflex—the one where you quietly handle it instead of telling the person nearby what's actually happening—you know exactly what I mean.

What I Actually Did

This is the part I want you to be able to use, not just relate to. It's the Interruption Model™ in real time—the same framework I teach on the podcast, playing out in my own body.

Notice. I didn't push the feeling away or pretend it wasn't there. I let myself clock it: something just shifted. This is bigger than the moment calls for.

Name. Silently, I named it. This is anxiety. This is panic starting. Naming it moves the experience from your body's alarm system into your thinking brain. It gives you a tiny bit of distance from it.

Regulate. I used slow, deep breaths. And I talked to myself, internally, the way you'd talk to someone you were trying to ground: I'm in the moment. I'm here. I'm okay. I'm safe.

I didn't call out. I didn't ask him to come back in. I rode it out alone, and it passed.

I want to be clear about something—this isn't about toughing it out or overriding your body. If you need to speak up, if you need someone with you, that instinct is valid too, and you should honor it. What I'm describing is a tool for when you want to stay present and need a way back to yourself. Not a rule that you always have to push through alone.

What's True Now

My range of motion improved. My neck and shoulders—the place I hold it all—genuinely felt looser. More relaxed than they've been in a while.

He also mentioned qi gong—short videos his trainer put together, seven minutes each, that he's found helpful. I haven't tried them yet, but I want to. I'll let you know how it goes.

But honestly, the thing I'm proudest of isn't the acupuncture, and it's not even the qi gong lead. It's that I caught myself. Alone, in real time, mid-panic, I used the exact framework I teach, and it worked—on me.

Three Questions, If You're Doing This Work Too

If you're in the middle of your own inherited-trauma work, your own nervous-system work, I want you to take this as permission, not a prescription.

Permission to try a modality like acupuncture, or qi gong, or whatever's in front of you—and know that if something old comes up when you're alone with it, that doesn't mean you failed or that the modality is wrong for you.

Three questions to sit with this week, one for each relationship this touched:

Where in your body have you been avoiding stillness?

When something happens with someone new who's caring for you, do you tell them the truth of your experience, or do you manage it quietly instead?

And when you catch yourself doing the second one—can you ask yourself why, without judgment, the way I'm still asking myself right now?

If this resonated, I talk about this work more deeply in my book, The Fan in the Window—how our nervous systems carry what we inherit, and how we begin interrupting those patterns for the next generation. Available now on Amazon.

Coming Soon: You Can Interrupt It: A Practical Guide for the Parent Who Inherited Trauma and Swore They'd Do It Differently—if the memoir gave you the story, this book gives you the roadmap. Built around the Interruption Model™—practical tools for doing the work one pattern at a time. Stay connected at thefaninthewindow.com for updates.

Want a place to start putting this into practice today? Grab The First Interruption Kit at thefaninthewindow.com/start.

This piece discusses trauma responses and panic. If anything here brings up strong feelings or memories, please take care of yourself and reach out for support. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline—free, confidential, 24/7. Outside the U.S., international crisis resources are available at findahelpline.com. You do not have to navigate this alone.

This didn't start with you…but you can interrupt it. 🪟

Am I Becoming My Mother? Why It Feels That Way—and How to Interrupt It

You’re in the car. Your kid says something, does something, and before you can stop it, a voice comes out of you. The tone. The words. Maybe the exact phrase you swore you would never say. For a second, your stomach drops—because you don’t sound like you. You sound like her.

If you’ve had that moment and then spent the rest of the day sick about it, you are not a bad parent. You are a parent who inherited something—and just caught it happening in real time.

Why it feels like you’re turning into your mother

The fear underneath “am I becoming my mother?” is usually not really about your mother. It’s a quieter, more frightening question: Is this just who I am? Is it already too late?

It isn’t. But to believe that, you have to understand what’s actually happening—because it is not what you think.

What’s actually happening in your body

What you’re describing isn’t a character flaw. It’s a nervous system doing exactly what it was trained to do.

Here’s the plain version, from a nurse: when you grow up in a home where you have to stay alert—reading moods, bracing for the next outburst, keeping the peace—your body learns that the world is not safe. It wires itself for speed. It learns to react before you can think, because back then, thinking was too slow to protect you.

So years later, when your child slams a door or whines in that particular pitch, your body doesn’t check the calendar. It doesn’t know you’re grown and safe now. It runs the old program—the fast one—and the reaction is out of your mouth before the reasoning part of your brain has even arrived.

That’s not weakness. That’s a body that adapted to survive. The reactions that scare you now were once the very things that kept you safe.

It’s not too late—and here’s why

A pattern you can name is a pattern you can change. You cannot interrupt something you cannot see. The fact that you noticed—that you felt the drop in your stomach, that you’re reading this right now—means you’ve already done the first and hardest part. You saw it.

Most people who are truly repeating a pattern never feel sick about it. Your discomfort is not proof that you’re becoming her. It’s proof that some part of you is already refusing to.

How to interrupt it: one small step this week

You don’t break this in one heroic moment. You interrupt it, one small choice at a time. Here’s one to try this week.

The next time you feel the heat rise—the jaw tighten, the voice climb—name it silently, just to yourself: “That’s the old wiring. Not now.” Then do one small thing to slow your body before you respond. One breath out, longer than the breath in. A step back. A hand flat on the counter.

You will not do this perfectly. You’ll catch it on the tenth try, not the first. That isn’t failure—that’s how it works. Cycle-breaking is repetition, not perfection.

When you miss it: the repair that changes everything

You will miss it. And when you do, you get to do the thing your mother may never have done—you go back. “I was sharp with you earlier, and that wasn’t about you. I’m sorry.”

That single sentence, said by you, to your child, is the interruption. It doesn’t erase the moment. It teaches them something most of us were never taught: that love and repair can live in the same house. That a person can lose it and come back. You are not just stopping an old pattern—you’re handing your child a new one.

You are not becoming your mother

You are becoming the person who finally noticed the pattern. And that person—the one who feels the drop, who reads the article, who tries the breath, who goes back and repairs—is the one who gets to end it.

If anything here brings up strong feelings, please take care of yourself. In the U.S., you can call or text 988 anytime—free and confidential. Outside the U.S.: findahelpline.com. You don’t have to navigate this alone.

If you want a place to begin, I made one.

The First Interruption is a free starter kit—what your nervous system learned, the six-step Interruption Model, and one small interruption to try this week. No cost, no catch.

Get it free: thefaninthewindow.com/start

This didn’t start with you…but you can interrupt it. 🪟