Push or Pause?Learning to Listen to Fear with Wisdom, Not Force

Everything was fine. I had just come back from an afternoon walk with my dog. As I stepped up the last stair into the house, a sudden and invisible wave of panic washed over me. It was like an icy blade piercing my centre and shooting upward through my body.

My breath caught.

My chest constricted.

I felt like I’d bailed on hard-packed snow, crashing while skiing, belly down, windless and stunned.

But there was no danger. No threat. Just a part of me, hijacking my body and nervous system.

This part of me doesn't live in the present. It reacts with urgency, like the past is happening now. And while I have tools, experience, and wisdom, I still get caught in these moments. I’m a student of the process, a teacher walking this path in real-time.

That moment on the stairs wasn’t isolated. It’s part of a pattern I’m noticing—especially in liminal spaces like falling asleep or transitioning between activities or places. That’s when distractions fall away and fears can sneak in.

Last night, I was just about to drift off when intrusive thoughts slipped in, bringing with them that familiar panic. I felt the icy grip in my chest again, the upward motion, the breathlessness. But I caught it. I opened my eyes. I breathed. I oriented to the light from the street lamp casting shadows in my room, to the rhythm of my breath, and to the present moment. I reminded the frightened part of me: I am conscious to our reality. We are safe.

Still, I find myself curious. Why does this part of me surge in these vulnerable moments? What does it need to settle, to trust me with leadership?

The night I decided to seek therapeutic support, the hijacking was unlike anything I’d experienced. A tidal wave of emotion overtook me and all I could do was curl on my bed, shaking and rocking myself. Tears came and went. I rocked, trying to orient to the gravity holding me. I trusted in the 90-second window of emotional intensity, watching wave after wave rise and fall. I knew—even in the midst of the chaos—that something was being shed. A part of my identity was being sloughed off. I was mid-transformation. But I also knew I needed help. Not because I was broken, but because I wanted to understand. I wanted to meet this part, not just survive it.

In therapy, I’ve been working with this part of myself—the one that hijacks my system in perceived danger. Through the lens of parts work, I see how this reaction is a protective strategy. This part doesn’t want to harm me; it’s trying to keep me safe. It may feel like I’m being taken over, but really, it just hasn’t yet learned that I’m capable of being in leadership.

And so the work isn’t about getting rid of it. It’s about partnership.

This is where I want to zoom out.

Too often, growth culture glorifies pushing through fear. We hear things like: “If you’re scared, it means you’re on the right path.” Or, “Get out of your comfort zone.” But what if that fear is actually a wise part of us sounding the alarm on our nervous system being overwhelmed? What if pushing through isn’t bravery, but bypass?

Discomfort is not always a green light for growth. And fear is not always a red light. The body, mind, and spirit speak in layered signals, and learning to discern them is a practice of leadership.

From a biological lens, our nervous system will react to perceived threat even in the absence of danger related to the imprints of our past experiences in our nervous system and tissues. That somatic experience of panic? It's often an echo from the past, not a reflection of the present. From a psychological lens, these responses may be driven by parts of us that took on protective roles long ago. With care and perspective, we can begin to recognize when we’re being hijacked, gently create space, and bring those parts into safety and integration. In the mind, this looks like awareness—noticing when we’re caught in cognitive loops or fear-based stories. And from a spiritual perspective, we may ask: what deeper truth is trying to emerge through this sensation? What part of my soul is calling for reunion?

Over time, I’ve come to understand that these full-body emotional and mental takedowns—while disproportionate to my current reality—are not irrational. They are intelligent responses from a part of me that once learned these reactions were necessary for survival. But what I’ve learned is that understanding why they happen, or precisely when they started, is far less important than learning how to be in partnership with them now.

This is no longer about fixing or pathologizing these experiences—it’s about creating broad-stroke, foundational safety within myself. The kind of safety that can weather the unpredictability of being human. My focus is shifting from unearthing origin stories to cultivating the capacity to respond to life with resilience, self-compassion, and love. These parts don’t need to be exiled or erased—they’re asking to be met, seen, and offered new roles in a system that is evolving.

This, to me, is the heart of transformation: not pushing harder, but partnering more skillfully.

Not dominating our fear, but leading with loving presence.

And not abandoning ourselves in the name of growth, but becoming the steady presence that holds every part of us in return.